"The knife wasn't the only thing that left a mark tonight."
—Dylan Reed
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Dylan's Point of View
The sirens had stopped screaming long before I stepped out of the building, but their echo still rang in my head, sharp, metallic and endless. The air outside reeked of copper. Even after the paramedics left, the scent clung to my clothes, to my hands, to the spaces between my thoughts.
I stood by the patrol car, answering the same questions for the third time. 'Yes, I found the body.' "No, I didn't touch anything.' 'Yes, I saw someone running down the stairwell.' 'No, I didn't get a clear look at his face.'
The detective's pen scratched against his notepad like it was tired of me.
"We'll have you come down to the station if we have any more question Mr. Reed.'' He said finally, snapping the notebook shut. I gave a short nod, my eyes drifting back to the apartment window on the fourth floor. Yellow tape fluttered across it like a cruel ribbon.
The Knife. That damned knife.
