The waitress arrived before Rick could answer, blowing a bubble that snapped as she slid a pair of menus onto the table. She was in her early thirties, with clear skin and a dark ponytail, her eyeliner just shy of dramatic. The name on her tag readRose. She gave Rick a once-over that lingered a beat too long. “What can I get you, fellas?” she asked, chewing her gum.
“Burger, fries, and coffee,” Rick said. “Black.”
Frank nodded. “Same.”
She jotted their order into a pad, eyes still on Rick. “Coming right up.” Another small pop of gum, then she turned and left them alone, the click of her heels vanishing behind the swinging kitchen door.
Frank lifted a brow. “She was giving you the eye.”
Rick didn’t bite. His gaze drifted past his own ghosted reflection in the rain-streaked glass, into nothing. The convent was still playing in his head; not the eerie or the holy, just the tired weight of it. The dust and incense, the hollowed faces of the nuns, the way Sister Irene had spoken with trembling conviction, her voice soft but sure as stone. She had believed what she told them. And that stuck.
Their coffee arrived in big white mugs, steaming and strong. “Holler when you want a refill,” Rose said, then went back behind the counter.
Frank pulled out a sugar packet, ripped the corner off, and poured it into his mug. “So. You think our boy’s a demon spawn?”
Rick didn’t answer at first. He looked at the college kids splitting fries, the trucker sipping coffee. He scratched his cheek, fingers sliding over smooth skin like steel over polished wood. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I do.”
There was a beat of silence. Somewhere in the back, a fryer hissed.
Frank reclined, folding his arms. “Jesus, Rick. I’ve seen some weird shit in this city—but demons?” He let the word hang. “Are we really going there?”
Rick took a sip of his coffee. It was as bitter as boot polish and twice as burnt. Exactly what he needed. “Most folks don’t think werewolves are real, either.”
“Fair,” Frank muttered into his cup. “But still… You ever seen a demon?”
“Not that I know of,” Rick said. “Doesn’t mean they’re not out there.”
They didn’t say much after that, not for a while. Outside, thunder grumbled. A semi-truck wailed past on the wet road, trailing sheets of silver spray. A Johnny Hartman song played low on the jukebox. The waitress returned with their food and set the plates down, thick burgers with steak fries and a couple of dill pickles on the side.
“You let me know if you need anything else, sugar,” she said and winked at Rick before walking off again.
Rick took the first bite like a man who hadn’t eaten since sunrise.
Frank dug in slower, savoring the moment. “So let me ask the obvious. How does this new revelation tie into our case? The Sculptor’s a psychopath, not a warlock. He carves faces, not pentagrams. We’ve been on this wild goose chase for days while our latest vic’s still unidentified. Or you think there’s a connection?”
Rick swallowed, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “Symbols we found—they don’t match anything known. No gang ties, no typical cult signatures. But something about the murders definitely feels… ritualistic. Occult.”
Frank nodded, chewing. “Not random, but not religious either.”
“Right.”
They ate in silence for a while. Rick watched the rain bead on the glass, the streetlights bleeding amber into the mist. A couple walked past, laughing, huddled under one umbrella.
Frank drained his mug and motioned for a refill. “And you think this kid Ash’s involved?”
Rick’s hand paused mid-bite, the burger cooling in his grip. “I don’t think he’s our guy,” he said carefully. “But he’s connected somehow. He knows more than he lets on. And… he’sdefinitelynot just human. I felt it since the moment they brought him to the station. He smelledwrong.”
Frank squinted. “You actually believe he had something to do with Hayes’s death?”
Rick’s thoughts felt like molasses, thick, sluggish, unwilling to form. Ash’s face flashed in his mind—beautiful, unreadable, the kind of face that made a man forget the rules, even the ones he’d written himself. Every instinct said to be cautious, but none of them saidwalk away. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I intend to find out.”
Frank shifted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Not in frustration, but in concern. “You’re not gonna let this get personal, are you?”
Too late. Rick’s jaw flexed as he chewed. “It’s not personal.”
Frank said nothing, studying him for a long moment before nodding. “Okay. So where do we go from here?”
Rick finished his fries. “I want to talk to him. Tonight.”
