Chapter 6 Tom
Tom
A few weeks had passed since I’d last heard from my friend. It seemed that my strategy of staying low was working, though I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. The quiet felt like the calm before the storm—deceptive in its stillness, right before it tore through everything in its path.
While I should have been relieved by the lack of contact, I was anything but. It was frustrating. No—more than that, it was maddening, because I was no closer to figuring out who they were. I was left pacing through someone else’s maze, waiting for a new trail of breadcrumbs to appear.
There was a possibility that they’d lost interest, gotten bored now that I’d stopped playing along. Or maybe they were waiting for me to make the first move. Either way, I didn’t like the idea of a loose end like that walking around.
But as time went on, their absence began to settle over everything like dust—unnoticed at first, until it lulled me into something dangerously close to complacency. So when I arrived home to find another envelope dropped at my doorstep, I was momentarily caught off guard.
The paper was warm, still holding the ghost of someone’s hand. I began reading.
You’ve been quiet for some time now, but I’m sure you have your reasons.
I’ve always admired your efficiency. Your methods are without a single flaw.
You never leave even the faintest trace behind.
I can’t imagine it to be easy, not with that detective constantly breathing down your neck.
—A friend
Though the writer remained anonymous, I liked to think I was beginning to understand the way their mind worked.
Their version of justice was a brittle thing, stitched together from equal parts anger and ideology—cause and consequence.
The rage was the most telling, woven into every act like a thread.
Alfred Thorne’s punishment fit that logic. A man preying on those weaker than him, left mutilated in a way that stripped him of the very thing he’d used as a weapon. Linda Fell’s punishment did, as well, considering the reason her kids had been placed into foster care.
But the picture was far from complete. Too many questions still remained unanswered.
What were they trying to achieve? Why reveal themselves to me, however cryptically? How had they even come to find out about me in the first place?
Not to mention the note…
One detail in particular unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
Up until now, they’d never singled anyone out.
This time, they did. If my so-called friend was watching me, it made sense that they were watching the detective, too.
And if they saw her as part of the problem, they might think it prudent to correct that.
Was Detective Sawyer in danger?
The thought sat cold in my chest.
I didn’t realize I’d moved until I was already halfway to the car. I jumped into the driver’s seat and froze, the silence closing in on me all at once. I had no plan, only an instinct clawing at the inside of my ribs.
Logic told me I was overreacting. The note could have meant anything—a taunt, an observation, something else entirely. But logic only went so far, and I wasn’t willing to test its limits tonight.
I started the car.
The drive to the precinct felt longer than it should have, every red light an unnecessary delay, each second stretching thin.
At least the roads were mercifully empty this time of night.
I kept my speed reasonable, careful not to draw notice, though my foot itched against the accelerator the entire way.
I told myself I was simply checking in. A quick pass-by. Nothing more. Knowing Detective Sawyer, there was a good chance she was still at work. I’d just take a quick look around, make sure nothing was off. Then, I’d go from there.
That had been the plan, anyway.
In hindsight, expecting anything to be simple where one Detective Shay Sawyer was concerned had been laughably naive.
The parking lot was mostly empty when I pulled up, the building looming quiet and dark save for a few scattered lights. Detective Sawyer’s car sat in its usual spot, angled carelessly, one tire nearly touching the curb, like she’d parked in a hurry. Or hadn’t cared. Probably both.
Relief hit first, raw and sudden, flooding through my chest before something else began creeping in at the edges.
Doubt—the cold finger of reason pointing out how ridiculous I was being.
I knew I was overreacting, letting paranoia get the better of me.
But my hands were on the steering wheel, and my car was already rolling into the parking lot.
I just sat there for a moment.
Now what?
I’d come here on impulse, riding a wave of concern I couldn’t quite justify even to myself, and now I was idling near the precinct at night like some kind of stalker. Or a concerned friend. The line between the two felt uncomfortably thin at times.
I could just leave. Should leave, probably, before anyone saw me lurking around like this. I didn’t get the chance to do that, however, as something rapped sharply against my window.
It took all I had not to jump at the sudden noise.
Detective Sawyer waved at me through the glass, seemingly appearing out of thin air.
For the love of… of course it would be her.
I rolled down the window, cold air rushing in. “Good evening, Detective.” I gave her a smile that I hoped wasn’t too frazzled.
“Hayes?” She peered down at me, frowning slightly. ”I thought it was you. What brings you here at this hour?”
My mind, usually great at fabricating cover stories on the fly, came up startlingly blank. “I… was looking for you, actually.”
She seemed surprised. “You were?”
“I was nearby.” I nodded, finally finding my footing again, the lie coming easier now. “And I thought you might want to grab a drink. If you don’t have other plans, that is.”
This was as good an excuse as any. We were on… friendish terms, weren’t we? It wasn’t that odd to ask a friend out for a drink.
The silence continued to stretch, long enough for me to wonder if the detective was able to see right through the bullshit excuse. But as it turned out, I was worrying over nothing as she shrugged and said, “Sure. Why the hell not? Usual place, okay?”
So we were doing this then. Alright.
This wasn’t how I expected my day to go, but in Detective Sawyer’s own words—Sure. Why the hell not? It wasn’t like I had other plans, anyway.
The bar was quiet, which was expected for a Thursday night. We claimed a booth near the back, away from the handful of other regular patrons that were scattered throughout. She ordered a whiskey, neat, while I stuck with my usual club soda with lime.
I was still deciding on the best way to start the conversation as we waited for our drinks to arrive, when Detective Sawyer beat me to it. “God, I needed this,” she said as she shrugged off her jacket, draping it on the seat beside her.
“Long day?” I asked.
“Isn’t it always?” She huffed, shaking her head, a few strands of hair falling loose from where she’d tucked them behind her ear. “But I don’t want to talk about work right now. No work—that’s rule number one when you’re out drinking with me.”
“Any other rules I should know about?”
“We’ll see. So talk to me about something—anything else. Like… tell me something I don’t know about you.”
“Now that’s a broad question.”
“Start small, then. Do you have any hobbies? Interests? Hidden talents?”
“I…” I began, unsure. “I like to read?”
“Shocker.” Detective Sawyer rolled her eyes at me. “No, I mean something more interesting, like… what made you want to become a forensic pathologist? I doubt it was a childhood dream.”
“I thought we weren’t allowed to talk about work.” I pointed out.
“We aren’t allowed to talk about my work. Yours is fine,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “So come then, doc, tell me. Have you always wanted to cut people open for a living or what?”
“Well, when you phrase it like that, it sounds significantly less appealing.” I chuckled. I let the question linger for a moment, turning it over in my mind. “I suppose I’ve always liked puzzles. Mysteries. Every dead body tells a story if you know how to read it.”
“Huh.” She tilted her head, studying me with renewed interest. “I guess we aren’t so different, you and I. I like a good mystery, too.”
“You’ve always known you wanted to become a detective, I gather.”
She nodded. “For sure. I got it from my father—wanted to follow in his footsteps and all that. Turns out it’s a lot more paperwork and bureaucratic bullshit than he initially let on, however.”
So it ran in the family. Not surprising, really. It was easy to imagine a young Detective Sawyer, earnest and determined, absorbing stories at the dinner table, drawn in by the promise of justice before she learned how narrow and unforgiving that road could be.
“Do you have any siblings?” I asked.
“Just me. You?—actually, no. Let me guess.” She leaned forward suddenly, a spark of interest igniting in her eyes. “You’re definitely an older brother. That’s the feeling I get. You’ve got that whole uptight, responsible thing going on.”
“Is that how you do your detective work? Based on feeling?”
“Most definitely.” She grinned, unrepentant. “Instinct is half the job, don’t you know. But you still didn’t answer the question.”
“I had a younger sister.”
Detective Sawyer caught the implication almost immediately, her expression changing as something gentler slipped through. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago,” I said. It wasn’t a story I was willing to share, either way. Better to keep it locked away where it belonged, sealed off in a place I knew better than to revisit.
Detective Sawyer didn’t push, seemingly sensing the invisible boundary I’d drawn. She changed the subject. “So, what do you read then? Please tell me it’s not just medical journals and forensic textbooks.”
“I do read those,” I admitted, grateful for the shift. “But no, not exclusively. Fiction, mostly. Classics.”
“What kind of fiction?”