“Beats sitting here chasing ghosts.” Frank glanced at Rick. “You should get some rest, too. You’ll think clearer in the morning.”
Rick pulled out another cigarette from his pack and lit it. “Not done yet.”
“You never are,” Frank muttered, stepping closer so that only Rick could hear him. “I see the way this case is eating you, buddy. Don’t go down that path again.”
Rick didn’t answer. He knew what Frank meant: he was taking it personally, getting too close, becoming obsessed. Just like five years ago, when he clawed his way through hell to solve Lucas’s murder and nearly didn’t come back. But this wasn’t the same. Couldn’t be. This wasn’t about his brother. “Go home, Frank,” he said. “I’m fine.”
Frank sighed and clapped him on the shoulder. “All right. Don’t drown in the ashtray, and if you find anything useful, call me. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tell Stella I said hi,” Rick murmured.
“Will do. Try not to punch anyone.” Frank gave Kitty a two-finger salute, put his hat on, and left, the elevator doors closing behind him.
Rick returned to his office, smoking and pacing like a wolf in a glass cage, eyes returning again and again to the board likesomething new might emerge if he just looked hard enough. There was a logic here. A pattern. It just refused to be known.
The symbol itched at the edge of his vision. No one could read it; not Kitty, not the internet’s archives of arcana, not anyone alive and ordinary. But it wasn’t nonsense. Rick felt that in his bones.
Kitty was right: the internet had failed. He’d have to ask for help of another kind. The kind that came with fangs and old debts. He fished out his phone, thumb scrolling through contacts until Schreck’s name surfaced, the one number he’d hoped never to use again. ‘Need a word. Urgent,’he typed, hit send, and slid the phone back into his pocket like it might bite.
There. Done. Nothing to do now but wait.
A knock made him turn his head. Kitty stood there in her coat, wrapping her silk scarf around her neck, hesitating a beat too long near Rick’s door. “I’m turning in, too. Don’t stay too late, Rick. You’re not made of stone, you know.”
“Goodnight, dollface,” he said, making her cheeks flush pink.
“Goodnight, Rick.”
When she was gone, the place thinned out like a fading dream. Chairs emptied. Voices quieted. The bullpen dimmed as the night crew settled into the hush of graveyard hours. Rain pressed harder, a ceaseless percussion on the glass, punctuated only by the clock’s ticking and the flicker of old lights. The scent of Kitty’s perfume lingered—violets and something woody.
Rick shut the door to his office and turned the overheads off. Only his desk lamp stayed on, casting a coppery glow over the crime board, a crooked constellation of the dead. He sparked the match again, the flame catching with a hiss, then dropped into his chair and stared. Outside, the city wept against the glass.
He inhaled deeply, the burn grounding him. His gaze drifted; not to the victims this time, but to the red-ringed photo pinned beside them.
Ash Hunter.
That damned smudge of a mugshot. No matter how high they cranked the contrast, the kid’s face wouldn’t come through clean. Something in it resisted clarity, like a photo exposed to too much light. The distortion was subtle, just enough to look natural. But Rick knew better. You didn’t work this long and not recognize the tremor of something wrong behind the curtain.
He took one more drag and exhaled slowly. Then he stood, unable to resist the pull any longer.
He moved across the dimmed police station like another shadow, uncannily noiseless for a man his size. He passed rows of empty desks and bulletin boards crammed with missing person photos, stopping at the small office just outside the bullpen, where Officer Jacobs sat in front of the security monitors, half a sandwichhanging from his fingers.
“Detective Slade,” Jacobs said mid-chew, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Didn’t expect you still here.”
“I want to see the prisoner.”
Jacobs swallowed. “Sure. Nothing to see, though. He hasn’t moved in hours. Out cold.”
He angled the monitor toward Rick. The black-and-white feed showed Ash sprawled on the cot, still as an oil painting, one arm slung over his eyes, the other curled over his stomach. Even in sleep, he was… magnetic. Vulnerable and commanding at once. A deadly thing pretending to be safe. A beauty not to be trusted.
Rick leaned in, brow furrowing at the faint outlines on the cell floor. “What’s that beside him?”
Jacobs looked sheepish. “Uh… Hayes said the kid seemed pale. Said he hadn’t eaten all day, so…”
“So he brought him a pizza and a beer?” Rick’s voice sliced through the quiet like a saw. “What the hell is this—Grand Hotel?”
Jacobs straightened defensively. “It won’t happen again, sir.”
Rick said nothing. His jaw worked, molars grinding. He wasn’t angry about the food. Not really. He stared at the screen, arms folded tight. A pizza. A goddamn beer. MarvinHayes, of all people. The kid could get anyone wrapped around his little finger—Rick knew that. He’d felt the pull himself, strong enough to shake him. But knowing Ash had cozied up tosomeone else, even for something this small, scraped raw in ways he didn’t want to name.
