The detective woke up with a start, disoriented and groggy. His neck ached from the awkward position he had been sleeping in, and as he blinked away the remnants of sleep, he realized he was still on the couch in his living room. The last thing he remembered was sitting down to go through the journal again, but exhaustion must have overtaken him. The night before was a blur of stormy skies and restless thoughts, and now, the gray light of early morning filtered through the thin curtains, casting long shadows across the room.
He rubbed his eyes and sat up, trying to shake off the heavy fog in his mind. The journal was still lying open on the coffee table in front of him, the pages slightly crumpled from where he had fallen asleep. A cigarette had burned itself out in the ashtray beside it, leaving a trail of ash on the table.
"Damn it," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his unruly hair. He had no idea how long he'd been out, but his body felt stiff and his thoughts were sluggish. He needed to wake up, to clear his head.
Stumbling into the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, hoping to jolt himself into some semblance of alertness. As the water dripped down his face, he stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. Dark circles hung under his eyes, a testament to the sleepless nights that had become all too frequent since he started digging into Marcus Dew's case. His face was gaunt, the stubble on his jawline more pronounced than usual, and there was a hollow look in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
"Get it together," he told himself, gripping the edges of the sink until his knuckles turned white. "You're too close to fall apart now."
He finished freshening up and walked back into the living room, automatically reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the table. Lighting one up, he took a deep drag, the familiar burn in his throat grounding him in the moment. The acrid smoke filled the air as he exhaled, the tension in his chest easing just slightly.
His phone buzzed on the table, catching his attention. He picked it up and unlocked the screen, his eyes scanning through the messages. Most were from his colleagues at the precinct, and the content was a mix of subtle jabs and feigned concern.
*"Still chasing ghosts, huh?"* read one message, followed by a series of laughing emojis.
*"You okay? Haven't seen you around lately,"* said another, but the detective could almost hear the smug undertone behind the words.
*"Where the hell are you? You've got cases piling up!"* This one was from his superior, the impatience evident even in text form.
He sighed, feeling a familiar wave of frustration and resentment wash over him. They didn't understand what he was dealing with, couldn't see the truth that was staring him right in the face. Marcus Dew's death wasn't just another cold case; it was something darker, something that had claws and teeth and refused to let go.
But he didn't bother replying to any of the messages. Let them think what they wanted. He was in too deep now to back out, and if they couldn't see the importance of what he was doing, that was their problem, not his.
He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and headed to his bedroom to change. His usual suit and tie felt too constricting today, so he opted for a more casual outfit—jeans and a plain black t-shirt. He needed to blend in, not stand out, and besides, the weight of the case was already pressing down on him like a vise. The last thing he needed was a stiff collar choking him.
Once dressed, he grabbed his wallet and keys, slipping them into his pockets before heading out the door. The streets were quieter than usual, the early hour keeping most people indoors, but the detective had only one destination in mind: the café across the street.
The bell above the door jingled softly as he entered the small, cozy establishment. The smell of fresh coffee and warm pastries greeted him, a stark contrast to the damp, musty scent that had clung to the air in his apartment. He walked up to the counter and ordered his usual—a black coffee and a plain bagel, toasted. The barista handed him the cup with a friendly smile, but the detective barely registered it, his mind already drifting back to the case.
He found a corner table, away from the few other patrons who were scattered throughout the café, and sat down to eat. The coffee was hot and bitter, just the way he liked it, and he sipped it slowly as he nibbled on the bagel. His eyes kept darting to the door, half-expecting to see someone from the precinct walk in and drag him back to reality, but the door remained closed.
The brief reprieve in the café gave him some much-needed time to think, to collect his thoughts and figure out his next move. The journal had revealed a lot, but there were still so many questions unanswered. Marcus's fear, the shadows that had haunted him, the strange events leading up to his death—it was all connected somehow, but the pieces weren't fitting together just yet.
Once he finished his breakfast, he tossed the paper cup and bagel wrapper into the trash and left the café. The walk back to his apartment was quick, the morning air cool and crisp against his skin. He felt more awake now, more focused, and he knew he needed to dive back into the case while the clarity lasted.
Back in his apartment, he sat down at the cluttered desk by the window, the sunlight filtering through the blinds in thin slats. The journal lay open in front of him, and beside it, a haphazard pile of notes and photographs he had collected over the past few days. He began to sift through them, trying to piece together the timeline of events, to understand what had happened in Marcus Dew's final days.
He was so engrossed in his work that he didn't notice the subtle change in the room at first. It started with a faint crackling noise, like the static of a radio struggling to find a signal. The detective's pen froze mid-sentence as the sound grew louder, more insistent. He looked up, his eyes narrowing in confusion, and that's when he saw it—the old voice recorder on the edge of the desk, the one he had found in Marcus Dew's house. It was turning on by itself, the small red light blinking to life.
The detective's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't touched the recorder since bringing it back, hadn't even tried to listen to it. But now, as he watched, the tape inside began to spin, the static giving way to something much more terrifying—a voice.
"Please… please, I'm begging you… don't do this."
The detective's blood ran cold. The voice was unmistakably Marcus Dew's, trembling with fear, pleading for his life. The desperation in his words was like a knife to the gut, raw and painful.
"I didn't do anything… I don't know anything! Just let me go, please!"
The recording crackled, the sound distorting, but the detective could still hear the underlying terror in Marcus's voice. He could hear movement in the background—shuffling footsteps, the scrape of something heavy being dragged across the floor. And then, a sickening thud.
"No! No, please! I—"
The voice cut off abruptly, the tape screeching as it reached the end. The room plunged into silence, the kind of silence that felt oppressive, suffocating. The detective stared at the recorder, his hands trembling, his mind racing. What he had just heard wasn't a figment of his imagination. It was real. It was proof of the horror Marcus Dew had faced in his final moments.
But as he reached out to replay the tape, to listen again and try to glean more information, the recorder suddenly stopped working. The red light flickered and died, the tape refusing to budge no matter how many times he pressed the play button.
"Damn it!" he cursed under his breath, frustration bubbling up inside him. The recorder had given him a glimpse into the past, a glimpse of the truth, but now it was withholding the rest. He couldn't shake the feeling that the answers were right there, just out of reach, taunting him.
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he tried to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside him. The recording had confirmed what he had suspected all along—Marcus Dew's death hadn't been an accident or a simple murder. It was something far more sinister, something that involved forces he couldn't yet comprehend.
And now, those same forces were watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake.
The detective knew he couldn't stop now, couldn't let fear or doubt hold him back. He had to keep pushing, keep digging, no matter where it led him. He had to find out who—or what—had killed Marcus Dew, and why. Because if he didn't, he had a feeling he would be the next one to fall into the shadows.