Paulie sat slouched in the deep red booth of a rain-speckled diner, the kind of place where time smelled faintly of burnt coffee and damp coats. His half-finished cup steamed in front of him, untouched for too long, while his eyes traced the condensation sliding down the glass of the window beside him. Outside, the sky wept steadily, the rain painting the world in silver lines. But the sorrow in the air did not belong to him-Paulie was long past sadness.
The sharp chime of the diner door announced a new arrival. Edwards stepped in from the downpour, rain clinging to him like shadows unwilling to let go. He greeted the waitress with a curt nod.
"Black coffee, please," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "Bring it over to that table-if possible. Thanks."
Without waiting for her answer, Edwards moved to the booth opposite Paulie, the unspoken current between them making small talk unnecessary. They waited in silence. The coffee machine hissed and grumbled in the background; a man at the counter nursed the last lines of his newspaper, the last sips of his own coffee. They all seemed to be holding their breath for the moment when privacy would return.
Finally, the man at the bar folded his paper, offered a polite goodbye, and stepped out, the door's chime ringing again.
The machine gave one last sigh and went still. The waitress emerged from behind the counter, a small saucer balanced in her hand. On it-cup, a packet of sugar, a packet of sweetener, and a golden cookie that seemed too cheerful for the table it was headed toward. She set it down in front of Edwards.
"Here you go, sir," she said.
Edwards only nodded. His eyes lingered briefly on her movements-practiced, efficient-before drifting toward the rain-streaked window. He slipped off his coat and dropped it onto the booth beside him, dark water seeping into the fabric, deepening the seat's already wine-dark hue.
At last, Paulie broke the silence.
"You want us to help with... Iris?"
"No," Edwards replied, not looking up. "I don't want dirty money touching her."
Paulie nodded, as if expecting the answer. "We're going to clean the statues now. Last night my boys bagged them up, wiped down the scene, checked every corner, and bought out the owner."
"They didn't kill her, did they?"
"No," Paulie said with a casual shrug. "Just money. Now the statues are sitting in the back of Raphael's SUV. We'll take them out and sink them in the lake."
Edwards' gaze sharpened. "Not the lake this time."
Paulie frowned. "Why not? The police never patrol there. The statues go under, they stay under. No one finds them."
"No one finds them if we bury them either. If we've got the strength to haul them, we've got the strength to use a goddamn shovel. Bury them deep-two meters. That way, they're not just gone; they're forgotten. Like coffins in the dirt. Like a grave that never had a name. Those pieces... they're too valuable to leave to chance."
Paulie studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowing. Then he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.
"No, no... I think I get it now. You're not changing the way we do things because of safety. You're changing because you're not alone anymore. You're thinking about the fact that if someone puts a bullet in you, someone else is left behind. Alone. Now you've got someone to protect. And if you're the man I know you are, you've got someone to raise-someone you'll never let near the line between good and evil."
The words landed heavy, echoing in Edwards' head. Slowly, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
"You're right. So I want this handled fast. Call your people, have the shipment sent to the Vyennes Forest. And as always, once it's done, if you've got another problem, I'll handle it. Now... the money."
"You'll have it when the job's finished," Paulie said, draining the last of his coffee. He stood, cup and saucer in hand. "I'll see you outside."
The chime rang again as he left.
Edwards lingered, staring into the dark swirl of his coffee, ignoring the yellow biscuit entirely. After a moment, he drained the cup, pulled a twenty from his worn black wallet-the one with the small silver skull keychain and the "Pantera" sticker on its metal clip-and placed it on the table.
"Keep the change," he told the waitress, who blinked in surprise as she took the bill.
The door chimed once more as Edwards stepped back into the rain.
Outside the diner, Paulie leaned against the hood of his car, his breath ghosting in the cool rain as he spoke into a battered old phone.
"Raphael... plans have changed. Leave the lake-head to Vyennes Forest instead."
"What? Where the hell is that?" Raphael's voice crackled through the line.
"Five kilometers north. You'll see a stretch of deep green, you can't miss it. That's Vyennes. Drive the SUVs in as far as they'll go."
Raphael cut the call without ceremony. On his end, three black SUVs stood waiting in the rain like silent sentinels. His crew-faces half-lit by the headlights-watched him. He groaned, pressed the closed phone to his forehead, and muttered, "I'm a goddamn cocksucker."
One of the men stepped forward. "What now?"
Raphael exhaled sharply, half a laugh, half a curse. "Send the SUVs to Vyennes Forest. They're going in the ground this time." He gave himself a couple of playful smacks with the phone as though punishing his own surprise, then started barking orders.
Meanwhile, Paulie slid behind the wheel of his own car. Edwards climbed into the passenger seat, a cigarette between his fingers. He smoked with the window cracked open, watching the rain drip from the frame, letting the cold air seep in. His eyes moved over the passing streets-lingering on a street sign with a faded sticker, a shop window etched with deep scratches, a bus stop sagging on one side beneath a peeling advertisement that once promised a brighter life.
By the time they reached Vyennes, the forest loomed ahead-tall and dark, the kind of green that swallows light. They found Raphael's crew already at work, shovels biting into the earth.
"All right," Paulie called, stepping out, "two meters deep, no less."
The men nodded, dirt flying in steady arcs. Raphael tossed his shovel aside, letting it clatter into the mud. "Now for the statues..." he muttered to himself, heading for the SUVs.
One by one, doors and trunks opened. The "statues" emerged-heavy, awkward to carry, their forms stiff in the black plastic that clung to them. Edwards and Paulie approached the last SUV together. They paused for a moment, looking at the scene: three silent figures that only hours before had been living.
The men lowered them into the pit-like bags of refuse into a landfill, though the hole had the solemn geometry of a grave. Dirt followed quickly, shovels working faster now, as though the earth itself was eager to seal the secret.
Raphael let out a breath. "Finally."
Edwards' gaze lingered on the fresh mound, the cigarette still burning faintly in his hand. Paulie came to stand beside him.
"I know you want something," Paulie said quietly. "I know you're about to ask me for a favor."
"I want Robertson," Edwards replied, his voice steady. "I don't want him walking free."
"The husband of Iris?" Paulie's brow furrowed. "You think she-or Sarah-will take that well? I'm not doing this unless you understand what it means."
"For once," Edwards said, "let me call the shots. I know Sarah wants him dead-even if her innocent mind refuses to admit it. And that's enough for me."
"You sure?" Paulie looked at the mound of earth, stretching his shoulders. "Good times make bad men, bad men make bad times, bad times make good men, and finally good men makes good times. The cycle continues, continues... until the end of the fucking world." Paulie laughs.
"And where do you think we are?" Edwards asked.
"In the third. No doubt about it."
Paulie plucked the cigarette from Edwards' mouth and flicked it onto the mound. It landed softly, its ember glowing like a tiny, frustrated fire that wanted to spread but couldn't. Edwards allowed himself a small smile, the kind that almost becomes laughter but never quite arrives.
Paulie ruffled his hair briefly, a gesture half camaraderie, half farewell, and turned to leave. Edwards looked down at the cigarette one last time, at its invisible flames, before following the rest of the crew back into the trees.
Far removed from the cruelty, the bodies, and the restless rain, Sarah stirred in the guest bed. Her eyelids, heavy with sleep, parted slowly; her small, glassy eyes shimmered as a yawn escaped her. With tiny fists, she rubbed away the liquid crystals clinging to her lashes and slid from the warmth of the sheets.
The bedroom door was already ajar, the hallway beyond bathed in the muted morning light. She padded forward, moving from the green of the walls to a gentle sky-blue, her steps quickening with a child's quiet urgency.
"Mr. Edwards..." she called, her voice soft but expectant. She reached the living room, then the kitchen-empty. "Mr. Edwards?" Again, her tone held no fear, only the curiosity of someone too young to fully comprehend absence.
Her heart, still so small, refused to understand worry. Instead, it wrapped itself in a smile, a fragile armor against uncertainty.
Then she saw it-a stuffed toy made of wool, perched high atop a shelf in the corner of the room. Sarah's mouth parted in wonder. "Teddy..." she breathed.
She clambered onto the glass-topped dining table, slipping off her tiny shoes to reveal the pale soles of her feet. Standing tall, she raised a small hand to her brow, peering upward as if scanning the horizon from the bow of a ship.
But the toy was still far out of reach. Determined, she explored the house like a miniature adventurer, passing through both bedrooms and finally into the bathroom, where she spotted a small wooden step stool. Slowly, she pushed it across the floor, the legs scraping softly against the tiles, and maneuvered it into place beneath the shelf.
From the table she climbed onto the stool, and from the stool to the countertop above the television. The toy was near now-close enough for her fingertips to brush the wool-but the height was dizzying. Her knees trembled, a subtle shiver running through her.
Then she remembered.
Her mother's voice came to her-clear as breath against her ear: If you're afraid, it means you're still alive.
In her mind, she saw Iris standing below, smiling, nodding in approval. Come on, daughter. Fear is an advantage... use it. You are alive, my little one... you are alive.
Sarah inhaled deeply, steadying herself. One hand gripped the shelf while the other reached out, fingers curling around the soft, textured surface of the toy. She eased herself back (countertop, stool, table)... until, with a small triumphant hop, she landed safely on the table.
Her joy spilled out in a series of quick little jumps, her laughter bright against the still air, and her free shout "I'M ALIVE MOM!!! I'M ALIVE!!!".
When her excitement settled, she curled into the sofa, legs swinging idly, her tiny feet kicking at the air.
And so she waited, clutching her woolen treasure, counting aloud in the most patient way a child can.
"One... two... three... four... five..."
The beam of a car's headlights slid across the living room floor, a slow-moving stripe of light that brushed over Sarah's small figure as she sat waiting in the same spot she had occupied for what felt like hours. She rose, padding to the window, and there-stepping out of the driver's seat-was Mr. Edwards.
Without thinking, she darted away, her feet soft against the floorboards, and pressed herself against the cool counter of the kitchen, hiding from the doorway's view. The woolen toy was clutched tightly to her chest, its texture rough against her cheek.
One turn of the key.
Two.
Three.
The lock gave way, and Edwards entered alone, the sound of the door's hinges creaking into the quiet house. He held only his keys-house and car-which he set down on the countertop beside his two phones. From his jacket he withdrew a thick fold of banknotes: ten crisp bills, each worth a thousand. The damp weight of his coat told of earlier rain; he hung it carefully on the wooden rack by the door.
"Sarah... I'm home," he called into the air.
His eyes traced the scene like an investigator following a trail: the stool pushed from its usual place, the shelf now missing its woolen sentinel, the dining table's surface still bearing the faint smudge of small feet, and, scattered on the sofa, the socks of the little treasure-hunter. He smiled-Sarah was still here.
"Sarah? Where are you?"
From the side of the counter, a tiny voice rose in mischief-"Boo!"
Edwards turned, startled but amused. "Ah, there you are. How are you, little one? I see you had some fun..."
She rushed forward and wrapped her arms around his leg. "Where were you, Mr. Edwards?"
"Working," he replied, crouching slightly so his voice softened. "If I'm going to take you to the places you love, I have to work. Think of it as... an obligation."
"Like what my mother used to do?"
"That's right." He rested a hand gently on her shoulder, drawing her in. "And I see you got hold of the wool doll I kept up there..."
"Whose is it?"
"It's mine. Your mother made it for me."
"My mother? I didn't know she made dolls out of wool. She had so much of it at home..."
"Did she now?" His tone held a touch of nostalgia. He lifted her onto the kitchen table, her small legs swinging freely. "Now, we need to get some breakfast in you, all right?"
"I imagined my mother..." she murmured.
Edwards paused, his hand halfway to the cereal box. "Imagined her? When you were climbing up for the doll?"
"Yes. She helped me down."
A faint, bittersweet smile touched his lips. He poured the cereal into a bowl, the dry grains whispering against porcelain. "Listen, little one-one day, I promise you'll see your mother again. But for now, stop thinking about that. Enjoy your life... you're still a rubber heart."
Sarah tilted her head. "What's a rubber heart?"
"Innocence, little one. Innocence."
She took the carton of milk in both hands, pouring it carefully until the cereal floated. "Innocence..." she repeated softly, then smiled. "I like that word."
Edwards chuckled, watching her eat, the corners of his eyes softening. In that moment, surrounded by the quiet hum of the house and the faint rustle of cereal in milk, the world outside-the cruelty, the bodies, the rain-seemed impossibly far away.
Back at the hospital-a place where nothing truly arrives and nothing ever truly leaves-two women stepped out of a dimly lit room. One was a nurse in pale blue scrubs, the other a young doctor with streaks of dyed hair pulled neatly into a square plastic hair tie. Her name was Martha Edwards, sister to Mr. Edwards.
"Status?" Martha's voice was brisk, though her eyes carried the habitual exhaustion of someone who had walked these corridors too many times.
"She's still stable," the nurse replied. "We took a small blood sample for analysis."
"She's in waiting?"
"Exactly. Normal pulse, normal blood pressure... at the moment, we can say she remains in a deep sleep."
Their steps quickened along the corridor, the polished floors reflecting the cold fluorescence above them. The smell of antiseptic hung heavy, a constant reminder that life here was measured in numbers and machine beeps.
"Any family inside the room?" Martha asked.
"No one but the patient."
When they reached the door, Martha pushed it open without hesitation. Inside lay Iris-motionless, a respirator mask covering both mouth and nose, tubes running like pale veins to the machines at her side.
Martha moved forward with quiet urgency, eyes darting to the monitors. She checked vitals, then ran a small device along Iris's limbs, testing muscle responses. A faint movement, a nervous reflex-it told her enough.
"Switch the blood bag for a saline drip," she ordered, her tone clipped. "She needs hydration. She won't wake soon."
"Should we keep the respirator?" the nurse asked, her hands already hovering over the IV stand.
"Keep it for now. Tomorrow we'll run an ultrasound and an X-ray-book the rooms for twelve A.M."
"Understood."
Martha gave one last glance at the steady rhythm on the heart monitor-73 beats per minute, 74, then 72. The nurse watched too, feeling an odd wave of sympathy before stepping out into the hall.
Moments later, in another wing of the hospital, Martha stood by a window framed by two modest cabinets. Rain-speckled glass blurred the lights of the city beyond. Her phone was pressed to her ear; on the other end was her brother.
"You're protecting her daughter, aren't you?" she asked.
"That's right," Edwards replied. "She's here with me now. I don't want her to know... not yet."
"You're doing the right thing," Martha said softly. "She's stable, and we'll do the scans tomorrow. If you want, I can drop by your place with the results."
"You have a key?"
"I do. If you're not home, I'll leave them on the counter."
"Good. Thanks, sister."
A smile touched Martha's lips. "Don't thank me. It's the least I could do for a brother who lost four consecutive pillow fights against me when we were teenagers."
Edwards's laughter came warmly through the line before the call ended. Martha lowered the phone to her thigh, her gaze drifting back to the window. The city shimmered behind the rain, and in that quiet pause, all she could do was wait for the results of the blood test-knowing that in hospitals, waiting was its own form of cruelty.
On the other side of the city, Edwards sat on the couch, the glow of the television spilling soft, shifting colors across the room. The cartoons played the same episodes Sarah watched every day, the familiar voices and jingles forming a kind of harmless background hum. To one side, the small wooden step ladder still rested where Sarah had left it. On the table, her woolen toy lay balanced against a bottle of water as if keeping a silent vigil.
Sarah's head began to sway with the slow heaviness of surrender. The battle with sleep was one she fought valiantly each night, but tonight, she lost. Her small body leaned sideways, finding the solid comfort of Edwards's arm.
He glanced down at her, the corners of his mouth softening. Carefully, almost ceremoniously, he scooped her into his arms. She stirred only enough to clutch her woolen companion, hugging it as if it were a lifeline. Edwards carried her to the guest bed, laid her down gently, and pulled the blanket over her, tucking the toy beside her so it would be the first thing she felt upon waking.
His eyes then caught another stuffed bear, the one she had taken from his car-a relic from a darker day. It sat on the floor, still faintly marked with a small stain of dried blood. Edwards stooped, picked it up, and paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on that single blemish. Then, with deliberate care, he turned off the television and carried the bear into the kitchen.
He took a sponge from beside the sink, poured a little dish soap into the center, and ran the tap. The water hissed over the porcelain basin, its steady rush muffling the thoughts in his head. He began scrubbing, methodically working the soap into the fibers, washing away the dark trace that tethered the toy to death. Each slow, circular motion of the sponge seemed to steady him, as though by erasing the stain from the bear, he could also erase the invisible ones clinging to Sarah's life.
When at last the fur was clean, the water swirling clear down the drain, a sudden vibration rattled the countertop. One of his phones-the one linked to an older, uglier chapter of his life-lit up on the counter.
Edwards set the bear down beside it, the clean wool still damp. He stared at the caller ID, silent. Outside, the final light of day slid away from the world, leaving the house steeped in twilight. In the guest room, the last beam of that fading sun settled gently across Sarah's face, painting her closed eyelids with a faint emerald glow.
And Edwards answer.
TO BE CONTINUED...