The alley is a graveyard of forgotten things—broken bottles, soggy newspapers, and the stink of urine overpowering even the fishy harbor air. You pull out your lighter, the flame dancing as you scan the wet cobblestones. There, near a overflowing dumpster, something metallic catches the light. A pocket watch, its chain snapped clean. You flip it open with your thumb. The inside lid is engraved: 'To my darling, Christmas 1938'—the year matches Evelyn Chase's wedding date.

The ladder creaks as you climb, each rung groaning under your weight. The fire escape deposits you on a rusted landing strewn with cigarette butts. One is still warm. The window is cracked open just enough to hear the murmur of voices inside. '...should've taken care of it at the docks,' a man growls. A woman's laugh—sharp like broken glass—answers: 'Relax, sweetheart. The detective's chasing shadows.'

Your fingers brush something wedged in the window frame. A train ticket stub to Sacramento, tomorrow's date circled in red. The ink is fresh enough to smudge on your glove. Below you, a garbage can clatters. You peer down just in time to see a figure in a gray overcoat melt into the fog, leaving behind a single pearl—a match to the one in Chase's car.