Chapter Twenty
The rain had already started by the time they left Ebonridge.
A whisper at first; soft drizzles threading down the windshield in crooked lines, tapping out a rhythm with no melody.
It built slowly, steady and unhurried, until the wipers had to work for their keep.
By the time Rick veered off the highway, the sky had deepened into a colorless bruise, and the downpour had thickened into a steady, curtain-drawn hush.
He pulled into a small lot beside a squat brick diner where a neon sign blinked Gene’s Grill, the letters buzzing like pink fireflies, the glow casting a warm blush across the puddles below.
It was the kind of place that hadn’t changed in fifty years: black-and-white floor tiles, sugar dispensers on every table, Formica counters.
But it was clean, well-lit, the kind of joint where the jukebox still worked and the waitstaff wore name tags on their uniforms.
Inside, the smell of grilled onions and cheese wrapped around them like a worn blanket.
Booths lined the fogged-up window, their red leather faded but intact.
A couple of college kids huddled in the far corner over milkshakes, laughing too loud while staring at their phones.
At the counter, a trucker in flannel slumped over a mug of steaming coffee.
Frank peeled off his coat with a sigh and slid into a booth by the window. “Man, this weather… I feel it in my goddamn bones,” he muttered, rubbing his shoulder.
Rick hung his fedora on the coat hook and sat across from him, resting his arms on the table. “You’re getting old, buddy.”
“Screw you,” Frank smirked. “Talk to me in a couple of years.”
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 read Rose. 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’s definitely not just human. I felt it since the moment they brought him to the station. He smelled wrong.”
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 said walk 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.”
Frank grimaced. “Tonight? You mean go to that strip joint again?”
Rick didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.
Frank gave a low groan. “Come on, man. We’ve got nothing solid to hit him with. No leverage. We should gather more evidence, sort through his records. Hell, maybe get some sleep like normal people.”
“You can,” Rick said. “Go home. I’ll handle this one myself.”
“Goddammit, Rick. I’m your partner. I should be watching your back. Can’t this wait till morning? Stella’s already sick of my hours.”
Rick’s jaw worked. He tried to keep his tone even. “I need to know, Frank.”
It was the truth, but not the whole truth. Just enough to get by, to keep from cracking open the thing he didn’t dare name. He drained his mug in one long gulp, the bitter heat burning a line down his throat. At least the hunger was gone. He’d never been much good at thinking on an empty stomach.
Frank exhaled through his nose, reaching for his wallet. “You’re a pain in my ass, Slade, you know that?”
“Comes with the territory.”
Rose dropped off the check with another smile aimed at Rick. “Y’all need anything else?”
Rick smiled faintly, shook his head. “We’re good, sweetheart. Thanks.”
Frank tossed a few crumpled bills on the table and stood, throwing his coat back on.
Rick grabbed his fedora and followed him out, shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
The bell above the door gave a defeated jingle as they stepped into the cold.
The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, it had thickened—sheets of silver cascading down, making the world into an impressionist painting, smeared and unreal.
They made a run for the car, hats on, coats flapping, shoes splashing through puddles.
They drove in silence along the wet-glossed streets, each deep in his thoughts.
Bushwick unfolded before them—a pocket of middle-class domesticity carved from Calgrave’s shadow.
Tree-lined streets stretched beneath canopies of oak and elm, branches swaying in the wind.
Modest two-story houses sat close together, their narrow lawns bordered by chain-link or wrought-iron fencing, entryways lit by yellow bulbs that barely held the dark at bay.
Station wagons and sedans lined the curbs, rain beading on their hoods.
Here and there, a bicycle lay abandoned by a stoop, a forgotten basketball hoop hung above a garage door.
Gutters sagged under the weight of dead leaves.
A corner house sat dark and boarded up, its lawn overgrown, a foreclosure notice flapping on the door.
But lights still burned in the neighboring homes.
Through fogged windows, Rick caught glimpses of warm interiors—the flicker of television sets, the glow of kitchen lights where families gathered around dinner tables, as if refusing to acknowledge the city’s hunger gnawing just beyond the streetlamps.
People still lived their lives. Still tried.
Soon, Rick pulled up in front of Frank’s small brick house. Porch light was already on, a warm yellow beacon against the rain.
Frank unbuckled his seatbelt and lingered a moment, meeting his eyes with an expression that said both good luck and don’t be stupid. “Be careful, all right?”
Rick nodded.
Frank opened the door, climbed out, and turned back. “And Rick?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let your dick make decisions your badge can’t back up.”
Rick gave him a sideways smile. “Noted.”
Frank shut the door and jogged up to his porch.
Rick watched him disappear inside, the stoop light casting long shadows across the wet steps. He pulled back into the street, taillights vanishing into the rainy dark. As he drove off south toward Duskhaven, he wasn’t sure if his word was a promise or another lie.