Chapter 69

Chapter 69
David's eyes had gone completely blank. His mouth still open, a silent gasp stuck there. He was past shock. He was just gone, floating in the horrible truth I'd just shown him. The precise planning, the cold way I talked about ending those 'monsters'—it was too much. The woman he loved, who slept next to him, had been taking apart the city with deadly accuracy, right under his nose. And she had enjoyed it.

"You see now, David?" I asked, stepping back, looking at my work. His brokenness felt right. It meant he truly understood. "You were hunting a ghost, but the real ghost was always with you. Always watching. Always one step ahead. Because the easiest way to hide in plain sight… is to be the one nobody suspects. The one everyone trusts."

I let the silence hang again, thick and heavy. His quick, fading breaths were the only sound now, a desperate gasp in the big, cold warehouse. He was shattered. And that meant he was ready for the next part.

David was gone. Not dead, not physically. But the man I knew, the sharp, strong detective, the one I had once believed in, was just… an empty shell. He sat there, eyes wide and fixed on nothing, a faint, vacant smile playing on his lips. His body still trembled, but it wasn't from fear or fight anymore. It was just a leftover tremor from a mind that had completely unraveled. The last few revelations had been too much. The truth, delivered by me, had been the final straw. He had seen the deepest rot of his city, seen his own unwitting part in my plan, and it had snapped something vital inside him.

"You're free now, David," I whispered, my voice, clear and soft, echoing in the cold warehouse. "Free from the burden of truth. Free from the chase. Free from the monsters you couldn't catch."

He didn't respond. He just hummed a little, a low, tuneless sound that twisted my gut. There was no victory in this, not the kind I usually felt. Just a cold, hard finality. He was my most important victim, the one I had groomed, broken, and ultimately consumed with the very truth he sought.

I watched him for a long time, the silence stretching, heavy and grim. This wasn't how heroes were supposed to end. But then again, in Newport City, heroes were just puppets for villains or eventually became monsters themselves. David, in his own way, had proven both.

Now came the careful cleanup. The final act of control. I couldn't just leave him here. That wasn't my style. He needed to be found. And his 'breakdown' needed to be utterly convincing. It needed to appear organic, a direct result of the relentless case he'd been working, the pressure, the sleepless nights. All the things I had secretly engineered.

First, the ropes. I untied them, slowly, deliberately. His arms fell limp. No resistance. Just that distant hum. I gently felt his pulse. Steady, but weak. He was alive, but barely present.

"Time to go home, David," I murmured, my voice almost tender. A twisted tenderness, born of years of living this lie.

Getting him back into the van was easier than getting him out. He offered no resistance, just slumped wherever I guided him. I wrapped him in a blanket I’d brought, making sure he was warm. He felt so light, almost fragile. The weight of his madness was heavier than his body.

The drive back to the apartment felt different this time. The city lights seemed to mock the darkness inside the van. I was driving David Corbin, the city's once-brightest star, back to the stage for his final, tragic performance.

I chose a time when the early morning light was just starting to seep into the sky, but before the city truly woke up. No one would be around the apartment building yet. Perfect.

Getting him inside was the trickiest part. I had to support most of his weight, almost carrying him. He shuffled along, feet dragging, that hum still in his throat. I unlocked the apartment door, the familiar click echoing in the quiet hallway.

The apartment itself was still a mess from his spiral. Papers everywhere, files scattered, maps taped to walls. It looked like the aftermath of a mental storm. Perfect. It would tell the story I wanted it to tell.

I guided him to the living room, to his favorite armchair. I eased him into it, making sure he was comfortable, slumped, looking exactly like a man who had finally cracked. I straightened his clothes a bit, made him look less like he'd been dragged through a warehouse, more like he'd just been lost inside his own head for days.

I picked up a few stray files, placing them haphazardly on the coffee table near him. His half-empty coffee cup, a pen, some of his notes about 'the Foundation' and 'Davies.' It all needed to scream 'breakdown.' It needed to point to the case, to the obsession, to the pressure, not to me.

I checked the time on my watch. Almost 6 AM. Ben would be waking up soon, maybe grabbing a coffee before work. This was the window.

I pulled out my burner phone, the one I kept for emergencies, the one no one could trace. My fingers hesitated for a moment. This was the final act of this particular play. The moment David Corbin, the detective, truly ceased to be.

I dialed Ben's number. It rang once, twice. Then, his groggy voice, rough with sleep.

"Yeah? Who is this?" he muttered.

"Ben," I said, my voice shaking, forcing it to sound terrified, desperate. A perfect performance. "It's Gracie. I… I just came back to the apartment. I had to. I was worried. And… oh my God, Ben, it's David. He's… he's not right. He's really, really not right."

My voice broke on cue, a sob catching in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, pushing out a tear or two. It wasn’t hard to cry. The scene, the broken man in front of me, the twisted reality of my life—it was all pretty sad, in its own way.

"Gracie? What are you talking about? What's wrong with Dave?" Ben's voice was sharp now, wide awake with instant worry. I knew he was already scrambling out of bed.

"He's… he's just staring," I choked out, my voice thick with feigned tears. "He's not talking. He's just... humming. … it's a disaster. I think… I think he's completely lost it. You have to come. Please. I don't know what to do."

"I'm on my way," Ben snapped, his voice already miles away, already grabbing his keys. "Stay put, Gracie. Don't touch anything. I'm five minutes out."

Perfect. Ben, the loyal friend, the good cop, always rushing to the rescue. He would confirm it all. He would see David's state, see the 'evidence' of the breakdown, and he would do exactly what was needed. He would get David help. The help I wanted for him. A place where he could be kept safe, from the world, from revealing the truth I needed to keep buried.