The morning sky hung heavy with rain when I reached the station. The countryside always looked peaceful after a storm, but peace has a way of lying, it hides the rot underneath. I parked beside the patrol cars and sat there for a moment, watching the droplets run down the windshield.Inside, the station smelled of old wood and stale coffee. The kind of scent that clings to your clothes. A few officers nodded as I walked in, their voices low, eyes full of sympathy. Everyone already knew who the victim was. Small towns carry news faster than light.Detective Lee was waiting in the hallway, a file tucked under her arm. “He’s here,” she said quietly. “Marcus Hale. We put him in Interview Room Two.”I nodded but didn’t move.“You sure you’re up for this?” she asked, searching my face.“I’m fine,” I said, forcing a small smile. “I’ve handled worse.”She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press. Lee was good like that, she let silence do the asking.Marcus was seated at the metal table, h

The interrogation room was small and bare, lit by a single fluorescent light that buzzed faintly above the table. The rain had started again, whispering against the windows. I preferred it that way, rain softened the edges of sound, made confessions feel inevitable.Marcus sat across from me, shoulders slumped, fingers laced together. His clothes were rumpled, eyes red from lack of sleep. He looked less like a killer and more like a man already broken by the weight of his own thoughts.Lee stood near the door, quiet, pen ready. She didn’t speak, but I could feel her eyes on both of us, watching, judging.I opened the file in front of me, spreading the photographs across the table. Lydia’s body. The rug. The blood. The torn fabric. I let the images rest between us like an open wound.“Marcus,” I began, my tone measured. “We’ve gone over this before, but I need you to walk me through the night of the murder again. Every detail.”He rubbed his forehead. “I already told you, I left for Gl

The days that followed blurred into one another. The town moved on, but the echoes hadn’t faded. Every café, every corner, every conversation carried Marcus Hale’s name like a whisper.At the station, the energy changed. People smiled when they saw me, pats on the back, quiet congratulations. They called it closure. I called it fragile.Lee was different, though. She didn’t smile much anymore.She came into my office late one afternoon, a file tucked under her arm. The blinds were half-drawn, strips of gray light cutting across the desk.“I’ve been going through the case notes again,” she said.I leaned back in my chair. “Still can’t sleep?”Her lips twitched. “Something like that.”She opened the folder and slid a page toward me, a forensics report. “Look here,” she said, tapping a line with her finger. “The fingerprint match on the window frame, one of them was partial. It’s only a 60% probability match for Marcus.”“That’s still within range,” I said.“It is. But the partial was li

The courthouse in Miller’s Creek was older than the town itself, stone walls, heavy doors, and the faint smell of damp wood that never left no matter the season.When Marcus Hale walked in that morning, the air shifted. He looked thinner, quieter, like someone who’d aged a lifetime behind bars. He didn’t meet my eyes, but I felt the weight of his silence.His lawyer, a sharp-eyed man from the city, placed a thick folder on the judge’s desk. “Your honor,” he began, “new forensic analysis raises serious doubts about the original investigation.”Lee sat beside me, her pen motionless above her notes.The lawyer continued. “The fabric evidence, the so-called ‘key link’ between Mr. Hale and the victim, has been proven contaminated. Chain of custody errors, improper labeling, and most importantly, missing timestamps on the original data logs.”The judge frowned. “Are you implying the evidence was tampered with?”“I’m saying,” the lawyer replied, “that it was handled carelessly. And my client

They started calling it “The Crowe Case” on the news the kind of irony that only small towns and gossip could twist into legend.By the time the reporters arrived at the station, I was already gone.No one saw me leave. No one stopped me.The last thing they had of me on record was a keycard swipe at 8:47 p.m., the night Lee turned in her report to Internal Affairs.She had done what she promised: told the truth.I sat in my car at the edge of Miller’s Creek, engine off, watching the reflection of the courthouse lights shimmer across the black water.The night was colder than usual, the kind that seeped into the bones and refused to leave. A storm was coming, the clouds low and bruised, pressing down on the earth.Inside the glove compartment sat the letter. My confession. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just another version of the truth, written to sound like remorse.I’d written it three times and torn it up twice.What do you even say when the person you’ve been chasing your whole