This morning, the sky is a deep, vivid blue. Birds sing blissfully from the branches of leafy trees, and a gentle breeze drifts through the city streets. As I take in the scenery and the chaotic life of New York around me, I make my way to work, heading back to my comfortable office.
I pass by an elegant pub, and my pace slows at the sight of someone seated outside.
It’s Elizabeth Holt, in the company of a man who appears to be about her age. She’s gesturing as she speaks, but then she notices me and stops.
“Detective Calloway.” She looks at me, surprised.
“Miss Holt.” I offer a friendly smile.
“How have you been?” she asks, returning it.
“Good, good… just a bit tired lately. Paperwork and sleepless nights, day after day… And you?”
“I’d say things are going well, all things considered, but I’m still trying to process…” She lowers her gaze sadly for a moment, making it clear what—and who—she means. A brief silence follows. Then she continues, “Oh, by the way, how is the investigation coming along?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have much on the culprit yet, but there are already two possible suspects I’m planning to question.”
For a moment, I study the figure seated across from her. He’s wearing a wide-brimmed beige hat and a matching elegant suit, with straight raven-black hair. He seems to embody her opposite. She, with her golden waves and sky-blue eyes. Him, with hair like pitch and eyes as brown as chestnuts. Sun and moon. Light and darkness. Order and chaos.
“That’s great, I’m really glad to hear it. Oh, excuse me, how rude of me…” She turns to the mysterious man, extending a hand.
“This is my brother, Jasper. Jasper, Detective Atlas Calloway.”
He greets me with a cordial smile, and we exchange a firm handshake.
“Pleasure to meet you, detective.”
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Holt,” I reply.
“Now that I think about it, your surname—Holt… it sounds familiar.” I raise a finger to my lips, eyes narrowing.
“Perhaps you’ve heard of Jeremy Holt, an influential politician and investor. He happens to be our father,” Jasper replies, beating Elizabeth to it before she can say a word.
“Ah, of course. He gave a speech on tax reform a couple of weeks ago, now I remember. A skilled businessman.”
A brief silence lingers, then I add, curious, “And what do you do, Mr. Holt?”
Before he can answer, in that fleeting instant, something catches my eye. He’s sitting upright, one leg crossed over the other, ankle resting on his knee—revealing something worn beneath the sole of his loafer.
A stamp.
My mind sharpens, but I keep my composure. Caught off guard, I clench my fist without thinking, slipping my hand discreetly behind my jacket. Maybe it’s something else, I tell myself. This case is getting to me, and the lack of sleep isn’t helping.
“Oh, I work for the government. Bureaucracy, mostly. A modest civil servant,” he says, with a tone far too self-satisfied for his claim.
“Ah, so you’re familiar with windowless rooms,” I reply.
At that point, Elizabeth notices a waitress clearing another table and signals for the bill, leaving a small tip. I take the opportunity to shift my attention away from her brother and back to her.
“And you—are you working tonight?”
“Yes, I’ll be at the Moonlit Quill at nine, entertaining the crowd with some good jazz. If you’re not too busy, you should drop by.”
“I’d like that. Why not? Though I’ll have to see how things look with work… you know how it is.”
The waitress sets the bill down on their table.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I really should get going. I risk being late for work otherwise.”
I bid the Holt siblings farewell and continue on my way, still a little shaken by what I saw. Hoping I’m wrong—that it was nothing more than coincidence.
I arrive at the department, where Dave—my colleague and a fellow officer—greets me at the entrance, lips smeared with something brown and crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth.
“Atlas, morning! Want a chocolate cookie?” he says, as exuberant as ever.
“Morning, Dave.” I lift a hand slightly. “Thanks, but I’m good.”
He gives me a doubtful look. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” Then he follows me as I head toward my office. “Hey, how about tonight at the Crimson Dice? Poker and a drink, what do you say?”
“I’ve got a lot of work… and honestly, I’m not sure I’m up for it today. Sorry.”
His enthusiasm fades instantly, like a switch flipped off. “Oh, okay, maybe another time. No problem,” he says, biting into another cookie.
With my mind crowded by thoughts rushing back and forth like a train station at rush hour, I climb the stairs, step into my office, and—as usual—light a cigarette and sip some black coffee. This time, I make sure not to burn my tongue.
I pull the files of the two suspects—Bob Murphy and Seth Morales—out of my desk drawer and go through them again. I could probably recite them by heart at this point.
I pick up the phone and call Captain Roger Cooke to inform him I’ll proceed with the interrogations, then dial Bob and Seth. Both agree to come to the station that afternoon—though Bob sounds somewhat reluctant at first. Curious.
I spin my chair around and face the board. A flash of the pub earlier strikes my mind like lightning.
Maybe it wasn’t a stamp, I think.
But what if it was?
And what if he’s the killer?
No… he seemed like a decent enough guy. Maybe a bit full of himself, but not capable of brutally murdering someone. And yet, I know appearances can be deceiving.
Still, I don’t want to jump to conclusions—not yet. If time proves me wrong, then I’ll reconsider. Until then, I wait.
Hours pass, and Bob Murphy arrives on time. I question him, only to quickly discover he has a solid alibi, backed by witnesses. On the nights of the first murders—spread over three days—he had struck up a conversation with someone at a bar, which escalated into a fight with a coworker. He was arrested and held in another precinct for a couple of days.
On the night of Marlene Peacock’s murder, he was on duty at the train station. The same goes for the night Natalie Jones was attacked. Records and colleagues confirm it.
Seth Morales proves just as unhelpful. He claims that on the nights of the first murders he was teaching evening classes at Whitmore University—confirmed by students, colleagues, and university records. On the nights of the last two, he was giving a conference and attending a public event at the municipal library.
Both suspects. Both with solid alibis.
Now it’s evening, and I have nothing concrete. Nothing but a series of stamps—and a strange pattern tied to the number five.
I sit at my desk, elbows resting on it, rubbing my exhausted face.
Maybe it’s time to take Miss Holt up on her offer and stop by the Moonlit Quill. Assuming it was an offer.
Either way, the idea is tempting. I could use a drink. And some music.
I check my wristwatch and realize I’ve stayed far too long—I was supposed to leave two and a half hours ago, at six. It’s now half past eight.
I tidy up the papers on my desk, grab my jacket, and leave the department, heading for the speakeasy.
Once inside, I notice the atmosphere is completely different from last time. People are chatting animatedly, laughing, dancing wildly, drinking as if there’s no tomorrow. The vibrations of the instruments seep into my bones, stirring in me a desire to let loose—completely at odds with my current mood.
I sit at the bar beside a man who’s clearly had too much to drink and order a simple glass of white wine.
Then the music stops. People return to their tables, and the atmosphere gradually shifts. There’s a pause—a moment of reset.
The bartender serves my drink and resumes polishing glasses absentmindedly.
I’m about to take a sip when my gaze drifts toward the stage.
Elizabeth appears.
She’s wearing a long, fitted green dress that accentuates her figure, along with matching gloves that reach her elbows. Her thick blonde hair is elegantly pinned up, adorned with a jeweled headband, paired with refined dangling earrings.
She walks slowly to the microphone at center stage.
Then she notices me at the back of the room, and our eyes meet for a brief moment.
She offers a subtle smile, lowers her gaze, takes the microphone—
and little by little, her voice fills the room with a soft, pure melody, accompanied by piano and double bass, warming the atmosphere and soothing every soul present.
Myself included.
I sip my wine and listen to her voice, savoring the moment.
ns216.73.217.115da2
and then Add to home screen.