Echoes in the Dark

Two Years Ago

The rain made everything sound muffled—sirens, footsteps, even the sharp crack of gunfire in the alley ahead.

Detective Adrian Cross ran anyway, his breath burning, his fingers clenched tight around his service weapon. The slick pavement reflected the strobing blue-and-reds of the squad cars they’d left behind. His partner, Daniel Holt, was a few paces ahead, calling over his shoulder.

“Almost got him!”

Adrian pushed harder, ignoring the knot in his chest. They’d been chasing the suspect for ten minutes and that was long enough to feel the weight of the city pressing in, long enough for the neighborhood to go from silent to watching. Faces peeked from cracked windows, shadows flitted between doorways.

Then the alley forked. Holt went left. Adrian hesitated—just a fraction of a second—before following.

It was enough.

A shot rang out.

Then another.

Adrian rounded the corner to see Holt crumpled on the ground, blood blooming through his shirt. The suspect was already gone, swallowed by the rain-slick labyrinth of backstreets.

“Holt! Nooo!! Stay with me—” Adrian dropped to his knees, pressing both hands over the wound, but it was useless. Holt’s eyes were glassy, fixed on something Adrian couldn’t see.

“They knew…” Holt’s voice was barely a whisper. “It was supposed to be clean… you can’t trust—”

His breath hitched. The words died in his throat.

Adrian stayed there long after the paramedics took the body, the rain soaking through his coat, the sirens fading to nothing. His captain’s voice echoed in his ear—wrong place, wrong time, just another bad call. But Adrian knew better. Holt’s death wasn’t random.

The last thing he saw before the alley emptied was a figure at the far end, standing under a flickering streetlight. A man in a tailored suit, watching. Smiling.

Adrian burned that smile into his memory. One day, he’d find him.

CHAPTER 1 — The Body in Blackwater

The first call came in just after midnight.

Adrian Cross was still at his desk, the glow of the computer screen casting deep lines across his face, when dispatch’s voice crackled through the precinct intercom.

“Unit Twelve, possible homicide, Blackwater Industrial District. Caller reports a body.”

Blackwater. Great. The kind of place where crime clung to the air like mold, where the streetlights had been dead for years and the cops who patrolled it never lingered.

Adrian stood, shrugging into his coat. The rest of the night shift kept their heads down, pretending not to notice. He was used to it. His reputation—dogged, sharp, unwilling to play politics—didn’t exactly make him popular.

Outside, the city’s December wind hit him like a slap. He climbed into his unmarked sedan, the engine coughing before settling into a low growl. As he drove, the streets grew emptier, buildings more skeletal. Somewhere in the distance, freight trains moaned through the dark.

By the time he reached the cordoned-off warehouse, the place was swarming with uniforms and CSU techs. Floodlights bathed the cracked asphalt in a harsh white glow.

“Detective Cross?”

The voice was cool, even. He turned to see a woman approaching—dark hair pulled into a no-nonsense knot, coat buttoned to the throat, ID badge clipped to her lapel. She carried a case in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

“Mara Vey,” she introduced herself without offering a handshake. “Forensic analyst. I was told you’re lead on this.”

Adrian gave her a once-over. She looked too put-together for Blackwater at one in the morning, and her eyes—sharp, assessing—lingered on him like she was already cataloging his flaws.

“I didn’t request an analyst,” he said flatly.

“Lucky for you, I’m not here to take requests,” she replied, brushing past him toward the crime scene.

He followed, biting back a retort. The interior of the warehouse smelled of rust and rot, the air heavy with the cold damp of winter. The body lay near the far wall, half-hidden under a collapsed section of scaffolding. Male, mid-forties, suit jacket torn, tie askew. His eyes stared sightlessly at the rafters.

“What do we know?” Adrian asked one of the uniforms.

“Found by a security guard doing rounds. No ID on him. Wallet’s gone. No witnesses.”

Mara was already kneeling beside the corpse, snapping on gloves. “Single gunshot to the chest. Powder burns suggest close range. But…” She tilted the man’s head, frowning. “There’s bruising along the jawline. Someone hit him before they pulled the trigger.”

Adrian crouched beside her. “Robbery gone wrong?”

She glanced up at him, expression unreadable. “If it was, they didn’t take the watch.” She pointed to the gold timepiece still on the victim’s wrist. Expensive. Untouched.

Adrian scanned the dim corners of the warehouse. Too quiet. Too clean. Someone had chosen this place. “This wasn’t random.”

Mara stood, stripping off her gloves. “Then we’re looking at something deliberate. Which means this—” she gestured to the body “—is a message.”

Before Adrian could respond, a CSU tech hurried over, holding a clear evidence bag. Inside was a small envelope, the paper stiff and pristine despite the grime of the warehouse.

“Found it under the body,” the tech said.

Adrian took it. No return address, no markings. Inside was a single playing card—the king of spades—its surface marred by a thin streak of dried blood.

Mara’s gaze flicked to the card, then back to him. “You’ve seen this before.”

Adrian said nothing. But his jaw tightened, and in his mind, he was back in the rain two years ago, Holt’s blood on his hands, that smiling man under the streetlight.

The king of spades.

Same as before.