Chapter 5 - Shadows at the Stairway
The cemetery was quieter than Aubrey had ever known it. The sound of the world beyond the iron gates seemed to hush at the threshold, replaced by the soft rustle of trees bending in the late afternoon breeze. Rows of marble stones stretched away in uneven patterns, each carrying a name etched by time and grief. Her shoes pressed into damp earth as she walked, bouquet cradled tight against her chest. She hadn't been here since the day of the burial; the memory of black umbrellas, muttered prayers, and the hollow thud of dirt hitting wood still clawed at her mind like a wound that refused to close.
Her mother's grave waited at the far end, under a sycamore whose branches stretched wide like a canopy of brittle arms. But Aubrey slowed when she realized she was not alone.
Kneeling there, shoulders hunched and head bowed low, was Caleb.
Her heart jerked. For a moment she didn't believe it was him. The tough-edged lieutenant detective—the man whose face usually bore the rigid lines of command—looked different. His hand gripped the cold stone, his body bent forward as though in prayer, and though his face was partly hidden, she caught the tremor in it. His breath shuddered. The faintest sound, a muffled choke, slipped from him before he lowered his head again.
He was crying.
Aubrey froze a few steps away, baffled. She had never seen Caleb and her mother in any act of friendliness. She had never even suspected a closeness between them, not beyond the formality of police work. Yet here he was—kneeling in the grass, consumed by grief.
The bouquet in her hands suddenly felt heavy.
Caleb must have sensed her before he saw her. The subtle crunch of her shoes against gravel made him stiffen. His shoulders squared, and slowly he turned, rising to his feet. His face was raw, eyes red, jaw set as though he wanted to hide the evidence of his tears.
"Aubrey," he said, voice rough, strangled with emotion.
She stared at him in silence, questions crowding her mind but her lips refusing to form them. All she could do was look from his tear-streaked face to her mother's name carved into the marble. She wanted to demand an explanation. She wanted to ask why. But nothing came.
Caleb cleared his throat, straightened his jacket, trying to mask the vulnerability she had already witnessed. His mouth opened, shut again, then tugged sideways in awkward hesitation. The words he sought to offer her—whatever they were—never made it past his lips.
Instead, his gaze flicked to the bouquet in her arms. He nodded once, silent, before stepping forward. His hand extended, tentative but steady, as though he were offering her a way to share the weight of the moment.
Aubrey blinked, still caught in her confusion, but somehow her fingers moved. She allowed him to guide her closer to the headstone. Together they knelt, and together they laid the bouquet down.
Her chest tightened. Oddly, impossibly, she felt a strange comfort in his nearness. Comfort that confused her—because Caleb was not family, not even a friend, not someone she thought of in that light. Yet his presence dulled the sharp edge of her loneliness. She couldn't explain it, but she didn't resist it either.
The silence lingered, heavy but almost serene.
Then it broke.
A sharp, brittle crack split the air—the unmistakable crunch of a dry leaf crushed underfoot.
Aubrey flinched, her head snapping toward the sound. Caleb's reaction was different: instinctual, taut, like a predator snapping to alert. His eyes darted to the far end of the cemetery where shadows thickened among old statues and crooked stones.
There—half-hidden—stood a figure. Tall, wiry, face wrapped in a dark scarf that concealed every feature. The wind tugged the fabric against their cheek, outlining the curve of a jaw, but nothing else could be seen.
"Hey!" Caleb barked, his voice slicing through the hush like a whip crack. "Stop!"
The figure jolted, startled. Then they bolted.
Caleb was already moving.
"Stay here!" he shouted over his shoulder, and then he was gone, sprinting between gravestones, pounding across the grass.
Aubrey remained frozen, bouquet petals trembling under the breeze, mind spinning. Her pulse hammered with sudden fear. Who had that been? Why here? Why now?
But Caleb's world had narrowed to a single line of pursuit.
—
The chase tore through the cemetery. The scarfed figure darted between headstones, leaping over low fences, cutting sharp turns. Caleb pushed after him, boots slamming mud, lungs burning, hand hovering near his holster though he didn't draw.
"Stop!" His voice boomed again. The figure didn't falter.
They burst from the cemetery gates into Crestwood's busy streets. Suddenly the chase became chaos. Pedestrians cried out as Caleb and his quarry tore through them. Vendors cursed as carts shook. The smell of grilled meat, fried dough, and cheap perfume hung thick in the air.
The fugitive snatched a basket of apples from a stall and flung it backward. Fruit pelted the ground, rolling under Caleb's boots. He skidded but kept his balance. His eyes locked forward, unwavering.
A clothing vendor shouted as the figure barreled into his rack, dragging shirts and coats into Caleb's path. The detective shoved them aside with his arm, fabric tangling his shoulders. The fugitive kept running.
"Someone stop him!" Caleb roared.
One man did try. A vendor lunged from behind his stall, thick arms spread wide to grab the runner. For a heartbeat, Caleb thought he had him.
But the fugitive's fist snapped forward, connecting with brutal precision. The vendor collapsed, groaning, as the figure bolted onward without a glance back.
Caleb cursed, shoving past a pair of gawking pedestrians. He was gaining ground again when the crowd thickened, blocking the narrow sidewalk.
"Move!" Caleb barked.
They didn't move fast enough.
He collided with a wall of flesh—a large, round woman in a pink cardigan carrying a handbag the size of a bowling ball. She stumbled back, then her face twisted in fury.
"Excuse me!" she shrieked. "How dare you shove me! Do you know who I am?!"
"Ma'am, move—" Caleb tried to push past, but she planted herself square in his way.
"You reckless, rude man! You nearly knocked me into the street! People like you—no respect, no manners—charging around like a lunatic!"
The fugitive was already twenty feet ahead. Caleb gritted his teeth, trying to sidestep, but she lunged sideways to block him again.
"Oh no, sir, you don't just run off after shoving me! I ought to call security right now!"
"Ma'am, I'm with the Crestwood PD—"
"Oh, sure you are!" she snapped, eyes narrowing. Then, to his horror, she raised her massive purse and began whacking him with it. "Liar! Thug! I've seen your type—thinking you own the streets!"
Caleb raised his arm to shield his face, frustration boiling. "Ma'am, listen—"
A taunting whistle cut the air. Caleb jerked his head around in time to see the fugitive glance back, eyes glinting above the scarf. The figure slowed, waved mockingly at him with a little waggle of the fingers, then darted around a corner.
Caleb's patience snapped. He yanked his badge from his belt, thrusting it in the woman's face. "Lieutenant Caleb Saye, Crestwood Homicide. Now, please—step aside."
Her mouth fell open. Color drained from her face.
"Oh. Oh my goodness—" She stumbled back, suddenly meek, clutching her purse to her chest.
Caleb didn't wait for more. He pushed past, sprinting hard.
But when he rounded the corner, the street was empty. The fugitive was gone.
Caleb slowed, chest heaving. He scanned the alleys, doorways, windows. Then his eyes caught it—a narrow stairwell descending between two old brick buildings, its entrance shadowed, yawning dark like a mouth to the underworld.
He started toward it.
His phone buzzed.
"Dammit," he muttered, fumbling it out. "What?"
"Lieutenant?" The voice of Detective Owen Kessler crackled through. "We've got something. Lab found a partial trace—a blood smear, mixed DNA—matches one of our Azaqor profiles. It's fresh. Less than twenty-four hours old."
Caleb's eyes flicked to the stairwell, lingering on the shadows that seemed to ripple there.
"Where?" he asked.
"An abandoned auto shop on Rake Street. We've got uniforms securing the site now. Thought you'd want to see it yourself."
Caleb clenched his jaw, torn. His instincts screamed at him to chase the stairway, to see where it led, to drag the scarfed bastard out of the dark. But procedure held him. The lead on Azaqor was real, verifiable, tangible.
"Fine," he said. "I'm heading there now."
The line clicked dead.
Caleb pocketed his phone but didn't move right away. His eyes fixed on the stairwell, the way the shadows seemed almost alive.
For the briefest instant, he thought he saw movement. A figure, standing still in the blackness, watching.
Then it was gone.
Caleb tore his gaze away and turned down the street. Hi
s boots struck pavement, his heart still hammering, as the unseen shadow lingered at the stairway's mouth—silent, patient, waiting.