Detective Jonah Voss’s tires screamed against wet asphalt as he swerved into Evelyn Cross’s street. Rain hammered the windshield, wipers dragging smears across the glass. His phone buzzed on the passenger seat, Evelyn’s unanswered call flashing.
By the time he skidded to the curb, he was out of the car before the engine died. The building loomed, brick walls streaked black with years of soot. One light glowed faintly from Evelyn’s apartment window—her office, if he remembered correctly.
He bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. His gun was already in his hand.
The hallway smelled of damp carpet and mildew. At her door, he froze. The black feather was still there, rainwater bleeding into the fibers of the welcome mat.
Jonah crouched, bagged the feather quickly, then knocked hard.
“Cross? Open up. It’s me.”
The lock clicked. Evelyn stood there, pistol in hand, face pale but controlled.
“You got my message,” she said flatly.
“You could’ve called the station,” Jonah snapped. “Instead I get a picture of your goddamn window sent from a ghost number.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You got one too?”
Jonah’s stomach sank. “Show me.”
She handed him her phone. The same photo. Same caption. The trial begins soon.
Jonah exhaled. “He’s not just taunting us. He’s keeping us under watch.”
---
They moved inside. Evelyn’s apartment was minimalist: bookshelves stacked with law journals, a sofa too stiff to be comfortable, a desk drowning in files. The place felt like a war room more than a home.
Jonah set the feather bagged on her desk. “He left this at your door. Fresh. Which means he was here tonight.”
Evelyn sat, rubbing her temples. “We have Hale in custody. So either he has an accomplice, or—”
“Don’t say it,” Jonah cut in. “Not yet.”
“You mean don’t say what you already believe.”
Jonah glared at her. “What I believe doesn’t matter. What matters is someone out there knew where you live, knew what window was yours, and left a calling card without being seen. That’s not mysticism—that’s surveillance.”
“Surveillance doesn’t carve names in stone,” Evelyn shot back.
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the ticking of the wall clock and the drumming storm.
---
Jonah finally broke it. “Pack a bag. You’re not staying here tonight.”
Her laugh was humorless. “You think I’m running? That’s exactly what he wants.”
“This isn’t pride, Cross. It’s safety.”
Evelyn leaned forward, voice low. “Detective, I don’t run. I bury. If Hale—or whoever is working with him—thinks they can rattle me, they’re going to learn what happens when you corner a prosecutor. I’ll build this case so airtight, not even God will find a loophole.”
Jonah shook his head. “God might not be the one you’re up against.”
The words hung heavier than the rain.
---
At 2 a.m., Evelyn gave up on sleep. She sat at her desk, lamp burning, reviewing Hale’s parish transcripts again. Jonah had insisted on sleeping in the armchair near her door, pistol in his lap. His snores were soft but jagged, like a man who never slept deeply.
Her eyes lingered on a line from Hale’s journal, confiscated years ago by church officials but buried in archives:
“The Devil is not the fire. He is the silence after. He is the alibi you cannot disprove.”
The words chilled her. They weren’t rantings of madness—they were structured, deliberate, almost like legal doctrine twisted into scripture. Hale had always been preparing for this courtroom defense.
A soft knock broke her thoughts.
She glanced at Jonah—still asleep. She rose quietly, crossed to the door. The knock came again. Gentle. Rhythmic.
Hand hovering over the lock, she called, “Who is it?”
Silence.
Her pulse spiked. She looked through the peephole—nothing but an empty hall.
Another knock, this time from behind her.
She spun. The sound had come from the window.
Rain streaked the glass, but through it she thought she saw a shadow—tall, narrow, standing across the street. Watching.
“Jonah,” she hissed.
He was up instantly, gun drawn. “What?”
She pointed at the window. “There.”
By the time he reached it, the shadow was gone.
But on the inside sill, pressed against the condensation, was a fingerprint. Black, like soot.
---
By morning, Jonah had convinced Evelyn to leave the apartment under police watch. She didn’t argue this time. The fingerprint on the glass had unsettled her more than she’d admit.
At precinct headquarters, they threw the feather and the print into evidence. Forensics promised results in forty-eight hours. Jonah wasn’t optimistic.
Back in the interrogation room, Hale was waiting. As they entered, he looked up with that cracked smile.
“Did you sleep well, Counselor?” he asked Evelyn.
Her throat tightened. “You can’t know that.”
“Oh, but he does,” Hale whispered. “He told me what he left. A feather for the bride. A touch for the groom. The ledger is nearly full.”
Evelyn leaned over the table, her control slipping. “Why me? Why carve my name? Why my door, my window?”
Hale’s eyes glittered with fanatic light. “Because the trial cannot begin without a judge. And you, Evelyn Cross—you’ve already been chosen.”
The lights flickered. The recorder whined. And Jonah felt, for the first time, like the trial wasn’t about Hale at all.
It was about them.
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