Ashes Of Her Name

Shadows That Linger

The morning light filtered through the cracked windows of the Crestfall police department. Rain from the previous night still clung to the sidewalks, puddles reflecting a pale, weary sky. Clara sat in a cold, metal chair in the briefing room, the taste of stale coffee lingering on her tongue. The bruises on her wrist ached, and though Creed was dead, his presence seemed to cling to the air like smoke.

Damien stood by the window, watching the street with an expression Clara couldn’t read. Sophie was slumped on a nearby bench, exhaustion written across her face, and Detective Henry spoke quietly with two federal agents, their faces grim.

Clara ran her fingers over the manila envelope in her lap. Inside were photographs, ledgers, and a letter from her mother, recovered during the raid. She hadn’t opened it yet. She wasn’t ready. The weight of it was heavier than any briefcase of cash.

“Any word on the others?” Damien finally asked, breaking the silence.

Henry sighed. “We’ve arrested most of the major players. But some of Creed’s men slipped through the cracks. Marlowe’s dead and a few of his lieutenants have turned on each other. It’s messy. Dangerous.”

Clara swallowed. “And the warehouse?”

“Sealed. The Feds have it now. Everything’s been documented. It’ll hold in court.” Henry’s gaze softened. “You did good, Clara. Your mother would’ve wanted this.”

A sharp ache pulsed behind Clara’s eyes. She forced herself to nod.

“I need some air,” she murmured, standing. Sophie stirred but didn’t follow.

Outside, the street smelled of wet asphalt and old cigarette smoke. Cars hissed past, Crestfall’s citizens trying to forget what had bled out into their streets the night before.

Clara leaned against the building, tilting her head toward the pale sky. The sun was a hazy smear, fighting to pierce through clouds.

“Hey.”

She turned. Damien stood a few feet away, hands stuffed into his coat pockets.

“I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m… surviving.” Clara gave a weak laugh. “Guess that’s something.”

Damien stepped closer. His voice dropped, gentle. “I know it feels unfinished. Like we’re still in it. Truth is, we are. Creed might be gone, but what he built… it doesn’t vanish overnight.”

“I know.” She met his gaze. “But I need it to end. I need something to feel… safe again.”

“You will.”

They stood in silence, the city moving around them. Clara finally asked, “Why did you stay in Crestfall? After everything with Creed? You could’ve left.”

He shrugged. “Same reason you came back. Some things haunt you until you face them.”

Clara sighed. “I keep thinking about my mom. About the things I never knew. About how blind I was.”

“She kept you safe. In her own way.”

“I guess.” Clara opened the envelope. The letter trembled in her hands. The handwriting was familiar — neat and precise, like the notes her mother used to leave in her lunchbox.

My dearest Clara,

If you’re reading this, it means you’ve found the truth, or enough of it to understand why I did what I did. I’m sorry for the pain. For the secrets. I thought I could shield you from this darkness, but I was wrong.

Know this — I loved you more than my own life. Everything I did was to protect you. I made mistakes. Trusted the wrong people. But you were my light, Clara. Never let them dim it.

Forgive me.

Mom.

Clara’s vision blurred. Damien gently took the letter, setting it back in the envelope.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, Clara.”

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “You always have a choice.”

She looked at him, really looked — the tired lines, the old scar on his jaw, the guarded tenderness in his eyes. There was something broken in him too, something that matched her own fractures.

Before she could speak, Sophie appeared in the doorway.

“Clara. You need to see this.”

An alarm flickered in her chest. “What is it?”

Sophie’s face was pale. “One of Creed’s men — he’s alive. And he’s talking.”

Back inside, Henry and the agents gathered around a monitor. Grainy footage played — a battered, bloodied man seated in an interrogation room.

“That’s Calloway,” Henry said. “He was one of Creed’s inner circle. Disappeared after the warehouse. They picked him up two hours ago.”

The video played sound. Calloway’s voice was weak but steady.

“You think Creed was the top? You think this stops with him? There’s more. Bigger. He was answering to someone. Someone outside Crestfall.”

Clara felt the room tilt.

“What is he talking about?” Sophie whispered.

Calloway continued. “Name’s Nathaniel Voss. Runs operations out of New Haven. Creed was just the local muscle.”

Henry’s face darkened. “Voss. Damn it. He’s been on the radar for years, but no one’s pinned him down.”

Clara’s stomach twisted. “So it’s not over.”

“No,” Damien said grimly. “Not by a long shot.”

The agents were already making calls. The footage looped. Calloway slumped, muttering, “You’re chasing ghosts.”

Clara stepped back, pulse-pounding.

“Do you want out?” Damien asked quietly.

She shook her head. “I can’t. Not now.”

Sophie reached for her hand. “Then we stick together. Again.”

Clara nodded. A strange calm settled over her. The storm hadn’t passed. It had only shifted.

Outside, the clouds began to break, streaks of pale blue cutting through the gray.

Clara squeezed Sophie’s hand. “Let’s finish what we started.”

The ashes of her name were still smoldering. But in the smoke, she saw a new path — dangerous, uncertain, but hers.

The hunt wasn’t over, Not yet.