He moved deeper into the apartment, letting procedure take its course. The place sprawled wide and gleaming, every inch curated for effect: brass fixtures glowing from suspended lamps, walls hung with modern canvases, splashes of red and gold daring you to be impressed. Plants and sculptures perched like trophies in the corners, while short wooden cabinets brimmed with hardcovers more for show than for use. Leather furniture in earth tones anchored the rooms, arranged with showroom precision. At the far wall, floor-to-ceiling windows gave a sweeping view of Calgrave’s skyline, its towers obsidian teeth carved against the night.
Rick’s eyes skimmed it clinically. His own place was a chaos of chipped mugs and threadbare chairs, the kind of clutter you earned by living, not posing. Still, he could admit the wealth here had a kind of beauty, sterile though it was. For a moment, Ash’s loft drifted into his mind with its velvet drapes, eccentric bed, vast fireplace, and wild splashes of indulgence that breathed life into every corner. Ash’s world pulsed. Frost’s merely pretended.
He pressed on past the grand living space until he reached the study’s door, left half-ajar. A lamp burned inside, spilling amber across the threshold. Rick eased it wider and stepped in.
The desk dominated the room, its surface buried under photographs and files, each victim staring out in frozen fragments of life. Scraps of paper and index cards lay in neat rows across the leather blotter and tacked to a corkboard above the computer: names, dates, addresses, maps annotated in Frost’s precise writing.
Rick came closer, his breath slow and steady. The weight of it sank into him like lead. This was more than curiosity. This was a man keeping score. Each note, each line of tidy script marked a life measured, catalogued, reduced to data. His jaw tightened, a slow certainty hardening where doubt had lived all day.You’re going to pay for this, you sick bastard.
“Sergeant!” an officer called from the far side of the penthouse. “You’ll want to see this.”
Rick left the study, his shoes thumping down the hallway carpet until lacquered wood met his soles. The kitchen opened wide and sterile, all granite counters and pendant lamps glowing low. Two uniforms hovered over the table. One had already pulled on latex gloves and snapped open the lid of a narrow metal box no bigger than a glasses case.
Inside, a scalpel rested in molded foam, its steel streaked dark with dried blood. Even under the kitchen’s soft light, the stains clung in the grooves, stubborn, ugly, obscene. Rick stepped closer, the scent of cleaner in the air catching in his throat.
“Bag it,” he muttered. Then, louder: “Bring it to the living room.”
They carried the box through the grand space where Frost stood pinned between two officers, the sleeves of his silk gown cinched awkwardly around the cuffs. Rick set the evidence downon the glass-topped coffee table, close enough for Frost to see every inch of it.
Frost’s composure cracked. His voice tore ragged as he fought against the hands gripping his arms. “Look, I don’t know what the hell that is! I found it in my mailbox today—I didn’t even open the package! Somebody’s setting me up!” His anger was real enough, but for the first time, Rick saw the quiver of fear in those glacial eyes.
He leaned in, tone flat, steady. “You’re done, Frost. The game’s over.”
The policemen shepherded Frost toward the door, his protests spilling louder now—lawyers, lawsuits, vengeance. His silk gown trailed over the floorboards, vanity stripped bare in the rattle of cuffs.
Rick lingered a beat, watching the scene unspool, the final act of a play he’d been trapped inside for too long. Relief pressed against his ribs, tempered by the bone-deep enervation of a man running on fumes, stretched past endurance. Weeks of chasing shadows, nights without sleep, faces of the dead burned behind his lids—all of it ended here, in this gilded penthouse, with Declan Frost in chains.
It’s done. The Sculptor was caught. The city can breathe again.
For the first time in a month, he felt the case close around him with finality. Victory, bitter and strangely hollow, but victory all the same.
{ IX }
Sunday, October 29
Chapter Forty-Seven
(12:36 a.m.)
When Ash had left the pub a few minutes earlier, the alley behind it had been peaceful—just the usual stink of beer, cigarettes, and puddles catching the neon bleed. Now he stood over a man, boot pressed to his throat, gaze fixed on him with something dark behind it. The fellow was big, drunk, mean-mouthed, the type who mistook cordiality for consent. Ash had pushed him off with a bored “Not interested,” but he’d followed him outside, shoved him into the brick, breath hot and sour against Ash’s cheek. Wrong move, as he was realizing fast.
Once so eager with his fists and slurs, he now lay sprawled across the cracked asphalt, gasping through a split lip, eyes wide with animal panic. The alley had gone still around them, Duskhaven at its truest hour: burned-out lamps, broken glass glittering like frost in the gutter, the air thick with rust and old oil bleeding from shuttered warehouses.
Ash’s pulse thrummed with leftover adrenaline and something brighter, sharper. He’d tossed the guy around without laying a hand on him, sent him crashing into trash bins and concrete, letting the force in him unspool enough to show the bastard what real fear felt like. A small, wild delight simmered beneath his skin. They always thought he’d be easy prey. Ash enjoyed teaching men like him how the world tasted when the tables turned.
The thug croaked under his boot, a thin, broken plea, as the vibration hummed against Ash’s thigh: the phone buzzing in his pocket. He reached for it and glanced at the screen, grinning when Rick’s name lit it. “Hey,” he said, pressing it to his ear.
“Hey.”Rick’s voice came low, ragged, gravel soaked in bourbon.“You okay?”
“Peachy,” Ash replied. “What about you, big guy?”
“It’s done.”A pause came, thick enough to feel on the line.“We have Frost in custody.”
“Well done, Detective. I haven’t had much luck on my end.” Below him came another whimper, soft and pleading as a kicked dog.
Rick caught it.“What was that?”
Ash looked at the man, beaten and wide-eyed in the gloom, every shiver of his body singing of terror. He lifted his leg and stepped back, releasing him. “Nothing,” he murmured, watching the bully stagger up, limping, scrambling into the mouth of the alley until shadows devoured him. Ash knew the goon would carry tonight with him, etched under his skin like a secret brand. The spectacle had the cruel simplicity of a child’s lesson: you burn your hand, you learn fire is not your friend. He hoped it would stick. “Just the wind.”
