The fluorescent lights of the 4th Precinct buzzed with a low, agonizing frequency that vibrated against Sarafina's teeth. To anyone else, it was the sound of bureaucratic efficiency, but to her, it sounded like the flies circling a carcass. The air was thick with the scent of cheap floor wax and the metallic tang of stale coffee, a sensory map of the place she had once called home.
She walked through the bullpen with her head down, her fingers curled tightly around the handles of a cardboard box. She was no longer wearing the plum silk from the opera house. She was draped in a heavy, charcoal knit sweater that felt like a shroud. She was playing the part of the broken daughter, the girl whose world had ended in an alleyway, but beneath the wool, her skin was still electric from the ghost of Joseph's touch.
Detective Miller sat at the desk adjacent to her father's vacant chair. He looked up as she approached, his face shifting into an expression of practiced, paternal sorrow. It was a mask she had seen a thousand times, but now, knowing what lay behind the porcelain, it looked monstrous.
"Sara," he said, his voice a rough, comforting gravel. "You shouldn't be here, honey. We told you we'd bring his things by the house."
Sarafina stopped at the edge of his desk. She looked at the photos pinned to his cubicle wall. There was one of Miller and her father at a precinct barbecue, arms draped over each others shoulders, grinning like brothers. The betrayal tasted like copper in her mouth.
"I couldn't stay in that house anymore," she lied, her voice small and brittle. "The silence is too loud. I needed to be where he was. I needed to finish this."
Miller stood up and moved toward her. When he reached out to pull her into a side hug, Sarafina felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated revulsion. His hand settled on her shoulder, his palm warm and heavy. It was the hand that had held the silver-tipped bullet. It was the hand that had squeezed the trigger. His touch felt like a brand, a searing mark of Judas that made her stomach churn with a violent, icy nausea.
She forced herself to stay still. She leaned into him for a fraction of a second, her eyes closing as she felt the hard outline of his service weapon against his hip. Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to reach for her own gun, to press the barrel against his chin and watch the light leave his treacherous eyes. But Joseph's voice echoed in the back of her mind, a dark, velvet warning.
Earn the truth.
"He loved you like a brother, Miller," she whispered against his shoulder.
She felt him stiffen, just for a heartbeat. It was a microscopic flinch, a momentary lapse in his armor, but to Sarafina, it was a confession.
"I loved him too, Sara," Miller replied, his voice cracking with a lie so profound it felt like a sacrilege. "We're going to find who did this. I promise you."
He pulled away, his eyes scanning her face for any sign of suspicion. Sarafina gave him nothing but the hollow stare of a victim. She began to pack the items from her father's desk: a brass paperweight, a stack of blank warrants, a framed photo of her mother. She moved with a numbing slowness, ensuring that Miller felt the weight of her presence, the haunting reminder of the man he had erased.
"Take your time," Miller said, checking his watch with a nervous flick of his wrist. "I have to head down to the evidence locker. Stay as long as you need."
She watched him walk away, his gait heavy and confident. As soon as he disappeared around the corner, the mask fell. Sarafina's face hardened into a mask of lethal clarity. She didn't finish packing. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, cream-colored envelope.
She didn't head for the exit. She moved toward the locker room at the back of the precinct, a place of steam and shared secrets. She knew Miller's locker number by heart: 412. It was the same as her birthday.
The locker room was empty, the air damp with the scent of industrial soap. She slid the envelope through the thin metal vent of locker 412. Inside was no letter. There was only a high-resolution photocopy of the silver-tipped bullet Joseph had given her, centered on the page like a target. At the bottom, in her sharp, elegant handwriting, she had written a single word.
Brother.
Sarafina walked out of the precinct without looking back. She didn't say goodbye to the desk sergeant. She didn't acknowledge the pitying glances of the other officers. She climbed into her car, parked across the street in the shadows of a parking garage, and waited.
Twenty minutes passed. The rain began to smear the windshield, turning the lights of the precinct into bleeding neon wounds. Finally, Miller emerged from the side door. He looked agitated, his collar turned up against the cold. He was heading for his personal vehicle, but he stopped, his hand hovering over his pocket. He turned back, heading toward the locker room entrance.
Sarafina watched through a pair of binoculars, her breath hitching as he reappeared minutes later.
The change was instantaneous. Miller didn't walk; he stumbled. He reached the sidewalk and leaned against a lamppost, his face ashen even under the yellow streetlights. He pulled the photocopy from his pocket, his hands shaking so violently the paper fluttered like a dying bird. He looked around frantically, his gaze darting across the street, searching the dark windows of the surrounding buildings.
He knew. The ghost of Stephen Cole had finally found its voice.
Sarafina felt a cold, jagged sense of triumph. She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. She was no longer the prey. She was the shadow in the corner of his eye, the ticking clock in his chest.
Her phone vibrated on the passenger seat. It was a message from the burner phone, the one Joseph had given her.
He looks small when he's afraid, doesn't he?
Sarafina looked up at the roof of the building across from the precinct. A dark figure stood near the ledge, partially obscured by a stone gargoyle. The man was dressed in a long black coat, his silhouette unmistakable even in the gloom. Joseph wasn't just watching Miller; he was watching her watch him.
He was grading her performance.
She picked up the phone, her fingers flying across the screen.
I want to be the one who finishes it, she sent.
The reply came seconds later, a dark promise that made her blood hum.
Patience, Little Bird. A slow burn produces the brightest flame. Come to the foundry. It's time you learned how to handle the heat.
Sarafina put the car in gear, her eyes fixed on Miller as he climbed into his car and sped away, his tires screeching against the wet asphalt. She didn't follow him. She turned the wheel in the opposite direction, toward the industrial heart of the city where the fires of the Mcwell empire never went out.
She was leaving the law behind for good, and as she glanced in the rearview mirror, she saw the lights of the 4th Precinct fading into the mist, a tomb for a girl who no longer existed.