Frank paced behind him, scratching absently at his graying temple. The sour tang of cold coffee and drive-thru grease lingered on his suit. “You’ve been staring at that wall for an hour,” he muttered. “You think the bastard’s gonna rearrange himself if you glare hard enough?”
Rick didn’t move. His gaze tracked the taut red threads webbing across the board, linking streets, clubs, witnesses, all leading nowhere. The Sculptor was meticulous. Clever. Always two steps ahead. “At least I’m doing something,” he grumbled.
Frank stopped mid-step. “And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Rick turned, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “Means it’s better than pacing and bitching.”
Frank’s eyes hardened. “Don’t start with me, Slade.”
“I’m not starting,” Rick snapped. “I’m saying we’re stuck. Spinning our wheels in the same damn mud while some freak’s out there flaying boys for fun.”
Frank closed the distance between them, hands on his hips. “You think I don’t know that? You think I’m sleeping easy?” His voice rose, raw from exhaustion. “The captain’s on my ass, the press are circling, and some of them are starting to suspect these cases are connected.”
Rick exhaled hard, rubbed a hand through his hair. “Fucking Declan Frost.”
Frank gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah. And on top of all that, now I’ve got to keep an eye onyou.”
Rick’s head snapped toward him. “Me? What the hell for?”
“You know why.”
Rick’s shoulders tensed. “Ash has nothing to do with this.”
Frank took a slow step forward, the sound muted on the granite. “You sure about that?”
The air between them tightened, stretched to the point of breaking. Rain hammered harder against the glass. Neither man moved. For a long beat, it wasn’t partners in that room anymore—just two cops caught in the crossfire of loyalty and doubt, each too scared to pull the trigger.
The knock at the door came like a gunshot, shattering the moment.
Kitty peeked inside, face apologetic. “Sorry to interrupt, guys. But I think you’ll want to hear this.”
Rick turned to face her. “What’ve you got?”
She stepped in, hesitant. “So, um… I kind of kept digging into Ash Hunter’s background and got hold of his child welfarerecords. After his adoptive parents died, he was placed with the Swansons—a foster family in Varosha.”
Frank gave a dismissive grunt. “We know this already.”
“Right,” Kitty said, flicking him a glance, “but here’s what you don’t. About a year after he moved in, their son died. Nineteen years old, perfectly healthy, no medical history. The cause of death was listed as organ failure—total systemic collapse. The autopsy report described his insides as if they belonged to an eighty-year-old man.”
Rick frowned. “What does that have to do with Ash?”
“He was questioned. They couldn’t prove anything, so it was ruled natural causes. But after he was released, Ash ran away from the Swansons. Took off in the middle of the night and never returned. No school record, no contact. He was still a minor, but he vanished from the system completely.” She let that hang in the air. Then: “Figured you’d want to know.”
Rick gave a small nod. “Thanks, dollface.”
Kitty’s mouth tugged at one corner, a brief smile, before she slipped out and closed the door behind her. The rain’s steady percussion filled the gap she left. The silence felt thick enough to choke on.
Frank’s voice came low. “You still gonna tell me he’s clean?”
Rick’s gaze slid to the corner of the board, to Ash’s mug shot—blurry, out of focus, the photo from the first night they brought him in and Rick’s life turned upside down.
“First, his parents,” Frank said, voice cooling further with each word. “Then his foster brother. Death’s got a habit of keeping him close. Now he’s in the middle of a goddamn serial case, and you’re sleeping with him?”
Rick’s mouth tightened. “It’s not—”
“Don’t.” Frank’s gaze held steady. “You’re smarter than this, Slade. Jesus. What the hell’s gotten into you?”
Rick turned toward him slowly, his face grave. “Are you forgetting I’m his fucking alibi? He’s not the killer.”
