Monk, Avery

Chapter One — Clues and Candy Wrappers

Avery had never trusted locks. To her, they were only as good as the people who used them. People couldn’t be trusted either. She trusted the sound they made when tumblers clicked into place—final, precise, reassuring. That was why picking one felt almost like meditation. Soothing.

The back exit to the Belmont Center for Transitional Youth had a rusted panel above the knob and a fading notice about curfew policies. It was 10:47 p.m.—far past lights-out. But Avery had a case to solve.

Internally, she relished being free from the place. Inside, the corridor echoed like an emptied fish tank. Smelled like wet carpet and powdered cheese. Two floors up, a girl had reported missing shoes that turned up in the rec room microwave. Vandalism and theft they couldn’t figure out. But she was on the trail.

That night it led her to a closed game facility. It loomed quieter than it should have. Lights off. Doors locked.

Her breath made soft clouds in the cold as she approached the side entrance. In her coat pockets and trusty satchel she had all her supplies: flashlight, notebook, camera gloves, back up gloves and other sanitation items. She slipped the tension wrench into the lock and whispered, “It’s not trespassing if you’re collecting evidence.”

Click. The door creaked open.

The hallway smelled like mop water and lost potential. Candy wrappers rustled beneath her shoes—Zips, the strawberry kind. The exact brand missing from the communal pantry. She took a photo, labeled it CWR-14, and slid her camera back into her satchel.

Then—

Footsteps.

Young. Sprinting. Laughter peeling away like bark from a dead tree.

She chased the sound to an employee rec room. Three shapes darted away before she was close enough. She did spot one carrying a small backpack. Built like a boy. A glint of metal poked from the fabric—headphones? A battery pack?

They were gone, so she glanced around the room. Graffiti streaked the walls. Shattered glass crunched underfoot. She shuddered and took out a little broom to brush off the soles of her shoes, stepped onto a clear spot, then stored the contaminated mini broom in a baggie. On solid, smooth ground she could focus again. A busted vending machine glowed faintly in the corner like a last sentinel. Open employee lockers—suspiciously empty.

She stood at the scene with an expression equal parts dismay and indignation. Her trench coat—a tad oversized—rustled softly as she pocketed a small notebook. Her vintage saddle shoes were spotless.

She reached for her notebook.

Flashlights.

A wall of brilliance lashed across the room, catching her dead center.

“Stay right there!”

Avery didn’t flinch. She held her hands up and turned around slowly. “Don’t shoot. I’m here on official business.”

Two guards stood with walkie-talkies raised, one already snapping a photo. Her silhouette was all coat and caution— not quite menace, not quite innocence.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Did you break in?”

“I’m tracking the criminals,” she said simply. “I think they’re from the B-CiTY.” It was the nickname the kids had given to the center.

The guards blinked.

“You’re... who?”

She straightened her collar. Her style was practical but neat and clean. “Leclair, Avery. I used to stay in Unit B before the placement changed.” She held up her notebook. “I’m documenting patterns. You won’t believe me, but I think someone’s using foster kids for break-ins.”

“You just broke in,” one said, while the other called for police.

“I entered to investigate, not for malicious purposes. If you’ll just look at the alignment of the paint cans, the angle of the glass dispersion, and my clean hands—you’ll see I didn’t do this.”

“Tell it to the cops. We’ve got you red-handed, kid.”

Avery was calm—too calm. Her eyes flicked to the broken vending machine.

“Look. There’s a candy wrapper underneath the machine—same brand stolen from our pantry, but not stocked in that machine. It wasn’t me. But I think I know who it was… sort of.”

“Sure you do, kid.”

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll tell it to the police.”

“You’re in a lot of trouble, kid,” one said, leading her out.

Avery nodded softly. “I’m used to that.”

In her mind, she thought, I know I can prove it if only... She thought of the man whose clipped voice and compulsions filled the case files she’d read online. A man with the same kind of loneliness, the same refusal to look away.

“I need... Monk.”