Chapter 12

"Our ghost," I corrected, slamming a hand down on the stack of files. "Because that’s what he is. Leaves no trace. No witness. Just… gone. Vanishes into thin air." My voice was a low growl, frustration burning in my gut.

Ben nodded, his gaze fixed on the endless rows of data on his screen. "I get it. But someone knew. Someone knew Maxwell was a monster behind closed doors. Someone knew about Vance and his dirty secrets. This isn’t random. This is targeted. It’s personal. Our ghost isn't just killing; he's delivering judgment."

"So, what, we're looking for a pissed-off victim, then?" I muttered, leaning back, the ancient springs of my chair groaning in protest. "Or someone close to a victim? Problem is, these guys created a lot of victims. And most of them were too scared, too broken, too dependent to ever make a formal complaint stick. Too many people who wanted these guys gone." The bitter taste of that reality filled my mouth.

The precinct was a madhouse. Phones rang non-stop, each ring a fresh demand, a new complaint. News crews were camped outside the building, a ravenous pack of wolves, yelling questions every time someone walked in or out. The Mayor’s office was calling Davies every hour on the hour, their voices rising with panic. The city was a powder keg, and we were the ones supposed to put out the fuse, but we didn’t even have a bucket of water.

Davies’s door slammed open. His eyes locked on mine from across the bullpen. "Corbin! My office! Now!" His voice was a whip-crack.

I walked in, the air in his office thick with rage. He was pacing like a caged beast, his tie loose, his shirt collar unbuttoned, his face a mottled purple. "The Mayor is getting calls, Corbin! From Maxwell’s partners, his investors, the city's elite! These people aren’t used to this! They want answers! They want the city to feel safe again! They’re screaming for a head on a platter!" He spun, jabbing a finger at me. "And that private investigator, Thorne, he’s a damn vulture! He just went on a local talk show, tearing into us, talking about how the police are failing, how real justice is being denied!"

My jaw tightened, aching. "Sir, Thorne is just stirring up trouble for his own gain. He’s not going to find anything we haven’t already looked at."

"He’s finding publicity, Corbin! Which makes us look like damn fools! Do you understand? Your job, your career, it’s hanging by a single, fraying thread! You have less than three days left! You bring me something real, a suspect, an arrest, anything, or I’m pulling you off this! And trust me, the next assignment will be counting goddamn paper clips in the basement archives until you retire!" His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "And if Thorne finds something before you do, if he embarrasses this department one more time, your badge is off. Understood?"

"Understood, sir." My voice was flat, hollow. I felt a cold dread crawl up my spine, twisting in my gut. I walked out, the pressure of a hundred eyes following my every step. They knew. They always knew when someone was walking the green mile.

Ben looked up as I approached my desk. "Rough one?"

I just shook my head, sinking into my chair. "We need a miracle, Ben. A real one. Something solid. Not just more names of angry, scared women."

"Well, we’re going through thousands of records," he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Shelters, crisis hotlines, old police reports where nothing stuck. It’s slow, tedious. Like trying to sift smoke. But it’s the only common thread we’ve got. Every one of these dead men had a history of making women’s lives hell. Someone connected all those dots outside the system."

I started going through a stack of old reports again, my eyes glazing over. Domestic abuse cases. So many of them. He said, she said. Witnesses too scared to talk. Evidence too flimsy to hold up. That’s how guys like Maxwell always got away with it. They were careful enough to leave no trace. Just like our killer. The irony was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. These monsters walked free, and now someone else was playing judge, jury, and executioner. And they were just as good at disappearing. Better, maybe.

Hours later, the sun was long gone, and the precinct was emptying out, a graveyard of defeated whispers. My head throbbed. My eyes burned. I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I picked up my phone, saw a text from Gracie: "Don't work too late. I'll make something easy." Just seeing her name, her simple message, was like a small breath of fresh air in this suffocating mess. She was always so good at that. Calming me down, making me feel like there was still a normal world out there, waiting for me to step back into it.

When I finally got home, it was almost midnight again. The apartment was quiet, dimly lit, a peaceful haven. The smell of something good, something warm, was in the air. Gracie was in the kitchen, humming softly as she moved around, a simple melody. She turned, a soft smile on her face when she saw me.

“Hey, you,” she said, her voice gentle, inviting. “Thought you’d never get here. Sit down. I made some soup.”

I just dropped my bag by the door and went straight to her, wrapping my arms around her, burying my face in her shoulder. Her softness, her warmth, it was a balm to my raw nerves, a temporary shield against the brutal pressure I carried. “God, Gracie. What a day.”

She just held me for a bit, stroking my back. “I know, baby. I saw the news. Maxwell again. And your guys were at the shelter today, asking questions.”

I pulled back, surprised. “They were? Ben and who else?”

“Just Ben and a thinner guy, I think. They were asking about recent intakes, about any stories related to powerful men.” She looked at me, her expression sympathetic, her eyes reflecting genuine concern. “So that’s your new lead, huh? All those stories about abuse?”

I nodded, sighing as I sat down at the kitchen island. “Yeah. It’s a mountain. We’re going through every report, every intake form, trying to find some connection. Some common thread that points to who would know all this stuff, and why they’re doing it.” I pushed the bowl of soup she put in front of me away. I just didn’t have an appetite. “It feels endless, Gracie. And Davies is on my ass like a cheap suit. I’ve got less than three days left to show him something real, or I’m off the case. Maybe out of a job, period.”