St. Jude's Hospital smelled of lemon floor wax and dying flowers.
Detective Erin Thorne hated hospitals. They were just waiting rooms for the morgue. She flashed her badge at the nurse's station, ignoring the "Visiting Hours Over" sign.
"Room 304," the nurse said without looking up from her monitor. "He's awake, but he's high as a kite on morphine. Don't expect poetry."
Erin walked down the corridor, her boots squeaking on the linoleum. She adjusted her coat, checking for the recorder in her pocket.
Room 304 was dim. The only light came from the monitoring equipment casting a rhythmic red glow on the bedsheets.
The man in the bed—Leo "Rat" Moretti—looked small. His right arm was encased in plaster up to the shoulder. His jaw was wired shut, swollen to the size of a grapefruit. His face was a map of purple bruising.
He didn't look like a tough street thug anymore. He looked like roadkill.
Erin pulled a plastic chair next to the bed. The scrape of the legs made Rat's eyes fly open.
They were wide, frantic. He scrambled backward, hitting the headboard, the heart monitor beeping faster. Beep-beep-beep.
"Easy," Erin said, holding up her hands. "I'm not him."
Rat stared at her, chest heaving. He recognized the badge on her belt. The panic didn't leave his eyes, but he stopped trying to climb the wall.
"I need to know what happened in that alley, Leo," Erin said softly. She didn't use her 'bad cop' voice. This guy was already broken.
Leo made a gurgling noise. He pointed to his jaw.
"I know. Broken," Erin said. she pulled a notepad and a sharpie from her pocket. "Write."
She tossed the pad onto his chest.
Leo picked up the marker with his good hand—his left. His hand was shaking so bad the pen tapped a staccato rhythm against the paper.
He wrote one word.
MONSTER.
Erin sighed. "I need a description, Leo. Height. Build. Ethnicity. Clothing."
Leo shook his head violently. He squeezed his eyes shut. Tears leaked out. He started writing again, pressing down so hard the marker tip squeaked.
NOT HUMAN.
"Everybody is human, Leo," Erin said, leaning forward. "Was he big? Did he have a weapon?"
Leo opened his eyes. He looked at Erin, then grabbed her wrist. His grip was weak, clammy. He pulled her closer, his eyes desperate.
He wrote again. Fast. Messy.
HE WAS CRYING.
Erin frowned. "The attacker was crying?"
Leo nodded. Then he slashed a line under it.
THEN HE STOPPED.
He started writing frantically now, filling the page with jagged, uneven block letters.
HE WAS SCARED. BEGGING US. THEN HE BLINKED. LIGHTS WENT OUT. DIFFERENT GUY. EYES CHANGED. SMILED WHEN HE BROKE MY ARM. SMILED.
Erin stared at the notepad.
He was crying. Then he stopped.
It matched the profile she couldn't quite put together. The hesitation, then the brutal efficiency.
"Did you see his face?" Erin asked.
Leo hesitated. He dropped the marker. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, trembling. He looked like a child checking the closet for the boogeyman.
"Leo," Erin pressed. "Did you see him?"
Leo shook his head slowly. He wouldn't look at the notepad again.
Erin stood up. She wasn't going to get anything else tonight. The drugs were pulling him back under.
"Rest up, Leo," she said. "I'll be back when the wires come off."
She walked out of the room, pocketing the notepad.
HE WAS CRYING.
She stopped at the vending machine in the hallway. She stared at her own reflection in the glass.
"Two people," she whispered to herself. "Or an actor."
She thought of Arvin. The way he flinched when someone dropped a stapler. The way he apologized to the table when he bumped it.
Arvin would cry, she thought. If someone pulled a knife on Arvin, he'd beg.
A cold feeling settled in her gut. It wasn't suspicion yet. It was just a heavy, uncomfortable question mark.
12:30 PM
"You're not eating."
Arvin looked up from his plastic container of cold pasta. Nova was sitting across from him on the bench in the small park behind their office building. It was the only place to escape the noise of the city, though the view was mostly brick walls and pigeons.
"I'm not hungry," Arvin said, pushing a fusilli noodle around with a fork.
"You're pale," Nova noted. She took a bite of her apple. "And you're checking your phone every thirty seconds."
"Am I?" Arvin put his phone in his pocket.
"Is it the police?" Nova asked. Her voice was low, serious. "About Brad?"
"Everyone is freaked out about Brad," Arvin deflected.
"I'm not talking about everyone. I'm talking about you." Nova leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Arvin, did you see something? In the lot?"
Arvin looked at her. The sun caught the stray hairs escaping her bun. She looked solid. Real.
He wanted to tell her. God, he wanted to tell someone. The pressure in his head was building, a dam holding back a black ocean. He wanted to say: I didn't see it. I did it. And I didn't mean to.
Tell her, Dante whispered mockingly. See how fast she runs.
"I didn't see anything," Arvin lied. "I just... I hate violence. It makes me sick."
Nova's expression softened. She reached out and touched his forearm.
"It's okay to be scared, Arvin. It doesn't make you weak."
"It does," Arvin muttered bitterly. "In this city? Fear is blood in the water."
"No," Nova shook her head. "My brother... he was scared. He got in with some bad people. He thought he had to be tough to survive. He thought asking for help was for cowards."
She looked away, staring at a pigeon pecking at a crust of bread.
"He tried to handle it himself," she said, her voice tight. "He died three years ago. Stabbed in a bar fight over fifty bucks."
Arvin froze. The pasta turned to stone in his stomach.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"I don't like bullies, Arvin," Nova said, turning back to him. Her eyes were fierce, wet. "And I don't like watching good people get chewed up because they think they have to be alone."
She squeezed his arm.
"You aren't alone. Okay? Whatever is going on... I've got your back."
Arvin looked at her hand on his arm. It felt warm. It felt like an anchor.
But anchors didn't just hold ships steady. They dragged them down.
She's going to get hurt, Arvin thought. If she stays close to me, she dies.
Then make her leave, Dante suggested. Be cruel. Break her heart. Save her life.
Arvin opened his mouth to say something mean. To push her away. To tell her to mind her own business.
But he couldn't do it. He was too selfish. He needed the warmth.
"Okay," Arvin whispered. "Thanks, Nova."
She smiled, wiping her eye quickly. "Eat your pasta. Henderson is on a warpath today."
Arvin ate. The food still tasted like ash, but he forced it down.
Deep in the back of his mind, a sound echoed.
Scritch. Scritch.
Arvin froze. His fork hovered halfway to his mouth. That was the sound of the iron door. That was the sound of the Other One trying to wake up.
But then the rhythm changed. It wasn't the heavy, wet scratching of claws on metal. It was rhythmic. Precise. Metallic.
Arvin let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
It wasn't the Thing behind the door. Not yet.
It was Dante, sharpening a knife. Waiting for nightfall.