Chapter 170: Strawberry Jam and Murder

Chapter 170: Chapter 169: Strawberry Jam and Murder

The theater was dim. On the big screen a popular comedy played, the kind with easy laughs and zero stakes.

Soren leaned back in the comfortable seat, a strawberry sundae in one hand. Beside him, Carrie’s eyes kept drifting off the screen to steal glances at his profile.

“Something wrong? Movie not doing it for you?”

He turned his head and asked quietly.

Caught, Carrie jerked her face forward like a startled rabbit and locked onto the screen. She shook her head hard.

“N-no. It’s fine. Really good.”

In the popcorn bucket on her lap, Gizmo had climbed halfway out and was shoveling kernels into his mouth with both paws, looking blissfully content.

Between scenes Soren checked his phone. Still nothing from McClane. The silence had started to feel off.

After the movie they pushed a cart into the big supermarket nearby. Even on a weekday afternoon the place was packed—people weaving between aisles, carts rattling, voices overlapping.

Soren pushed the cart while Carrie walked ahead, stopping at every shelf to compare. She’d pick up a bag, check the date, flip it over and study the ingredients, then compare it against three others before carefully setting it in the cart.

He watched her with a small, private smile. She was pure housewife energy. If he hadn’t claimed the cart at the entrance she would have done the entire run alone without letting him lift a finger.

Gizmo lay sprawled on his back among the vegetables, round belly rising and falling. Too much popcorn. Acute carb poisoning. A few passing customers slowed down to stare at the fuzzy, oddly cute creature. A couple of bold young women even reached out like they wanted to pet him.

Soren kept one hand on the cart and let the ordinary noise of the store wash over him. For a moment the world felt almost peaceful.

Up ahead Carrie stopped in front of a shelf stacked with jam. She tilted her head back, eyes fixed on a jar of handmade strawberry preserve on the very top row—the brand Patty always spread on her toast.

The shelf was too high. She stretched onto her toes, arm fully extended. Still a good ten centimeters short. She hopped twice. Nothing.

She frowned and glanced back at Soren. Today had been her idea. He’d already taken the cart from her. Asking him to grab a jar felt like too much.

Lately she’d been practicing control of her telekinesis at the office. Instinct kicked in before thought.

A wave of force slammed into the metal shelf.

Creeeak.

The heavy frame began to warp. Every jar on the row rattled.

A hand settled on her shoulder.

Carrie flinched hard. The power vanished at once.

“Maybe don’t use the gift for something this small?”

Soren was already behind her. He reached up casually, plucked the strawberryChapter 169: Strawberry Jam and Murder

The theater was dim. On the big screen a popular comedy played, the kind with easy laughs and zero stakes.

Soren leaned back in the comfortable seat, a strawberry sundae in one hand. Beside him, Carrie’s eyes kept drifting off the screen to steal glances at his profile.

“Something wrong? Movie not doing it for you?”

He turned his head and asked quietly.

Caught, Carrie jerked her face forward like a startled rabbit and locked onto the screen. She shook her head hard.

“N-no. It’s fine. Really good.”

In the popcorn bucket on her lap, Gizmo had climbed halfway out and was shoveling kernels into his mouth with both paws, looking blissfully content.

Between scenes Soren checked his phone. Still nothing from McClane. The silence had started to feel off.

After the movie they pushed a cart into the big supermarket nearby. Even on a weekday afternoon the place was packed—people weaving between aisles, carts rattling, voices overlapping.

Soren pushed the cart while Carrie walked ahead, stopping at every shelf to compare. She’d pick up a bag, check the date, flip it over and study the ingredients, then compare it against three others before carefully setting it in the cart.

He watched her with a small, private smile. She was pure housewife energy. If he hadn’t claimed the cart at the entrance she would have done the entire run alone without letting him lift a finger.

Gizmo lay sprawled on his back among the vegetables, round belly rising and falling. Too much popcorn. Acute carb poisoning. A few passing customers slowed down to stare at the fuzzy, oddly cute creature. A couple of bold young women even reached out like they wanted to pet him.

Soren kept one hand on the cart and let the ordinary noise of the store wash over him. For a moment the world felt almost peaceful.

Up ahead Carrie stopped in front of a shelf stacked with jam. She tilted her head back, eyes fixed on a jar of handmade strawberry preserve on the very top row—the brand Patty always spread on her toast.

The shelf was too high. She stretched onto her toes, arm fully extended. Still a good ten centimeters short. She hopped twice. Nothing.

She frowned and glanced back at Soren. Today had been her idea. He’d already taken the cart from her. Asking him to grab a jar felt like too much.

Lately she’d been practicing control of her telekinesis at the office. Instinct kicked in before thought.

A wave of force slammed into the metal shelf.

Creeeak.

The heavy frame began to warp. Every jar on the row rattled.

A hand settled on her shoulder.

Carrie flinched hard. The power vanished at once.

“Maybe don’t use the gift for something this small?”

Soren was already behind her. He reached up casually, plucked the strawberry jam from the top shelf, and dropped it into the cart.

He leaned in close enough that only she could hear, voice light.

“Otherwise we end up spending the next week working off the damages when this whole aisle collapses.”

Carrie’s face went crimson, the color of a ripe peach. She stared at the floor, fingers twisting the hem of her dress.

“I’m sorry… I got impatient and forgot.”

“No need to apologize.”

Soren’s tone stayed even. “Control doesn’t happen overnight. Don’t rush it. Just remember not to lean on it for everything.”

Night had fallen by the time they walked the crowded commercial street side by side.

Carrie still wasn’t used to the noise. Neon lights flickered across her pale cheeks and made her look smaller somehow. She slowed without meaning to, falling half a step behind him, using his taller frame like a deer slipping under an overhang to keep the crowd’s eyes off her.

Soren never turned around, but he noticed. His pace eased to match.

“If it’s too loud we can head back.”

“It’s okay—”

She shook her head quickly and closed the gap with small, quick steps.

“It… doesn’t feel as scary as I thought.”

Soren didn’t answer.

Back at the office the easy expression left his face. He checked his phone again. The message he’d sent McClane that morning still sat unanswered.

An entire day and night of silence. For the two of them, that wasn’t normal.

The next morning he walked into the Los Santos Police Department.

Same chaos as always—phones ringing, officers hustling past with folders, a row of handcuffed thieves and street punks trading insults on the bench against the wall. A dreadlocked guy being walked through the lobby even whistled at Soren on the way by.

He’d come to find out what had happened to McClane. Maybe the old man was buried under a nasty case and simply hadn’t had time to reply.

Soren cut through the lobby like he owned the place and stopped at McClane’s office door.

Knock-knock-knock.

“Come in.”

A young voice answered.

Soren’s brow tightened. He pushed the door open.

The desk that used to be buried under case files and coffee cups was clean. The man behind it was not the tired middle-aged detective with the permanent bags under his eyes.

A younger officer in a neat uniform looked up from a stack of papers, face exhausted, eyes instantly wary.

“Sorry, sir? Who are you looking for?”

Soren paused. Had McClane finally gotten himself transferred for spending too many nights at the high-heel clubs?

“McClane. John McClane.”

The name landed like a stone. The office went quiet. Even a couple of officers passing in the hallway slowed their steps.

“Old John, huh.”

The young cop stood, walked to the door, and jerked his chin inside.

“Come in and close it.”

Soren felt the shift in the air and stepped through. The door shut behind him.

The younger man leaned against the desk and scrubbed both hands over his face.

“Old John… he’s already—”

His voice cracked. He couldn’t finish.

Soren watched him. “What happened?”

The detective who always showed up after Soren finished with some street trash, grumbling while he cleaned up the mess—something had happened to him?

The young officer dragged in a long breath.

“A few days ago there was a bad homicide out in the suburbs. A young guy killed his pregnant girlfriend.”

His expression twisted like he didn’t want to remember the scene.

“Old John was lead on the case. He tracked the suspect himself… and didn’t make it back.”

Soren was quiet for a beat.

“What about the kid?”

“Dead too.”