“He used to be my dad’s partner,” I said, leaning against the cold wall. “Twenty years ago. He was killed in the line of duty—at least, that’s the official report. I need to know where he lived.”
“Twenty years… Selene, those files are likely redacted to hell or lost in the digitisation purge.”
“Please, Orin. It’s important. For Dane.”
That seemed to do it. The mention of Dane, the silent understanding of what needed to be done.
“Alright, alright. I’ll dig. Give me five minutes. I’ll text it over if I find anything. Just… don’t do anything reckless, Selene.”
“When do I ever?” I murmured, a wry smile touching my lips. “Don’t answer that.”
He chuckled, a fragile sound. “Get some rest. Properly.”
“You too, Orin.”
I hung up, the phone weighted in my hand. I stood there, waiting, the quiet of the flat pressing in. My mind kept returning to the crime scene, to the absent body, the lack of struggle. Someone had moved that Umbrakynn. Someone had covered it up. And Morrow, with his too-quick jurisdiction claim, his dismissive glare… they were all connected.
My phone buzzed. A text from Orin. The address blazed on the screen: 34 Willow Street, Midtown Row.
A chaotic blend of humanity. A bustling, noisy district where things could easily get lost. Or found.
I put on a fresh pair of jeans, a dark jumper, and my battered leather jacket. Comfortable. Forgettable. A detective’s uniform.
I reached for my keys, then froze. My car. It had been at the shop for weeks now with a dead engine. I needed it. Especially now, with Dane out of action.
I grabbed my phone again, dialling the number for the garage.
It rang a few times, then a gruff voice answered. “Ravenholt Auto. What can I do for you?”
“Hi, it’s Detective Rowan. Selene Rowan. I need to pick up my car. The black SUV.” A spark of irritation flared. They’d had it long enough.
“Oh, aye, Detective Rowan,” the voice said, a hint of surprise in his tone. “That’s been ready for two days, that has. We called you. Several times. No answer.”
“Right.” I went to say I’d come now, but my attention dropped tomy free hand resting on the counter. A fine tremor ran through my fingers—a lingering aftershock of the hospital and the drain. I wasn’t roadworthy. The thought of wrestling the heavy SUV through city traffic, of clutch control and sudden stops, made my insides roll.
“I’ll be over to pick it up later today.” I said, suppressing a sigh.
“No worries. She’s all set.”
I ended the call. The flat was drafty, empty, but determination was building inside me, a steel core solidifying. I snatched the keys from the side table, pocketing them for later. Midtown Row was where Daniel Thorne lived. Answers waited there. Or at least, the next piece of this bloody puzzle.
My boots clickedon the pavement, the sound rifle-crack loud in the chill. The street bustled, but today, with my magic in chaos, the city was violent. My senses were exposed nerves; the ambient emotion—anxiety, frustration, excitement—slammed into me, making the ground tilt.
I stumbled against the rough brick of a newsagent’s, nausea rising, before forcing myself down the quieter side street Orin had texted. The reprieve let my stomach settle, though the headache remained.
Number 34 stood in a row of grime-coated terraces. It was four storeys high, its bay window warped and paint peeling in long, sad strips. It looked like a building that had given up decades ago.
I pushed open the rusted gate and let the tarnished knocker fall against the faded blue door. The sound was too loud, sending a fresh spike of pain through my temples. Inside, slow footsteps approached, and the door cracked open to reveal a wary eye.
“Mandy Thorne?” I asked. My voice sounded thin, reedy to my own ears.
The door opened a little wider. A woman stood there, late forties perhaps, with lines etched around kind, tired eyes. Her dark hair was threaded with silver, pulled back in a loose, practical style that didlittle to hide the fatigue in her posture. She held a teacup, steam rising in delicate tendrils.
“Who’s asking?” Her voice was raspy, unused.
“Detective Rowan. Selene Rowan. I work with the MCIU.”
I reached for my badge. My hand betrayed me. The wallet shook in my grip, the metal crest rattling against the casing. I tried to steady it, to look authoritative, but I could feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead. I must have looked like I was about to collapse on her doorstep.
