Her stare dropped to the trembling badge, then back to my face. The suspicion was slowly replaced with something else—pity, perhaps, or recognition of pain.
“The police. Twenty years too late.”
“I know.” I lowered my hand, grateful to shove the shaking limb back into my pocket. I offered no empty apologies. “I’m here about your brother, Daniel.”
She tightened her grip on the teacup. “There’s nothing to talk about. It’s a closed case.”
“It always was, wasn’t it?” I kept my voice carefully neutral, though I had to lean slightly against the doorframe to keep my balance. “My father was his partner. Detective Eamon Rowan.”
Her eyes widened fractionally, a spark caught. “Eamon. I remember him. He was… kind. For a while.” She paused, her gaze drifting over my shoulder to the street. “Came round a lot after Daniel. Then he just… stopped.”
“He never stopped, Ms Thorne.” The words came unbidden, a rare slip into candour. “He just stopped calling. Stopped talking about it. But he never got over it. He’s not over it now.”
She looked at me then, truly looked. She saw the pallor of my skin, the fine tremor in my jaw.
“What do you want?” she asked, a sigh escaping her lips. “More questions everyone already asked? More blank stares?”
“My partner nearly died this week.” I watched her face for a reaction. Nothing. She was guarded, a fortress of old grief. “He wasinvestigating something. Something he thought connected to your brother’s case. A new murder, Ms Thorne. A Calysteri, just like the ones Daniel was looking into.”
She flinched at the words. Her gaze hardened, and her mouth set in a grim line. “I don’t know anything about that. Daniel just… he just got obsessed. Everyone told him to leave it alone. The force. The other detectives. Even me. He just wouldn’t. And look what happened.”
“What was he trying to find?” I pushed, gently, though I felt lightheaded. “What answers was he chasing? Because my partner, Dane… he was looking for the same thing. And now he’s in a coma. Who doesn’t want these questions asked?”
My own flesh throbbed with a phantom burn of magic, a reminder of the Umbrakynn attack, the raw power that had erupted from me. I winced, involuntarily bringing a hand up to touch the spot.
Mandy’s stare locked onto the scar, a piercing intensity in her eyes. I automatically clenched, tugging the jumper tighter, but the damage was done. She’d seen something. She saw the shadow of pain, the residue of panic.
She took a shaky breath, then another, slower. “Come in, and…” She paused. “Call me Mandy,” the words barely a whisper.
She opened the door wider, stepping back to let me pass.
The air inside smelled of dust, old books, and something indefinable, like time itself. The small living room was cluttered but neat, filled with mismatched furniture and photographs in tarnished silver frames. Most depicted a younger Mandy and a laughing man who shared her dark hair. Daniel. A life before the shadow.
She gestured to an armchair draped with a crocheted blanket. “Sit, before you fall down, love.”
I sank into the chair, grateful for the support. The springs creaked in protest. Mandy remained standing, clutching her teacup with white knuckles.
“I’d offer you a cup,” she said, glancing at my hands, which weregripping the armrests to hide their shaking, “but you look like you’d struggle to hold it.”
It stung, but she was right. “I’m fine,” I said out of pure, stubborn habit.
“He told me to stop asking questions,” she began, ignoring my bravado, her voice softer, less defensive. “Said it was dangerous. But I don’t think he ever stopped asking them himself.”
Mandy strode to another room and quickly returned, a dusty, worn cardboard box in her hands. She placed it on the small coffee table, the box bearing the weight of secrets long kept.
“He kept this hidden. Before… before he left for good.” Her voice shook. “He never showed anyone these.” She hesitated, then slowly peeled back the tape, her movements deliberate; each action seemed to cost her.
Inside was a jumble of papers, aged and brittle. Hand-written notes on lined paper, cross-referenced with symbols only Daniel would understand. A printout, clearly from an old dot-matrix printer, crinkled as she nudged it. Coroner’s Report, D. Thorne.
I stared at the header, the paper trembling in my hands. This was Daniel’s findings report on one of the victims from twenty years ago.
I reached in, carefully. My coordination was off; I fumbled the paper before grasping it. It felt thin, fragile. I skimmed the typed notes, then my gaze snagged on a crudely drawn map.
It was Ravenholt, but sections were circled and annotated. One area stood out, repeatedly underlined and scribbled over. Highspire District.
“He spent so much time there,” Mandy murmured, watching me. “Going through archives. Looking for forgotten things. They didn’t like it.”
My eyes traced the map. Highspire, the shining, sterile heart of bureaucracy and power. A district where the wards tracked every spark, choked by the grip of the ACD.
