No decorative knickknacks, no sentimental clutter. Just volumes of forensic psychology, the history of criminology, and a handful of first editions from the golden age of detective fiction.
Doyle. Sayers. Carr.
Their worn pages smelled like dust and old ink, a quiet counterbalance to the modern sterility of the space. A heavy wooden desk, scarred by years of use, dominated the far wall. It had belonged to my grandfather, a professor of philosophy at Columbia, and bore the weight of a century's worth of knowledge—his, then mine.
The surface was pristine except for an old brass lamp with a green glass shade, the kind you'd find in law libraries and lecture halls. The light cast a muted glow over the room, just enough to make the shadows feel deliberate rather than intrusive.
My TV droned in the background, not one of the usual crime procedurals I let run for white noise, but an old episode ofColumbo. A contradiction, maybe, given that I spent my waking life dismantling criminal methodologies with surgical precision, but something about Falk's slow, shambling genius settled my nerves. There was an artistry to his deception—how he let suspects believe they had the upper hand before unraveling their defenses thread by thread.
The record player in the corner—an actual vintage Technics model, not some faux-retro reproduction—sat silent, but the last album I'd spun was still on the turntable:Blue Trainby John Coltrane.
Jazz wasn't my usual go-to, but I liked how the notes ran like an algorithm, the patterns revealing themselves over time. And, if I was honest, there was something about Coltrane's saxophone that was the only logical response to the burning wreckage left in the wake of this case.
I set the needle down, letting the first few notes fill the room. The rich, brassy sound should have made the apartment seem warmer and less empty. Instead, it merely magnified the silence between each note.
The kitchen was barely a step away—small, functional, looking like it belonged to someone who ordered in more than they cooked. The cabinets were dark walnut, the countertops black granite, and the only real personality in the space came from the single framed piece of art above the sink: a diagram of human nerve endings in stark, clinical detail.
I'd bought it in an antique medical supply store on a whim. Most people would have found it unsettling. I found it beautiful.
I reached for the electric kettle, flipping the switch before realizing I had no interest in drinking the tea I was about to make. The scent of chamomile curled into the air, mixing with the phantom traces of smoke that still clung to my clothes, my skin, and the backs of my eyelids when I shut them too long.
The music should have helped. It usually did. But even Coltrane's intricate layers of sound weren't enough to drown out the images burned into my mind—the helmet gleaming in the flames and Marcus's badge number carved in fire. I saw the mannequin's melted flesh peeling away with the same calculated precision I used in my work.
I abandoned the tea, let the music keep playing, and sank onto the couch, laptop glowing faintly on the table. Work had always been the antidote to everything I couldn't control. But tonight, I couldn't focus. My eyes kept dragging to the window, scanning the shadows outside. Searching for movement. For signs that someone else was watching me, taking notes on my habits the way I took notes on theirs.
Somewhere in the stacks of records shoved onto the lower shelves—nestled between Thelonious Monk and The Cure—was an old, battered copy ofMeet the Residents. A remnant of a phase I'd gone through years ago, fascinated by the way the band turned music into something unnerving and abstract.
Maybe that was what I needed—something unpredictable, fractured, and as unsettling as the thoughts running through my head.
A book was missing.No—shifted.Half an inch, maybe less.It wasThe Oxford Companion to Crime and Mystery Writing.
Moved enough to be nothing.
Enough to be everything.
I shut the laptop, killed the TV, and lay in the dark, listening and waiting for the sound of someone else breathing.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the fire again. I saw Marcus in its place. I saw how the flames had worked with intention, peeling back layers like a sculptor refining their masterpiece.
The night dragged me under eventually, sleep a fragile surrender. But it didn't last.
I found myself back at the lake. The water was black glass, perfectly still, reflecting a moon that shouldn't have been there because it had rained that night. I was standing at the edge, Marcus's badge in my hand, with its metal warm against my palm, though it shouldn't have been.
Not here.
Not now.
The sound came first—a faint hiss, like the breath of something vast and unseen. Then flames erupted on the water's surface, moving in impossible patterns, tracing shapes I couldn't understand.
Except I could. They weren't shapes. They were letters.
My name.
The fire spelled my name across the dark water, the letters burning bright and hungry.
I tried to step back, but my feet were rooted to the ground, the sand beneath me clutching like fingers. Heat licked at my skin, but I wasn't burning.
Marcus was. He stood in the center of the lake, his figure framed by fire, perfectly still, perfectly silent. His eyes found mine—blank, empty. Not pleading. Not accusing. Just gone.
