Thirty seconds.
A full minute passed.
There was no pulse.
I retrieved the insulin pen from where it had rolled beneath the side table and slipped it into the inner pocket of my jacket. From the other, I pulled out a duplicate and placed it neatly within his reach. The teacup and saucer went with me into the kitchen, where I rinsed them under hot water before leaving them on the dish rack to dry. I gave the rest of the place one final assessment before quietly shutting the door behind me.
Outside, darkness had settled over the yard like a heavy cloak. A narrow stone path led to a gurgling fountain, where water spilled in steady rivulets over its sculpted basin. Perched at the center stood a statue—an angel carved from pale marble, hands pressed together in silent prayer, gaze turned upward toward the stars.
By tomorrow morning, Alfred Thorne would be nothing more than another unfortunate statistic—a footnote in a medical report about the dangers of mismanaged diabetes.
The drive back home was a long one, but I didn’t mind it. The road stretched ahead, empty and quiet, broken only bythe low hum of the engine. When the asphalt beneath my tires began to give way to the familiar grind of gravel, I turnedthe car into the driveway.
However, it seemed that my day wasn’t over just yet.
As I stepped onto the porch, I spotted another envelope waiting at my doorstep, its edges slightly damp from the high humidity in the air. Inside, the note read—
I’ve been wondering… Do you ever regret it?
I don’t.
Most people use their morality as a shield, allowing them to keep their hands clean.
I tried being like that once—pretending I could ignore the filth around me.
It didn’t work.
It’s strange, isn’t it? How quickly the line disappears once you step across it.
—A friend
My thoughts drifted back to the grainy footage from my security camera.
A kid—face still round with baby fat, swallowed by a jacket several sizes too big—walking up to my front door. Trouble was, trying to find someone like that in a city this size was like searching for a needle in a haystack. It was going to take some time.
I was curious about the timing, though. Both notes had been dropped off when I wasn’t home, which meant that whoeverwas behind them wasn’t just guessing—they were both close enough to learn my habits and confident enough to test them out.
I went down a few steps and scanned the tree line.
The wind carried the scent of wet grass and pine, dashing through the branches and coaxing them into a rhythmic sway. A couple of leaves tore loose and whirled across the clearing. Somewhere in the distance, an owl let out a low, solitary hoot.
Other than that, the woods were quiet.
Still.
4
Tom
The following morning, I went through the motions of getting ready for work. Through it all, the notes continued to be a nagging presence at the back of my mind.
My first case of the day was a fifty-nine-year-old man who had collapsed on his morning commute. During the autopsy, I found that a massive myocardial infarction had torn a nickel-sized hole in his heart, flooding the pericardium and right pleural space with a liter and a half of blood. I dictated my findings as the body lay splayed open on the table, organs glistening wetly under the harsh lights.
There was no big mystery to be found here. When it came to natural causes, cardiac rupture was as clear-cut as they came. It wasn’t long until I was suturing the Y-incision closed, the thread gliding easily through the skin. I grabbed the final tag, scribbled my initials beside the case number, and looped it through the toe. After washing my hands, I reached for the clipboard to finish the report. Just as my pen lifted from the final signature, knuckles rapped against the door.
“Hey, Tom.” Naomi poked her head inside the room. “Just gota call from Homicide. Patrol’s secured the scene, but Detective Sawyer wants you to take a look before we move the body.”
I set the pen down, rubbing at my temples. So much for an easy day…
