The ringing wasn’t coming from the speaker, but faint, muffled, echoing off the alley’s damp walls. Human ears wouldn’t even pick it up. He pivoted, breath catching, tracking the ghostly trill to the shadowed row of garbage cans behind the building.
His pulse hammered as he closed the distance in quick strides. The smell of rotting food and soiled cardboard hit him as he yanked a lid up. He rifled through crumpled wrappers until the glow of a screen flared from the trash.
Ash’s phone, still ringing with Rick’s name.
Something inside Rick’s chest snapped taut. He didn’t even feel his legs move, yet suddenly he was sprinting, shoes hammering the concrete as he stormed inside the building. He bolted for the stairwell, taking two steps at a time. The climb blurred around him, walls closing in, his lungs dragging fire with every breath as he tore upward toward the second floor.
By the time he reached Ash’s threshold, his pulse was a roar in his ears. His fist hammered against the wood, once, twice, harder, each strike echoing down the hallway. “Ash!” His voice cracked against the silence. No answer. “Ash!”
He twisted the knob. Locked. Panic surged hot, leaving no room for hesitation. He threw his shoulder into the frame. The impact jolted him, pain he barely felt past the adrenaline. The door cracked but held. He drew back, braced himself, and hit it again with all his weight. Wood splintered, metal groaned, and with a shriek of tortured hinges, the door banged open.
The loft gaped at him, wide, empty, the silence too complete. Rick strode inside, scanning every corner at once, moving fast, sweeping through the space. The kitchen counter, bare. The bathroom ajar, nothing inside. Sheets smooth on the bed. No sign of Ash.
His movements grew wilder, panic clawing higher as he spun from one side of the loft to the other. Wolf-instinct surged up, sharp as a blade. He sniffed the air—Ash’s scent was everywhere: sweat, smoke, cologne, the musk of his body. But nothing new. No trace of struggle, no foreign intruder to follow. Just absence, ringing louder than sound.
A soft shuffle overhead drew his attention. He looked up. Poe perched on one of the iron beams, tail curled tight around him, golden eyes fixed on Rick. The cat didn’t hiss, didn’t dart away the way he had before. He only watched, still and silent, gaze steady, almost imploring.
Rick’s breath hitched. He stood in the middle of the room, heart slamming against his ribs. Every fiber of him screamed the truth he’d been circling all morning, the truth he hadn’t wanted to admit.
The Sculptor was still out there. And he had Ash.
Rick’s hands shook as he snatched up his phone, dialing Kitty’s number, the wrecked door gaping like an accusation. He barreled down the corridor, shoes hammering the concrete, breath hot and ragged. By the time she answered, he was already shouldering into the stairwell.
“Rick?”Kitty said, startled.
“I need Gordon’s address.” His voice came out raw, no time for preamble. “Now.”
“Gordon? You mean Gloria’s assistant?”
“Yes, dammit!” Rick barked, vaulting down the stairs two at a time. “Pull his file.”
The urgency in his tone finally cut through her confusion. He heard a sharp inhale, then the rapid chatter of keys.“Okay, hang on…”Muffled voices bled across the line, papers shuffling.“Got it. Uh—412 Laughton Street, Linden Grove. Unit 3B.”
He burst into the rain-slick street at a run. “Any alternate addresses? Family he could be staying with?”
More typing as he cut across the puddled crosswalk toward his car.“His mother’s listed, but… it says she passed away three months ago.”
“Text me that one,” he said, ending the call without another word.
Shoving the phone into his pocket, he fumbled for his keys, fingers slick with rain. The Eldorado welcomed him as he dropped into the driver’s seat and fired the engine to life, its growl vibrating through the floorboards. Wipers fought the downpour across the wet windshield, throwing smeared ribbons of the city into motion. Rick thrust the car into gear and slammed the gas, tires hissing as he tore away, dragging the rainy world behind him.
Traffic blurred into chrome and brake lights. He clipped a yellow at the corner, cursing as a taxi edged into his lane. At a light, he cranked the steering hard and felt the chassis lean, the car’s bulk obeying him. Horns blared in his wake, the stinging smell of wet asphalt and hot rubber, all of it sliding past as he balled his jaw and drove across the city, racing with time. Every sharp turn twitched his shoulders; each stoplight made his stomach dip. Ash’s smile kept flashing before his eyes, the way he moved like he owned the dark, and something knotted in his chest that left him breathless.
By the time he reached Linden Grove, his palms were slick on the wheel. Rick skidded the Eldorado into a narrow curb outside Gordon’s dingy walk-up, brakes screeching. The building looked like the rest of them: a brick three-story with rusted balconies,paint peeled from the sill, a stairwell smelling of mildew. He jumped out, shoes slapping concrete, and bounded up the stairs at full speed.
When he found 3B, he pulled his Colt out and slammed his fist on the wood, not bothering with pleasantries. “Gordon! Open up!” No answer came, so he hammered louder. “Gordon!”
A woman in a floral robe across the hall peered out of her apartment, face knotted with worry. “What’s going on there?”
Rick’s hand slid to his belt, badge flashing. “Police. Get inside,” he snapped. His voice was ice. “Now!”
The woman disappeared, shoving the door shut without a word.
Rick felt rage surge hot in his veins. He stepped back, squared himself, and drove his foot into the wood. The lock tore free, door swinging inward with a sharp, tortured groan, splinters fanning at the jamb. His actions were way over the line: illegal search, breaking and entering, the kind of thing IA could crucify him for. But none of that mattered. Only finding Ash did.
The apartment was small but neat, smelling of old books and dust, a whiff of incense clinging to the curtains. Rick moved through it fast, going from room to room, eyes focused, gun in hand. In the study, shelves sagged under the weight of esoteric volumes, thick atlases of anatomy, dictionaries of dead tongues, hermetic teachings that went over Rick’s head. He thumbed through a stack of small sketchbooks on the desk; portraits, close-cropped mouths, noses, eyes rendered with obsessive care, some labeled with first names.Victim’snames.
Dropping the papers, he checked the bathroom, then the kitchen, the balcony, and the bedroom. He even peered inside the closet, but the rooms stayed stubbornly mute. No struggle. No trace of Gordon or Ash.
