To say Caroline Clarke was exhausted at this point would be a gross understatement. Between all of the paperwork, funeral planning, and hounding the police to do something other than sit on their fat asses was wearing her down fast. Lack of sleep was also an issue, often waking up night after night in a pool of sweat with images of Keith’s lifeless body flashing before her in the dark room they used to share. After she’d wake up, she'd shoot her arm over to the other side of the bed to touch him, but when she felt the cold sheets, she would resort to screaming into her pillow until she felt faint. After the funeral passed, she was crying less, but frankly, she was still a wreck. Her normally silky, blonde hair resembled a rat’s nest, and she hadn’t worn make up since it happened. Her blue eyes were followed by bags, dark and puffy, but Caroline couldn’t give a shit anymore. She had left the house only twice since she got the call and was living off the food brought to her by friends and family.

It had been two weeks since her husband was found in an abandoned industrial strip of warehouses after a noise complaint came in from an adjacent apartment building. Caroline wanted to completely forget the image she saw when she pulled up to the warehouse, but the police report had listed the gruesome details of his death, constantly reminding her of what she saw. His eyes and teeth had been removed, and after scrubbing the crime scene, it was confirmed that they were nowhere near the area. He had a symbol etched into his skin, reaching from his chest down to his lower torso. One of the cops confirmed that it was referred to as the “Sigil of Lucifer.” He had also been beaten, because according the Caroline, he wouldn’t have let this happen without putting up a fight. 

Caroline had been calling the precinct multiple times to day to question them about any leads they might have gotten, but there had been nothing pointing to Keith’s murderers that had come across their desk. This frustrated her, mainly because of the almost condescending tone that they used when they told her nothing new had unfolded. 
“Don’t talk to me that way, asshole. My husband’s dead, and you’re sitting there getting annoyed with [i]me?[/i]” Caroline was about to hang up on the officer when she heard the voice again on the other end.
"Look, lady. If you think you need someone else on the case, I'll give you a number. He's a little, well, eccentric, but he's got experience in stuff my officers and I don't. I'll send you the information if you're interested." 
Caroline sighed at the offer, but ultimately took it. “Fine, I’ll give him a call.” She hung up the phone and and put her head down on the table. 

A day later, after taking the first shower in at least a week, she scrolled to the contact she had created and stared at the name for a moment. “Thomas Blackgate,” she mumbled to herself as she pushed the ‘call’ button and heard the line trilling. Once she heard a voice on the other end, she immediately began to speak, barely letting the man get out a sentence. 
“Hi, yes, my name is Caroline Clarke. The police department referred me to you. I need your help solving the murder of my husband. I don’t know if this is your forte, I don’t really know [i]anything[/i] about you, I just –“ She stopped and took a breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blackgate. Are you taking cases at the moment?”