Rick bent to slip into his shoes, lacing them tight. The pressure behind his eyes was already building into a proper headache. Beyond the glass door, the station had shaken off the graveyard lull. Phones rang again; chairs squealed against tile; voices rose and tangled in the morning churn. The ceiling lights poured out their flat, unforgiving glare. Compared to the hush of last night, it all felt too loud, too bright, too awake.
Then, cutting through the noise like a blade:
“SLADE! BURTON!” Mallory’s voice thundered across the bullpen, rattling the windows in their frames. Every head turned. Every conversation died.
“I guess he saw the papers, too,” Frank said dryly.
Rick stood, tugged off his tie, and loosened the suspenders over his shoulders before peeling off the crumpled shirt. He dug a clean one from the desk drawer, yanked it on, and snapped the buttons into place, fumbling the tie and suspenders back over it. “I’ll deal with the kid,” he muttered, breath short. “Can you handle the Captain alone?”
Frank gave him a flat look. “Oh, sure. Throw the old guy to the wolves.”
Rick strapped on his holster, Colt secured and ready, then grabbed the suit jacket, hat, and coat from the hatstand, draping them across his arm. “I’ll owe you big time.”
“You already do, buddy boy.”
He bolted from the office, words trailing behind him. “Add it to the tab.”
Frank veered toward the lion’s den, muttering, “He’s going to rip me a new one.”
“Tell him to take a Valium,” Rick called over his shoulder. “Or choke on his bile. I don’t give a fuck which.”
Frank just snorted. “Wish me luck.”
Rick ducked into the restroom and hung his clothes on the wall hook. He took the nearest urinal, emptied his bladder, flushed, and moved to the sink. The mirror did him no favors; his reflection looked like something drowned the ocean spat out onto the shore. Sallow skin. Eyes ringed in shadows. The stubble was now officially a beard. Yet the lines of his jaw held firm, the cut of his features stubborn despite the fatigue.
Cupping the water in his hands, he sluiced it over his face, the sting chasing away the last of the fog. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled the battered toothbrush he kept for mornings like this. A dab of toothpaste scavenged from a tiny tube, and he worked it over his teeth, spitting mint foam into the basin. It wasn’t glamorous, but it passed for civilized.
He wiped his mouth with his hand and slipped into his jacket, coat dangling over his arm, fedora planted on his head. He made a detour to Property on his way down, signing the release slip with a grim flourish. A plastic bag was passed across the counter, sealed tight and tagged with Ash’s name like a crime already confessed. The folded garments inside looked rumpled and wrong without a body in them, a ghost of whoever AshHunter had been before steel bars and cold stares stripped him bare.
Rick held the bag for a moment, thumb pressed against the curve of the zipper seal. Funny, how heavy it felt. Not the weight of cloth and leather, but the weight of everything it didn’t tell him. Bloodied fabric, no murder weapon, and not a single thread that led back to anyone but Ash. Just a name, some numbers, and the sharp afterimage of a man he still couldn’t figure out.
By the time he descended the stairwell toward holding, the air had shifted. It was colder here. Still. Dim, nicotine-colored light dripped from the fixtures above, pooling in puddles that didn’t quite reach the floor. The familiar scent of rust, institutional bleach, and wet wool soaked the walls. Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked. Another slammed. Everything echoed, including the dull thud of his footsteps.
At the base of the stairs, Rick stopped. The corridor stretched ahead in sterile symmetry, pale green walls corroded by time. The holding cells waited at the end, half-lit and humming with electricity. A thought struck him, sudden and unwelcome: he felt relieved.
Not just because they had to let the kid go. But because part of him never believed he did it. Because he didn’twantto believe it. The idea of Ash locked in one of these concrete cages felt wrong in a way Rick couldn’t quite justify, not with logic, not with the law. And that both unsettled and angered him.
The doors at the far end swung open. Marvin Hayes shuffled out, looking like something scraped off the bottom of a boot.
Rick strode toward him. “Is the prisoner awake?”
Hayes nodded, slow and pale. “Yes, sir.”
Rick looked him over, the foul smell hitting his face. “You okay, Hayes? You look like shit.”
“I think I’m coming down with something,” Hayes mumbled, lids heavy.
“Maybe you should take the rest of the day off and go home.”
“Yessir. Maybe you’re right.” He fumbled with the keyring, handed it over, and limped off down the corridor.
Rick watched him go, then turned toward the cell. The key felt cold in his hand. He approached the door, shoes striking the granite floor, and paused to look through the narrow window in the reinforced steel.
Ash sat cross-legged on the cot, spine straight, hands resting in his lap, calm, composed, unreadable. That strange stillness clung to him like an aura. His eyes were open, cast toward the floor. But the next moment, he glanced up and met Rick’s gaze.
Rick’s heart gave a quiet, traitorous thud as he slid the key into the lock.
Chapter Eleven
