Chapter Twenty
L.A. hit different at midday. Not quieter. Never quieter. Just exposed.
Light came down hard—sun glaring off glass, metal, windshields, bleaching color out of everything it touched. Traffic dragged past in a steady crawl, engines idling hot, horns cutting through the air, bass still thumping somewhere down the block like the city didn’t care what time it was.
Voices carried—too loud, too careless—people who thought the noise made them safe. It didn’t.
Sage stepped out onto the sidewalk, and the city slid over him like an old familiar glove.
Same heat pressing down, not clinging—settling heavy from above, baking into concrete and skin. Same layered smells—oil, exhaust, something fried too long, something sweet underneath it, trying to pretend it belonged.
Same rhythm under his feet, the kind you didn’t hear unless you’d lived inside it.
Nothing had changed.
His gaze moved without stopping, tracking everything out of habit—corners, open doorways, the hard edges where shadows still tried to hold under awnings. A car idling too long at the curb. Two guys arguing just loud enough to draw attention they didn’t want.
No one was looking at him. No one was seeing him.
Good.
Behind him, a vehicle door shut. Boston, then Micah—boots on pavement, familiar weight settling into the space at his back without crowding him.
Boston let out a low whistle under his breath. “God, I don’t miss this place.”
Micah didn’t say anything.
Sage didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.
He already knew where they were, how they were standing, what they were watching. Knew the way Boston’s eyes would be moving—quick, with distaste, taking in everything at once. Knew Micah would be quieter, sharper, reading people instead of places.
Didn’t matter.
They were here.
The street in front of him stretched out like it always had—same cracked pavement, same flickering sign two buildings down, same stretch of nothing pretending to be normal.
His chest tightened as something locked into place—something that had been waiting a long time to click.
Yeah.
He knew this place.
And it knew him right back.
He moved.
Didn’t think about it. Didn’t need to.
His feet hit the sidewalk, pace steady, unhurried—nothing that pulled attention, nothing that invited it.
Left at the corner before the light changed.
Cut across the narrow stretch where tree roots buckled the concrete—uneven enough to catch a foot if you weren’t paying attention.
Past the corner liquor store, the same flickering OPEN sign was buzzing behind the bars on the window.
Still there.
Of course it was.
Sage’s gaze tracked everything without landing—doorways, windows, reflections in dark glass. A figure shifting behind a curtain. A shadow slipping too fast at the edge of an alley. A car rolling slow enough to matter, then not.
All of it cataloged.
None of it a threat.
Yet.
Behind him, Boston let out a quiet huff. “Place still smells like bad decisions and fryer grease.”
“You say that like it’s new,” Sage said.
Boston’s steps quickened half a beat to match him. “Yeah, well. At least it’s consistent sludge.”
Micah moved up on Sage’s other side, voice low, almost lost under the hum of traffic. “Need me to pull up the directions?”
Sage didn’t look at him. “No.”
Micah let that sit.
Then, softer, “You’ve been here.”
Sage’s jaw shifted once. “Yeah.”
That was it.
No follow-up.
They didn’t need one.
Sage turned down a narrower street without signaling it, slipping between two buildings where the light didn’t quite reach.
The noise shifted there—muted, tighter, like the city pulled in on itself. Less traffic. Fewer voices. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty, just waiting.
Boston glanced ahead, then back once, reflex. “Hate this part of the city.”
“Keep moving,” Sage said.
Micah didn’t speak again, but he stayed close—attention narrowed now, not on the buildings but the people moving through them.
Different read. Same result.
Sage didn’t slow.
Didn’t check behind him.
Didn’t have to.
This was the part of the city that didn’t show up on maps the way it really was. The part that looked forgettable until you knew exactly where to look.
And he did.
Always had.
He stepped off the curb and crossed the street.
Even with Boston and Micah at his side, something was missing.
Buckshot.
Law.
Sage’s attention snapped forward, sharper now, locking back onto the street in front of him as he reached the other side.
The street narrowed, shadows pulling tighter along the walls.
Even the noise felt thinner here—like it didn’t want to linger.
He kept walking.
Didn’t slow.
Didn’t look back.
But the space around him stayed empty in a way that didn’t belong.
He stopped on the sidewalk.
The duplex hadn’t changed.
Same faded mauve paint peeling along the frame. Same warped wood where it had swollen and dried too many times to sit right in the casing.
The porch light above it flickered once, then steadied like it always did.
A strip of crime scene tape hung loose off the railing, one end cut, fluttering in the faint breeze.
Two uniforms stood off to the side of the landing, both looking like they’d been there too long.
One glanced up as Sage stepped in, eyes flicking over him, Boston, Micah—assessing, then done.
“You’re the team?” he asked.
Sage slowed just long enough to flash the badge they all carried. “Yeah.”
The cop nodded once, stepping back and clearing the doorway without another word.
Sage stepped over the threshold.
Air hit first.
Stale. Closed in.
Underneath it—metal and something sour that didn’t belong.
It settled at the back of his throat, sharp enough to taste.
He didn’t slow.
Cleared left, right—quick passes, nothing wasted.
Small space. Living room tight, kitchen just beyond it, hallway cutting off to the side.
A chair sat out of place. Drawer half open. A stack of papers was knocked over on the counter and left there.
The low hum of an old refrigerator buzzed from the kitchen, uneven, a faint rattle threading through it.
Boston moved past him to the opposite wall, checking corners without being told.
Micah stayed closer, slower sweep, eyes tracking details instead of space.
Different reads. Same result.
One of the cops had followed them inside.
Sage stepped deeper into the house, gaze moving faster now, picking it apart piece by piece—what belonged, what didn’t, what had been touched and what had been left alone.
Pattern forming.
“In the back,” the cop said.
His focus shifted toward the hallway.
Narrow. Dim.
Same cheap flooring that had always creaked in the wrong spots if you didn’t know where to step.
A faint tick of cooling pipes clicked somewhere in the walls.
Sage didn’t slow.
The door at the end stood half open, just enough to see shadow, not enough to read it.
He pushed it in.
The smell hit harder inside—metal, thick and unmistakable, undercut with something just starting to turn.
The air felt heavier here, pressing in instead of moving.
His gaze moved fast—bed, floor, walls, blood spatter—clearing space out of habit before it landed where it needed to.
The chalk mark outline of a body was just off-center in the room.
He didn’t stop.
Closed the distance, eyes already working ahead of him, picking up what didn’t fit before his brain caught up.
“Where are the photos?” His voice came out raw.
A cop handed him a tablet this time, the crime scene photos digital.
His chest tightened.
The face came into view.
Relief and rage as everything locked.
It wasn’t Ashley.
The face was Jade.
Her roommate.
The last time he’d seen Jade, she’d been laughing in a doorway with a cigarette between her fingers, guiding Ashley back inside like she could keep the world out if she just pushed hard enough.
For a second, the room went still in a way that had nothing to do with sound.
Even the hum from the other room felt distant, swallowed.
Not shock. Not disbelief.
Just a hard stop.
Too late.
Sage exhaled once, shallow, and his focus snapped back into place.
He didn’t look away.
Didn’t give himself that.
“Where the fuck is Ashley?” Sage muttered. Did the killer take her?
His head came up, scanning the room again—faster now.
“Who’s Ashley?” Micah asked.
“Two women live here. That’s Jade—Ashley’s roommate.”
“You think Ashley killed her?” Boston asked.
“No. Ash loved Jade.”
“So, then who killed her?” Micah said, moving to the wall, eyes flicking over a photo of the two women.
“That’s a good question,” Sage murmured. He already had a pretty good idea.
His gaze tracked outward instead—walls, surfaces, anything that had been touched, moved, staged. This wasn’t a random hit.
The slice to Jade’s throat was deep. Precise.
Control.
Behind him, Boston went quiet—no further commentary, no edge.
His posture shifted just enough to watch the door instead of the room.
Micah dropped into silence, but Sage felt it, their attention was fixed on him now instead of the scene.
Didn’t matter.
This wasn’t theirs anymore.
Sage straightened slightly, eyes still moving, locking pieces together faster now.
Ashley wasn’t going to end up like Jade.
His jaw set, control sliding back into place where it belonged.
This was personal.
Daniel Voss was going to pay.
He turned toward the door, already moving.