The vacuum hummed in a steady rhythm against the carpet, its low growl filling the otherwise quiet house. Austin Greene, barefoot in his worn bathrobe, guided the machine back and forth like a soldier pacing out a drill.
His expression was neutral, yet his eyes, slightly shadowed from a week of restless nights, betrayed the fatigue running deeper than muscle.
On the flat-screen across the room, the morning news droned. Bright, polished anchors smiled too widely as they spoke about today's mayoral elections in Moonstone. A scrolling banner at the bottom urged "All citizens: Exercise your right to vote. Polls close at 8 p.m."
Austin paused. His hand lingered on the vacuum handle as he turned toward the TV. For a moment he just stood there, watching images of bustling polling stations and staged campaign photos. The two front-runners smiled like mannequins under patriotic bunting. His brow tightened.
He clicked the remote and muted the noise. Silence rushed in, broken only by the vacuum's dying hum.
With a sigh, he shut the machine off and set it aside. "Enough of that," he muttered to no one.
The kitchen was brighter, morning light spilling through the blinds in fractured beams. Austin put on music instead, something soft, older, guitar strings and gravelly voices from another time. The kind of music Clara used to hum under her breath while cleaning.
The bacon sizzled in the pan, popping grease against the stovetop. He watched it closely, arms folded, as if measuring out control in the small ritual. Coffee brewed nearby, filling the air with a scent both sharp and comforting. He plated the bacon, scrambled eggs, and poured a steaming mug before sitting down at the table.
His shoulders sagged as the first sip went down. Bitter. Strong. Just how he needed it.
But his mind wouldn't stay still.
Since the Gryphon incident, he'd taken leave from work, "recombobulating," as his superior had half-joked. Paid leave, time to recover. But Austin wasn't sure if recovery was the right word. Too many questions lingered like smoke.
Where was Farren's secret base? Why had Lance Gryphon been taken into custody by men he didn't recognize? And why, in God's name, had Farren paid him off so handsomely, just to keep his silence?
Money had weight. But silence had cost.
And then there was Sebastian Thorne. The boy's death hung in the air like a stormcloud no one wanted to acknowledge. Technically, the Thorne family had been the reason Adam got into Moonstone Academy in the first place, their connections, their influence. He owed them more than he'd ever admit.
Did that mean he was supposed to call, to send flowers, to stand awkwardly in a line of mourners? Or would that make things worse?
He pushed the thought aside with a bite of bacon. Salty. Crispy. Familiar.
"As long as Adam's safe," he said under his breath, "that's enough."
But was it?
His eyes flicked toward a framed photo propped on the mantle. Clara, smiling in the summer sun, her hand on Adam's small shoulder. The boy couldn't have been more than eight in that picture, grinning with teeth too big for his face. A knot tightened in Austin's chest. He forced another sip of coffee.
When the knock came at the door, it startled him.
He set the mug down, wiping his hands on the robe as he answered.
Bill stood there, his graying hair slicked back, a plaid shirt tucked in neatly, like the years hadn't really changed him. "Well, I'll be damned. If it isn't Austin Greene."
Austin blinked, then smiled despite himself. "Bill. I'll be damned too. Get in here."
The two men clasped hands, that kind of half-handshake, half-hug reserved for old friends who'd seen too much of life. Austin ushered him inside, and soon Bill was seated on the couch with a steaming cup of coffee of his own.
They caught up slowly, like testing waters that used to be familiar.
"So, why'd you come back here?" Bill asked, settling into his mug. "Moonstone, of all places. Didn't think I'd see you again."
Austin leaned back, rubbing his jaw. "Needed a change. Needed… a reset."
Bill's eyes narrowed, reading between lines. "Still in the army?"
"Sort of. Took some leave."
"And Adam?"
Austin's expression softened. "Doing good. Better than me, probably. Kid's tougher than he looks."
They let silence fill the gaps. Bill's gaze drifted toward the mantle, toward Clara's picture. He exhaled slowly. "I still remember her laugh, you know. Could fill a whole room."
Austin swallowed hard. His grip tightened around his coffee. "Yeah. Not a day goes by I don't hear it in my head."
They let the moment linger, neither pushing it further.
Eventually, Bill leaned forward, brightening his tone. "You still drink?"
"Depends on the night."
"Well, you owe me a night out. There's a new bar downtown. Best whiskey in town. We'll go. For old times' sake."
Austin smirked. "You're buying."
Bill chuckled. "We'll see about that."
As he got up to leave, Bill paused at the door. "You voting today?"
Austin shrugged. "Don't know. Not feeling it."
Bill frowned. "Don't give me that. I'm heading there right now. Come with me. If you don't, you'll regret it later."
Austin hesitated. Politics had always felt like mud. He'd waded through enough of it in the service. But Bill's look was insistent.
"Fine," Austin muttered. "Let's go."
City hall loomed like a monument when they arrived, banners hanging from railings, flags snapping in the crisp autumn wind. The square outside was flooded with people.
Crowds moved like restless seas, half-cheering, half-booing, voices clashing against each other. Protest signs jutted above heads, some demanding equal rights for supernaturals, others calling for their expulsion, even eradication.
The air buzzed with tension, like static before a storm.
Austin stood at the edge of it all, shoulders squared, eyes scanning the chaos. For a moment he felt out of place, like a soldier dropped into a battlefield without orders. Bill muttered something about the mess of politics, but Austin barely heard.
Because for the first time, he saw the world through Adam's eyes. The division, the hypocrisy, the noise. The way people shouted past each other instead of speaking.
And suddenly, he understood why his son hated politics so much.
***
The office was quiet except for the faint hum of the desktop computer. Joe Hawkings sat hunched at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His eyes tracked the inbox like a hawk circling prey. The call from forensics still echoed in his ears, "DNA results are in, check your email."
His heart ticked faster than the old clock on the wall.
Finally.
The notification ping broke the silence, sharp and metallic. He clicked immediately, the glow of the monitor painting his face in pale blue light. A single attachment: DNA_Report_ThorneCase.pdf.
His fingers hesitated before opening it. For months, he'd been clawing at shadows, blood trails that led nowhere, fingerprints smudged into oblivion, half-truths that vanished before he could grasp them. But this… this felt different.
The file opened. Words and numbers filled the screen, columns of data only someone like him could interpret. He printed the sheets, the machine spitting them out one by one, the smell of hot ink rising into the stale office air.
Joe spread the pages across his desk, leaning in close, pen in hand, annotating margins like a surgeon dissecting tissue.
Blood type. Mitochondrial sequences. Cross-check percentages.
And then, his eyes froze. His pulse thudded in his ears.
The DNA did not match any entry in the national database. Not entirely. But there was overlap. Familiar overlap.
Similar to a sample pulled years prior. One he remembered clearly, because of its history, its name.
Sebastian Thorne.
Joe sat back in his chair. His throat dried as he whispered it aloud. "Sebastian… Christ."
If the DNA was similar, it wasn't Sebastian. It was someone related. Close. A child.
His mind sharpened instantly. The Thorne triplets.
He cursed under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. How had he missed it? The Thorne family had always been at the edge of the storm, powerful, untouchable, always cloaked in tragedy. And now, evidence. Tangible evidence.
Joe reached for his phone, flipping through contacts until he found the name: John. It had been a while since they spoke. Too long. Still, he typed a short message, kept it clean, professional, but direct. I have findings. Big. Meet soon if possible. He hit send before doubt could creep in.
The door creaked open.
Joe snapped his head up to see Sheriff Nolan stepping in, hat tucked under his arm. Nolan's boots thudded against the floor, his face etched with that blend of weariness and suspicion he carried like a badge.
"Well," Nolan drawled, eyeing the mess of papers, "you look like a man staring at the Ark of the Covenant."
Joe smirked faintly. "Feels like it."
"What've you got?"
Joe hesitated. He knew Nolan well enough, always chasing the case the higher-ups fed him, keeping the politics tidy. But this? This wasn't tidy. It was a storm waiting to tear the town apart.
Instead of answering, Joe leaned back. "Why are you here, Sheriff?"
Nolan squinted. "Because I checked the case logs. You're not on the Gryphon file. Thought that was your bread and butter. Seems… odd."
Joe tapped the papers with his pen. "That's because the Gryphon case is smoke. A distraction. The real trail runs somewhere else. And I've found it."
Nolan tilted his head, lips pressing thin. "Go on."
Joe stood, sliding the report across the desk. The sheriff stepped closer, adjusting his glasses as his eyes skimmed the data. Joe's voice carried low but steady.
"One of the murderers at the bungalow scene left something behind. An earring. Tiny, but enough. We ran DNA. And guess what? No match in the system. But very close to Sebastian Thorne's old file. Which means…"
"His kids," Nolan muttered.
Joe nodded. "Exactly. One of the triplets."
The room seemed to shrink under the weight of it. Nolan's jaw worked, as if chewing the thought like gristle.
"You realize what you're saying?" the sheriff said finally. "You're tying the Thorne bloodline to a massacre. Do you know what happens if this goes public?"
Joe's eyes hardened. "I know exactly what happens. The truth comes out. That's why Sutton picked me for this job. To cut through the rot, to make people proud again. I can't let this die in some locked drawer."
Nolan set the paper down, shaking his head. "You're stubborn as hell. I ought to reassign you to Gryphon, keep this clean."
"You won't."
Joe's tone was sharp, final. The sheriff froze, reading the fire in Hawkings' stare. Then, with a slow sigh, Nolan tipped his hat back on.
"Fine. Good luck, Hawkings. You'll need it."
He turned and walked out, his boots heavy against the hall tiles.
But Nolan didn't leave the station. He stepped into a dim corner near the stairwell, pulling out his cell. His thumb hovered a moment before dialing. The call connected, the line crackling faintly.
"It's me," Nolan said quietly. "Hawkings has a lead. On the Thorne family."
The voice on the other end was sharp, incredulous. "How?"
Nolan lowered his voice even more. "DNA. An earring left at the bungalow."
Silence. Heavy, dangerous silence.
Then, a voice laced with venom. "Keep an eye on him. Do not let this spread."
The line went dead.
Nolan pocketed the phone, his chest tight with unease.
Miles away, in a study lit only by a single lamp, Elizabeth Thorne lowered her own phone onto the desk. Her jaw was clenched, her fingers gripping the armrest of her chair until her knuckles blanched. Her reflection glinted faintly in the polished surface of a family portrait nearby, three daughters standing proud beside their late father.
Her lips curved into a thin line. Rage simmered in her eyes.
"An earring," she whispered.
And the night seemed to darken around her.