The Mark They Left

By: Christopher Tate

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Scene 1

Scene 2

Scene 3

Scene 4

Scene 5

Scene 6

Scene 7

Scene 8

Scene 9

Scene 10

Scene 11

Scene 12

Scene 13

Author’s Note

Scene 1

The call came in just after 2 A.M. Detective Myra Sullivan stepped out of her unmarked Crown Vic. The alley behind George’s Liquor Store reeked of piss, blood, and whatever fast food someone had vomited near the dumpster.

She was in her late forties, Black, with sharp eyes and short, cropped curls. A tailored blazer framed her clean lines—professional but never stiff—and the no-nonsense stride of someone who’d walked through more scenes like this than she cared to count.

Maverick hopped down beside her, his paws landing with a soft thud on damp asphalt still clinging to the day’s heat.

Myra rolled her neck until it cracked—left, then right. She lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and ducked under the tape. Her boots crunched over broken glass.

Maverick followed, stepping carefully between the shards. The red and blue pulse of the patrol car lights painted slow spirals over the brick walls. One of them was tagged with fresh graffiti—bright green slashes that didn’t belong. Myra clocked it, filed it away, and kept moving.

The uniform on scene—Nico Rodriguez, fresh-faced and too eager—gave her a nod. He had close-cropped black hair and a mustache that looked like it belonged to someone older. Still had the posture of a kid trying to prove himself in grown-up shoes.

“Tell me what I’m looking’ at,” she said.

Rodriguez led her toward the body.

“Male. African American. Teenager. Maybe seventeen, eighteen. Cuts all over and shot execution-style—front of the head.”

They stopped a few feet away. The body was laid out crooked, dumped like garbage. Shirt ripped open, pants barely clinging. Deep slashes marked his chest and arms—messy, cruel, and purposeful. Someone had taken their time.

“Jesus,” Rodriguez muttered. “It’s like they carved him up.”

Myra crouched, squinting in the weak beam of her flashlight. Bruised ribs. Busted lip. Ligature marks at the wrists. Tortured. But it wasn’t the wounds that made her stomach twist—it was what came next.

Etched into the boy’s left shoulder, shallow but deliberate, was a symbol: a half-circle with three vertical lines piercing through it. Not a gang tag. Not random. Something ritualistic. Or meant to feel that way.

Rodriguez hovered behind her.

“You seen it before?”

Myra took a long pull from her cigarette and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the thick, humid air like a ghost escaping her throat.

“Once,” she said. “Seven years ago.”

Her voice dropped. “Case got buried.”

She stood up, a chill settling in her bones.

“And whoever carved that... they want us to know they’re back.”

Rodriguez shifted on his feet.

“You think it’s gang-on-gang?”

Myra flicked the cigarette away. The ember skidded across the damp pavement and died with a hiss.

“I’m not sure yet.”

She crouched again, gaze locked on the symbol.

“Who called it in?”

“Anonymous tip. Payphone.”

Myra raised an eyebrow.

“Who the hell still uses payphones?”

Rodriguez shrugged.

“That’s what I said.”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed on the carving. She’d grown up five blocks from this alley. Used to cut through here on her way to school, backpack zipped tight, pocketknife gripped just in case. This place had always been mean. But lately, it felt... organized. Like the chaos had a schedule.

“Time of death?”

“Hard to say. No wallet. No phone. No ID.”

Of course not. Myra looked back at the body and closed her eyes.

And then it started.

The world around her dropped into silence. The alley faded. Replaced by a clearer, crueler version.

He was alive. Barely. Wrists bound. Gasping through broken teeth. Two figures—one in front, one behind. The front one spoke low, calm. The back one held a crowbar. Then pain. Screams. Silence.

The front figure knelt. Whispered something in the boy’s ear. Then pop. A single shot. Between the eyes. The body crumpled. The symbol was the last thing they carved. Deliberate. Like a signature.

Myra blinked. The vision dissolved. The street noise returned.

She rose slowly, brushing grit off her knees.

“He wasn’t killed here. They dumped him. Blood was cleaned somewhere else.”

Her voice was flat now.

“That symbol?” She pointed. “It’s a calling card. Whoever did this wanted him found.”

Rodriguez swallowed hard.

“So what do we do?”

Myra glanced down at Maverick, who sat quiet, ears tilted back. The air buzzed like it was listening.

“We dig,” she said. “And we don’t stop until we figure out who’s sending the message.”

She patted Maverick’s head, fingers brushing the old scar under his collar.

“Right, Mav?”

He gave a small wag in response, tongue out like he understood every word.

“Have CSU flag the symbol. Bag his hands. He fought back.”

Rodriguez hesitated.

“You want me to put out feelers with Vice?”

“No,” Myra said too fast. Then, softer: “Not yet.”

Rodriguez raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. Blue gloves rustled behind her as CSU finally arrived—two techs hauling gear cases and snapping latex onto their wrists. One of them, a tired-looking woman with a streak of purple in her ponytail, nodded at her.

“Get plenty of close-ups of the cuts and that carving,” Myra said. “Send everything to my desk by morning. Especially the shoulder.”

“You got it, detective,” the woman replied, already setting up the camera rig.

Myra turned to Rodriguez, who was still hovering like a rookie afraid to mess something up.

“In the morning,” she said, “I want you to check the traffic cams two blocks in every direction. Anything with no plates or dark tint. Hit up the corner stores too—liquor shop, pawn place, the little bodega by Fifteenth. Ask if anyone saw a car dump a body or heard shouting.”

Rodriguez scribbled notes into his pad.

“You think anyone’s gonna talk?”

“They might,” Myra said. “Fear makes people quiet. But guilt? That makes them whisper.”

Rodriguez nodded, not quite getting it but knowing better than to argue.

Myra gave the scene one last look—at the jagged symbol on the body, the blood pooling in cracks, the stillness of it all. Then she turned back toward the yellow tape where Maverick waited, sitting like a soldier in the dim light.

“C’mon, partner,” she said, scratching behind his ear.

Maverick wagged his tail once and fell in step beside her. As they drove off, the alley faded behind them. But the symbol burned in her mind like it had been carved there, too.

Scene 2

The station smelled like burnt coffee and musty air. Myra pushed through the doors of the Heartland PD precinct a little after 6 a.m., Maverick trotting beside her like he owned the place. Most didn’t like dogs in the office, but no one dared to say anything to Myra. Not anymore.

Most desks were still empty—night shift halfway home, day shift not quite in yet. The only sound was the hum of tired fluorescents and the clack of someone printing too many pages.

She made a beeline for the breakroom and poured herself a cup of coffee—no cream, no sugar. She drank it like medicine, bitter and fast, then filled the cup again and kept walking.

Rodriguez was already at his desk, hunched over the case file from last night, eyes bleary. He looked up when she approached.

“Morning, Detective.”

“You look like shit, kid,” she said, sipping her coffee.

“Feel like it too. You sleep?”

“Hour, maybe two. Mav snored.”

Maverick flopped down under her chair with a soft huff, like he agreed. She nudged his side gently with the heel of her boot—a silent check-in. He stayed still, but his tail gave a lazy thump.

Rodriguez tapped the folder.

“No ID yet. CSU’s still processing the scene, but I flagged some of the alley cams for retrieval. Might take a few hours to get access—half of them are city-owned, the other half belong to that bodega down the street.”

Myra nodded, already pulling up the precinct database.

“And the symbol?”

“E-mailed CSU for enhancement. I’ll send it to Gang Unit next.”

“Don’t,” she said, eyes still on her screen.

Rodriguez blinked.

“You don’t want to check for gang tags?”

“Not yet. Let’s not let this get labeled before we know what it is.”

Rodriguez leaned back in his chair.

“You really think this ties to that old case?”

“I think someone wants us to remember it.”

There was a beat of silence.

Myra clicked open her notes, fingers moving faster than her mind. But her face was still, jaw locked like something was tightening beneath the surface.

Then:

“You still carrying the old case file?”

Rodriguez asked.

“Most of it’s in my head.”

“Jesus,” he muttered. “That was, what... eight, nine years ago?”

“Seven,” she said flatly.

Rodriguez looked down at Maverick, who blinked up at him like he knew exactly why that number mattered. Seven years ago. One mark. One girl. And a version of Myra she barely survived being.

Rodriguez rubbed his face.

“Alright. What’s the move?”

Myra drained the last of her coffee and stood up.

“We go analog. Talk to the bodega owner. See if he’ll let us pull the camera feeds ourselves. After that, I want to know everything about the alley. Who uses it, who sleeps there, and who works nearby. Someone saw something. We just have to find the right voice.”

She reached down to scratch Maverick behind the ears.

“Let’s go.”

Maverick stood without being told, tail swishing once as if to say: finally.

She turned to Rodriguez.

“Chief’ll be back after court, and he’s gonna want good news. A lead. Something he can feed the press.”

She paused in the doorway.

“Look, rookie—I know you’re tired. Me and Mav are, too. But we’re not walking out of here empty-handed. You following?”

“Yes, Detective,” he said, grabbing his stuff. Then added,

“Want me to drive?”

Myra chuckled, already heading for the door.

“I don’t ride shotgun.”

Scene 3

The sun was still low, dragging itself into the sky as Myra, Rodriguez, and Maverick cruised down the highway in the old Crown Vic.

Myra ripped open a fresh pack of full-flavored cigarettes, slid one between her lips, and held the pack out toward Rodriguez, who was blinking hard to stay awake.

“No, thanks. I quit,” he mumbled.

Myra shrugged and lit hers anyway.

“So did I,” she said, exhaling a stream of smoke out the cracked window.

The radio murmured in the background—highlights from last night’s game.

“And what a finish it was at Midtown Park! Bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded—Kyle Henderson crushes a fastball deep into left-center for a walk-off grand slam! Thunderbirds win it 7–6 in an absolute thriller!”

Myra tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, a half-smile creeping in. She didn’t say much, but baseball? That still got to her.

Rodriguez shifted in his seat.

“If you don’t mind me asking… what’s the story with the shepherd?”

Myra took another drag, slow. Didn’t answer right away.

“He’s got a name,” she said, nodding toward the backseat.

Rodriguez glanced over his shoulder at the gold bone-shaped tag.

“Maverick,” he read aloud. “Sorry. I meant Maverick. What’s his story?”

Myra caught Mav’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Maverick had his head turned, eyes scanning the road, always on alert.

“He’s a retired K-9,” she said finally. “When they were done with him, I fostered him. Thought it would be temporary. But me and Mav clicked.”

Rodriguez raised a brow.

“So you kept him?”

Myra smirked.

“Something like that. He’s more than a dog. He’s my partner. My right hand. And he’s saved my ass more times than I can count.”

Maverick gave a soft huff from the back, as if in agreement.

Rodriguez glanced at Maverick again, then back at the road.

“So… you’ve been in Heartland a long time?”

Myra flicked ash out the window.

“Born here. South side. Grew up two blocks from the old Carmichael projects before they bulldozed ’em. Used to be a liquor store on every corner and a body every weekend.”

Rodriguez raised his eyebrows.

“Sounds… cozy.”

Myra gave a dry chuckle.

“Only on Sundays.”

They continued on, listening to the static-laced station of highlights.

They passed a row of boarded-up storefronts and rusting fences. Myra's fingers tightened on the wheel.

“The first time I saw that mark,” she said, almost to herself, “was seven years ago. It was carved into a teenage girl. She’d been tied up for days in a basement off Lennox. When we found her, she was alive—but just barely.”

Rodriguez didn’t speak. He knew better.

“She died the next morning. No suspects. No motive. Just that symbol, cut into her like it was meant to be remembered.”

Her voice dropped.

“And I did. Every damn day.”

Maverick stirred in the back, letting out a low exhale. Myra met his eyes in the mirror for a second.

“I got him right after that case. He was flagged as too aggressive. Unfit for reassignment. They were gonna put him down.”

She paused.

“I knew the feeling.”

Rodriguez shifted in his seat again, slower this time.

“So when you saw that carving last night…”

Myra nodded once.

“It wasn’t just a signature. It was a message.”

Silence took over the car again—just the tires on cracked pavement, the whisper of wind through the cracked window.

Then Myra pointed.

“There’s the spot. We’ll pull around back. Go in quietly.”

Scene 4

The bell above the bodega door let out a weak ding as Myra pushed it open—the kind of chime that sounded tired of ringing. The place smelled like old mop water and cigarettes. A single ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, squeaking more than cooling.

Maverick padded in beside her, sniffed once, then fell into step like he’d done this a hundred times.

Rodriguez followed, nodding at the man behind the bulletproof glass.

The clerk didn’t bother nodding back.

“Morning,” Myra said flatly.

The clerk blinked, clearly unsure if this was the kind of morning that required a response. He muttered something under his breath and went back to his crossword.

Myra scanned the aisles. Three customers: a teenager grabbing a pop; a man near the back coolers picking up a bottle of beer, setting it down, picking up another—no genuine interest, just movement; and an older woman at the register, counting change like she had all the time in the world.

“Keep your eyes up,” she murmured to Rodriguez without looking at him.

He straightened slightly, hands twitching near his belt.

Myra approached the counter, tugging her badge halfway from her coat. Just enough to be seen.

“We’re looking into a body found near the alley last night,” she said. “You hear or see anything?”

The clerk looked up like she’d asked for the moon.

“Nah. Store closes at ten. Wasn’t here.”

He paused, then frowned.

“And hey—no dogs in here!

Myra didn’t blink.

“Won’t be long,” she replied, not breaking stride.

Rodriguez stepped in.

“Mind if we take a look at your exterior cams?”

That made the clerk pause. He looked between them, then back at Maverick, who was staring him down like he understood the stakes.

“Cams only go out front,” the clerk muttered. “Nothing facing the alley.”

Myra gave a slow nod.

“Then we’ll take the front.”

The clerk turned reluctantly, muttering as he stooped behind the counter to dig for the DVR remote.

Myra leaned against the glass, eyes scanning the mirrored dome above the register. That’s when she caught it.

The guy by the beer cooler—mid-thirties, baseball cap pulled low, oversized hoodie despite the heat—abandoned his half-reached-for bottle and started drifting toward the door. Not fast, not obvious. But his eyes flicked up. His shoulders stayed tight. His pace was smooth—but just a little too smooth. Like he wanted to disappear without being seen.

Myra straightened.

“Rodriguez,” she said calmly. “Back door. Now.”

“What?” he blinked, notepad in hand.

But it was already too late.

The guy shoved the door open hard enough to send the bell screaming—and bolted.

“Shit,” Myra hissed, already moving.

“Stay with the clerk!” she snapped to Rodriguez as she tore out after him.

Maverick, a blur of muscle and fur, took off at her side.

The chase was on.

Scene 5

The man bolted up the alley at full sprint.

“Police! Stop!” Myra shouted, boots pounding the pavement.

But he was fast—too fast—and with every stride, the gap widened. Myra was getting too old for this part of the job.

She knew it.

Maverick knew it.

Breath heaving, she made a sharp clicking sound with her tongue.

Maverick woofed once and shot forward like a bullet, paws thundering against the pavement. Each stride brought him closer.

The man glanced back once, then again—panic rising in his eyes as the shepherd closed in. He cursed and veered right, cutting between trash bins and plywood fencing.

Didn’t matter.

Maverick followed on instinct, slicing the corner low, claws scraping concrete. He launched—teeth bared, jaws open—and brought the man down hard.

By the time Myra reached them, the guy was on the ground, wide-eyed and gasping, with Maverick planted on his chest.

Maverick’s body was tense, crouched low. Muscles coiled. Sharp teeth inches from the man’s face, a glimmer of drool stretching between his canines.

Myra slowed to a walk, lighting a fresh cigarette as she approached.

“Told you to stop,” she said flatly.

She gave Maverick a firm pat on the head.

“Good job, Mav. You’re simply the best.”

The man squirmed beneath the dog’s weight.

“I didn’t fuckin’ do anything!”

Myra flicked ash aside, unbothered.

“That’s where you’re wrong. You ran from a police officer. That’s enough to take you in.”

“Please,” he whimpered. “I was just tryin’ to buy beer—”

Myra smirked.

“But you didn’t.”

She crouched beside him, her voice cool and calm.

“Tell you what—I’ll refrain from tossing your ass in a holding cell, and Mav will refrain from turning you into a chew toy… as long as you start talking.”

“I don’t know shit,” he snapped.

Maverick growled low—deep and heavy enough to rattle his ribs.

Sharp teeth glinted.

The man flinched as Maverick let out another warning growl, his paws still firm on the guy’s chest.

“Alright! Damn, alright!” he gasped. “I didn’t do shit, but—yeah, I saw something.”

Myra kept her crouch.

“Go on.”

“I was just chillin’ by the corner, alright? Didn’t even know there was a body ’til y’all rolled up. But I saw this van. Old, busted white thing. Parked across from George’s.”

“What time?” Myra asked.

“I dunno… just after midnight, maybe. Like 12:15 or something’. Sketchy vibe.

Someone got out—big dude, hoodie up. Dragging something out of the back. Real quick about it.”

“You see who was inside?”

“Nah, windows were tinted. Back plate was missing. Front one was too far away.”

Myra stared down at him.

“You didn’t think to call it in?”

He scoffed.

“Lady, you see where we at? People call it in, people disappear. I kept walkin’.”

She stood, brushing off the dust from her fitted short-sleeve blouse and stepping back.

“What direction did he go?”

“North. Toward the freeway. Took a right—no. A left on Carver.”

Myra shook her head and blinked hard.

“Jesus.”

Rodriguez jogged into view, breathing a little heavier.

“You good?”

Myra nodded.

“We got a van. Big guy. No plate.”

She looked down at the man still pinned to the pavement.

“Congratulations. You’re officially more helpful than half this department.”

Maverick backed off slowly, teeth still bared.

The man didn’t move until Myra gave the signal.

The shepherd trotted back to her side, tail wagging like none of it happened.

Myra took one last drag, flicked the butt aside, and turned to Rodriguez.

“So, kid,” she said, “you get the tapes?”

Rodriguez lifted a full plastic bag in one hand, grinning.

“Yep.”

Myra smirked.

“Look at that. You might turn into a detective yet.”

He just nodded, trying not to smile—but failing.

“Chief’s gonna want something to chew on before noon,” Myra added.

“Right.” Rodriguez hurried ahead to unlock the Crown Vic.

Myra whistled low for Maverick.

“Come on, partner,” she muttered. “Work ain’t done yet.”

Scene 6

Back at the precinct, Rodriguez wrestled with the evidence bag, popping the footage into the ancient desktop tower they called “the archive machine.” When nothing happened, he smacked the side of the monitor with an open palm. The screen flickered, groaned like it might give up, then finally spat out a grainy black-and-white view of the bodega’s front lot.

Myra stood behind him, arms crossed, cigarette dangling unlit from her fingers. Maverick sat by her side, tail thumping quietly against the linoleum.

“Run it back to about 12:10 a.m.,” she said.

Rodriguez scrubbed the footage backward. Cars rolled past—a couple of drunks staggered by. A city bus hissed to a stop, and then a van.

Dark, nondescript. Plates too blurry to catch. It pulled up just out of frame, sat for a minute—headlights off. Then two figures moved—shadows, mostly—but one was large and heavy-set, with a hoodie drawn tight.

They carried something limp between them.

The screen glitched. By the time it cleared, the van was pulling away.

Rodriguez let out a low whistle.

“You think that’s our dump?”

Myra nodded once.

“Close enough for government work.”

Before she could say more, the Chief’s office door creaked open. Chief Graves, tie loosened and coffee in hand, gave them both a look like he was already tired of whatever excuse they were about to offer.

“You two better have something for me,” he grunted.

Myra clicked the mouse, freezing the frame on the van and the shadowy figures.

“It’s not much,” she said. “But it’s a start.”

Chief Graves took a slow sip from his chipped mug.

“The press already got wind of it—news segment hits at nine. And tomorrow, they’ll be knocking. I need something to give them.”

He set the mug down with a heavy thud.

“Listen—I still want you two working together. But I’m splitting the focus. Sullivan, you stay on the perp side. Work the chase. Rodriguez, you’re on John Doe. I want a lead, a name—something.”

He leaned forward, voice sharp.

“A grainy photo of a van ain’t gonna cut it. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Chief,” Rodriguez said quickly, straightening up.

Myra just nodded, rolling the unlit cigarette between her fingers like a stress ball. One kid bleeding out in an alley, and they didn’t even know his damn name.

Chief Graves walked off, leaving a trail of burnt coffee fumes in his wake.

Rodriguez turned to Myra, waiting for orders.

She stood there, absently scratching behind Maverick’s ears, her gaze still locked on the flickering footage.

“It’s getting late, kid,” she said finally. “We’re running on fumes. Here’s the plan—you hit the morgue. Check with CSU, see if they pulled any prints. Get whatever you can.”

She tapped the monitor.

“And print me a still of that van. Every angle they got.”

Rodriguez scribbled furiously in his notebook, nodding.

“Got it.”

“Take ’em home. I’ve got notes from an old case... might be something that lines up.”

There was a short beat of silence between them.

“I’ll pick you up at 0600,” Myra added.

Rodriguez looked as though he wanted to argue, but thought better of it.

“Yes, Detective.”

Myra smirked.

“Good. Don’t keep me waiting, rookie.”

She gave a soft pat on her thigh. Maverick stood and fell in step beside her without a sound.

Scene 7

The scent of lingering incense and old leather hit Myra as she unlocked the door and stepped inside. The stick had long since burned itself out, leaving only the memory of sandalwood and sage clinging to the walls.

Maverick padded in after her, sniffed once at the air before giving a tired grunt.

She shrugged off her jacket, tossing it over the back of the worn couch.

“Good work today, partner,” she muttered.

Heading into the kitchen, she opened a lower cabinet, pulled out a battered biscuit tin, and fished out a treat. Maverick’s ears perked immediately.

“You earned it.”

She tossed the treat through the air. Maverick caught it cleanly, jaws snapping shut with a crunch, then hopped into his oversized leather armchair—his throne—draped in a thick woven blanket.

Myra grabbed a stale cup of coffee off the counter, grimaced, dumped it, and refilled with fresh from the pot she’d set on a timer. Strong enough to strip paint, just the way she liked it.

Then she carried it down the hall. She stopped at the closet. Reaching up, she tugged a metal box down from the top shelf, scattering a few old shoeboxes and forgotten mementos. The tin clanged against the floor.

She knelt and opened it. Inside: her notes from the old case. The one that never let her go.

She carried it back to the living room as if it were a coffin.

The living room became her crime board. One by one, she spread the files across the floor—photos from the crime scene, printed stills from the grainy bodega footage, and now, the worn notes from a seven-year-old murder.

The room’s dim light flickered against the dark wood shelves, lined with African statues, tribal masks, and framed photos of lions prowling through the tall grass. A carved giraffe stood watch near the window.

Cross-legged on the rug, Myra lit a cigarette and leaned over the mess. She started with the photo—seven years old, the first body. The symbol was circled in red ink. Same rough carving. Same mess disguised as ritual.

But this time, it wasn’t buried. This time, it was meant to be found.

She flipped through the notebook. The girl had been found in a basement off Lennox. Seventeen. Bruised, starved, bound to a radiator.

It wasn’t just the body. It was how long she’d suffered. How long the system turned a blind eye.

Myra remembered the smell of mildew and blood. The copper taste of guilt every time she closed the file.

She remembered writing the eulogy herself because no one showed up to the funeral but her and the pastor.

The case went cold.

She didn’t.

Her finger landed on an old sketch of the symbol, hand-drawn in pencil. Underlined beneath it: The Broken Crown.

The memory surfaced all at once—sitting across from Old Man Lou in the back of that greasy diner, the hum of the fridge louder than his voice.

“That mark? That’s the Broken Crown. Ain’t no gang tag. It’s older than the turf wars. Older than the Black Flags, the Red Eyes, all of it. You see it once a decade—if you’re unlucky. And the ones who go pokin’ around? They don’t come back.”

“The Broken Crown,” she repeated aloud.

From the armchair, Maverick gave a low huff, like he felt it too.

“Yeah, Mav,” she muttered. “Something’s different this time.”

She flipped to the CSU packet Rodriguez had handed her earlier and scanned the photo index line by line. Her eyes were tired. Every image bled into the next.

Then she stopped.

Item #42 — a blurry photo taken near the alley dumpster. Something scorched. The image was mostly trash and ash, but one singed scrap of paper stood out.

She grabbed her phone and dialed CSU.

“Carter. It’s Sullivan.”

“Yeah?”

“I need a higher-res pull of photo 42 from the alley. The one with the dumpster. It’s got burn marks and a folded edge. Can you run the enhancement?”

Carter sighed.

“I’ll see what I can do. Give me twenty.”

Myra lit another cigarette, staring at the monitor, tapping ash into an old mug.

Twenty minutes later, her phone buzzed.

New email. Subject: Dumpster Burn – Enhanced Close-Up.

She opened it. Zoomed in.

Her stomach dropped.

YOU’RE STILL CHASING GHOSTS, SULLIVAN.

Handwritten. Singed edges. Her name.

Just clear enough to read.

It wasn’t just a message. It was a message for her.

Her hand trembled slightly as she set the printout on the floor.

Maverick stirred from the armchair, stepping down beside her, head low, gaze locked on her face.

“Someone knows me,” she said aloud. “Knows I’d dig. Knows I wouldn’t let this go.”

She knelt in the center of the files. Her eyes darted from photo to note to sketch.

A web of memories tightening like a noose.

“This ain’t about gang turf,” she muttered.

“This is personal.”

Scene 8

The neon sign flickered just slightly in the pre-dawn light, casting a red glow over the damp pavement outside Zac’s Diner. It was a relic of another era, a stubborn holdout against the passage of time and change. The chrome-trimmed counter was worn smooth from decades of elbows and quiet conversations. The scent of sizzling bacon and fresh waffles mingled with the faint aroma of strong coffee—a comforting greeting to the few early risers trickling in.

The vinyl booths were faded but clean, their cracked seams telling stories of long shifts, late-night deals, and the occasional friendly brawl. A jukebox sat in the corner, its buttons smudged from years of hesitant selections, though these days, it mostly played whatever the servers liked.

Myra sat across from Rodriguez in a booth by the window. Outside, Maverick waited patiently in the Crown Vic, windows cracked, cool air drifting through. His favorite chew toy sat beside a bowl of water in the seat. He lay with his chin on the door, watching the diner door like he was expecting a breakfast meeting of his own.

A waitress approached, tugging at the collar of the retro pink uniform she clearly hated wearing.

“Waffles?” she asked, holding the plate out.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Rodriguez said, raising a hand.

She turned to Myra.

“More coffee, ma’am?”

“Please,” Myra said, sliding her mug forward without looking up.

Myra looked up from her coffee.

“Alright, kid—what’d you find out last night?”

Rodriguez was mid-pour with the syrup, but the bottle hit the table with a soft thud.

“Detective, look… can we not do the whole ‘kid’ thing? I know I’m a rookie, but I’m not a kid.”

Myra raised an eyebrow, then smirked.

“Didn’t know it bugged you that much.”

“Well… it does.”

She took a sip of her coffee.

“Alright. No more ‘kid.’”

Rodriguez gave a nod and dug into his waffles, a bit less tense now.

He wiped his mouth, then pulled a printout from his jacket and slid it across the table.

“The kid’s name was Daniel Price. Seventeen. Senior at South Heartland High.”

Myra frowned.

“That’s where I went.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I dug a little. Kid lived with his aunt near Carver and Main—same complex you mentioned yesterday.”

She stiffened slightly.

“How’d you ID him?”

“Partial print from his left thumb. Matched a juvenile record from when he was fourteen—petty vandalism. It was minor, but it got him into the system.”

He paused.

“But here’s the part that got weird. He had a huge online presence. Not social media stuff—blogs, message boards, deep-dive forums. Conspiracy threads. Local corruption, mostly. Police zoning boards, and city contracts. He was trying to map out something big.”

Myra set down her coffee.

“A high school kid was chasing corruption?”

“He wasn’t chasing it. He was collecting it.”

Rodriguez leaned forward, voice lower now.

“He was active on three burner accounts. All anonymous, all sharp—like way sharper than a teenager should be. Last post went up three days ago. The thread title was ‘Old Roots in New Suits.’”

She raised an eyebrow.

Rodriguez nodded.

“And here’s where it gets personal. I traced one of the usernames back through an alumni message board. He used his mom’s maiden name for the handle.”

That gave Myra pause.

“What name?”

“Lucille Garner.”

Myra blinked. The diner noise seemed to dim.

“She was a year behind you at South Heartland,” Rodriguez said carefully. “Ring any bells?”

Myra looked down at her coffee, then out the window where Maverick sat watching.

“Yeah,” she said slowly. “She was my lab partner. Used to joke that we’d both end up cops or criminals.”

Rodriguez didn’t say anything.

“She moved away after graduation,” Myra added. “Got pregnant young, if I remember right. I didn’t know she had a son.”

“Well… now we know who he was. And maybe why he was targeted.”

Rodriguez tapped the paper.

“But here’s what’s bugging me. His accounts? All wiped clean this morning. Gone. Not flagged, not archived—scrubbed. Like someone pulled the plug on all three at once.”

Myra’s jaw clenched.

“This ain’t a warning.”

Rodriguez nodded.

“No. It’s a cover-up.”

The waitress returned, pen behind her ear.

“How’s everything?”

Rodriguez, mid-chew, gave a muffled,

“It’s amazing. Thank you.”

Myra looked up.

“One more cup to go, please. And two orders of bacon. Extra crispy.”

The waitress nodded.

“Will this all be on one check?”

Rodriguez looked at her, hopeful.

Myra didn’t even blink.

“Yeah. He’s got it.”

Rodriguez tried to protest through a mouthful of waffle, but all that came out was a strained grunt.

Myra smirked and took another sip.

Once the waitress walked off, he wiped his hands and pulled the folder closer.

“Alright. That’s what I found. What about you?”

“They want me,” Myra said, sliding him a printout.

Rodriguez scanned the charred image, brow tightening as he read aloud.

“‘You’re still chasing ghosts, Sullivan.’”

He looked up.

“But why you?”

Myra finished her coffee and stood, pulling on her jacket.

“Don’t know yet.”

The waitress returned with the check, the to-go cup, and a Styrofoam box packed with bacon. Rodriguez grabbed the bill with a quiet sigh and followed her toward the front counter.

They climbed into the Crown Vic. Maverick’s tail thumped against the seat—he could already smell the bacon. Myra reached back and gave him a scratch behind the ears.

“Thanks for waiting, partner.”

She popped open the to-go box and set it in the back seat.

Maverick dug in without hesitation, the car filling with the sound of snorting and crunching.

Clicking her seatbelt into place, Myra glanced at Rodriguez.

“Oh—one more thing,” she said.

He looked up.

“Yeah?”

She stared ahead, voice steady.

“The mark they left?” she said. “It’s called the Broken Crown.”

Scene 9

The brick facade of South Heartland High hadn’t changed much—same busted flagpole, same cracked walkway leading up to the front doors.

Myra stood near the entrance, Maverick at her side, ears perked, tail still.

Rodriguez jogged up from the Crown Vic, phone still warm in his hand.

“Just got off with the Chief,” he said, catching his breath. “I gave him the name, the wiped accounts, all of it. He said to keep digging, but keep it quiet.”

Myra nodded, eyes lingering on the faded mural near the steps—something about rising together, Stallions never fall. She’d walked past it a thousand times as a kid. Today, it felt like a lie.

“Let’s see what the kid was looking for,” she muttered, pushing the door open.

The smell of floor wax and old paper hit her the moment she stepped inside. South Heartland High looked the same. Too much the same. Same yellowed trophies in the lobby case. Same crooked flyer on the bulletin board, begging for volunteers for a blood drive.

Rodriguez leaned into the counter at the front office, flashing his badge.

“Detectives Sullivan and Rodriguez. We’re here about a student—Daniel Price.”

Myra chimed in, voice calm but firm.

“We also need access to his locker.”

The woman behind the desk blinked slowly.

“The counselor’s not in yet, but I’ll get the principal.” Then added, a little sharper, “We can’t just open a student’s locker without a warrant.”

Myra stepped forward, calm but direct.

“You can if we’re investigating a possible murder. You want me to call the Chief and slow this down, or you want to help us find the truth?”

The secretary hesitated, then reached into the drawer and handed over a slip of paper.

“Second floor, east wing. Locker 218. Combination’s on there.”

Rodriguez stayed behind as the principal appeared from down the hall, already buttoning his coat. Myra stepped away, Maverick at her side.

Back out in the hall, Myra moved past rows of closed classroom doors and half-scuffed lockers. The low murmur of morning lectures bled into the hallway—geometry, history, maybe biology. It all blended. Then she saw it.

A faded mural stretched along the east wing wall—a white stallion rearing against a streak of blue, hooves raised like a knight’s charge. The school mascot. Its paint was chipped, edges curling, but it still held that same fire.

Myra let out a soft breath, just shy of a laugh.

“Damn,” she muttered. “Still standing.”

She remembered the pep rallies. The busted megaphones. That time she got detention for skipping school but still showed up to the baseball game and scored two runs. She was a Stallion, back when that meant something. Back before the job. Before the bodies. Before the mark.

She stopped at the top of the stairs, hand resting lightly on Maverick’s head.

“You wouldn’t believe who I used to be,” she said quietly.

Maverick gave a faint huff, ears flicking toward the lockers ahead. The moment passed.

She started scanning the locker numbers. 205. 206. 207. Her boots echoed down the tiled floor as she moved further down the hall. Just ahead, a girl stood at a locker, right around where Daniel’s locker should be.

Myra approached slowly. The number read 219. The girl had long blonde hair. Her hand held the locker door open. Light blue nail polish chipped at the edges.

Myra cleared her throat.

“Shouldn’t you be in class, young lady?”

The girl jumped slightly, then turned.

“I’m sorry—I was just getting my gum.”

Myra smirked and knelt in front of 218, working the combination with practiced fingers.

“It’s alright, kid. Just messin’ with you.”

She paused.

“Did you know the boy who had this locker?”

The girl nodded, hesitating.

“Daniel. He was quiet. We didn’t really talk—just ‘hi’ and ‘bye’ at the lockers.”

The lock clicked open. Myra swung the door wide. It was full. Papers, notebooks, and flyers jammed in sideways. A crumpled hoodie slumped on the top shelf. It looked lived-in, like he’d just been there yesterday.

The girl shifted her weight.

“But he hasn’t been to school in… like, a couple of days. Is he okay?”

Myra looked up from the mess, meeting the girl’s gaze. Blue eyes. Same shade as her nails.

“I’m not sure,” Myra said quietly. “That’s why I’m here.”

The girl closed her locker and started to walk away.

“Well… I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

She glanced back over her shoulder.

“I’m Brooke, by the way.”

Myra gave a slight nod.

“Thanks, Brooke.”

“Cute dog, by the way.

Maverick gave a soft wag of his tail, watching her go.

Myra sifted through the locker—papers stuffed sideways, a crumpled hoodie on the top shelf. It was messy, but not careless. Like someone halfway through connecting dots that never quite lined up.

Behind her, Maverick sniffed along the bottom edge. A paperback slipped loose and hit the ground with a soft thud. He nosed it once, then gave a short huff.

Myra turned.

“What is it, Mav?”

She picked up the book: The Architecture of Power: North Heartland History and Hidden Spaces. Odd reading for a high schooler.

Flipping through the pages, something fluttered out, creased and browned along the edges like it had been near fire. She unfolded it carefully. The handwriting was small but deliberate:

Tuesday, 7:00 PM

The docks. Old terminal, bay 3. Don’t bring anyone.

Myra stared at it, her pulse ticking faster. Daniel never made it to today. Tuesday.

She tucked the note into her coat pocket, then grabbed a small stack of Daniel’s notebooks—anything that looked like it might hold more. Maverick gave the locker one last sniff before falling in beside her.

They moved back toward the stairwell. The halls were still mostly empty, the air thick with old dust and teenage ghosts.

At the top of the stairs, Rodriguez was waiting. He met her with a raised brow.

“You’re gonna want to hear this.”

Myra held up the notebooks.

“So are you.”

Scene 10

The Crown Vic idled in a patch of weak shade outside the precinct, A/C humming low—more noise than comfort. Sunlight beat down on the windshield, casting sharp reflections across the dashboard.

Myra sat in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other flicking ash from the cigarette smoldering between her fingers. Smoke curled through the cabin before the vents could chase it away.

Maverick lay in the backseat, panting gently, tail thumping once every few seconds. He let out a low, almost human-sounding sigh.

Rodriguez flipped through the last of the case notes in his lap.

“Principal said Daniel was seen getting into a silver sedan a couple of days before he went missing. Clean car, tinted windows, Delaney Aut`o sticker on the back.”

Myra exhaled a stream of smoke out the cracked window.

“Delaney? That’s North Side. Custom plates, clean cars, and too much money.”

She shook her head.

“Figures.”

She reached into the pile between them and pulled out a worn paperback, thumbing the cover before tossing it into Rodriguez’s lap.

“He wasn’t into drugs or girls. You know what got him killed?”

Rodriguez looked at the title—The Architecture of Power.

She smirked.

“City planning. Some kids get into weed. This one got into zoning ordinances.”

“This is starting to get crazy,” Rodriguez muttered.

Myra exhaled another slow ribbon of smoke, eyes on the haze rising off the asphalt.

“Indeed.”

There was a pause before she spoke again.

“Go on in. Show the Chief what we’ve got. He’ll point us toward the next lead. After that, swing by the kid’s aunt’s place—see what she knows.”

Rodriguez laid the papers in his lap and glanced over.

“You’re not coming?”

She flicked the cigarette out the window, watching the ember vanish against the concrete.

“Nah. There’s one more place I want to check out.”

He frowned.

“Where?”

“We’ll meet up in the morning,” she said, not answering.

“Maybe chase that dealership angle. I’ve got a feeling the kid was onto something big—and so are we. We just need to stick with it.”

Rodriguez nodded, but slowly. Something in her voice didn’t sit right. Like she was chasing more than a lead—maybe a ghost.

They sat in silence for a moment. The radio crackled in the background—baseball highlights, a commentator laughing about a triple play.

Then Myra said,

“You know, Rodriguez… you ask the right questions.”

He looked over.

She gave a tired smirk.

“You’re gonna make a damn good detective.”

Rodriguez turned toward the passenger window, hiding the grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I appreciate that,” he said softly.

Rodriguez opened the door and stepped out into the thick summer heat. He paused, one hand still resting on the roof of the car.

Myra didn’t look at him—just lit another cigarette, eyes ahead, smoke curling out the cracked window like a signal disappearing into the sky.

“See you in the morning?” he asked.

She nodded once.

“Bright and early, Rookie.”

The door shut with a soft click. Rodriguez stood for a moment, watching the Crown Vic roll out onto the street.

Myra never looked back. And for some reason, that sat heavier than it should have.

Scene 11

Bay 3 was exactly what she expected—rusted metal, broken light fixtures, and the slow stink of river rot. The sun was slipping behind the warehouses across the water, bleeding orange into the sky, but the shadows had already claimed the dock.

Myra stepped out of the Crown Vic and lit a cigarette—her last one. She took a drag, then reached into the back seat and grabbed her flashlight and sidearm.

Maverick jumped down beside her, tail stiff, body low. He was already on edge.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “I feel it too.”

The old terminal was quiet—too quiet. No sounds but the water lapping against wood and the occasional creak of the structure settling like it had a secret. The terminal’s roof sagged like a broken spine, casting long shadows across the busted concrete.

Myra moved slowly, flashlight still off, eyes scanning the open space. Whoever was supposed to meet Daniel was either very dead—or watching her right now.

The old shipping office sat to the left, door half-hung, windows long shattered. Graffiti layered over older graffiti. Strange symbols, not just gang tags. She didn’t like that.

The river whispered behind her, steady and indifferent.

Maverick padded low beside her, his ears twitching at every creak. He didn’t growl, but he didn’t relax either.

A faint hum echoed overhead. One flickering security light buzzed to life as if trying to help. It only made the shadows darker.

Myra passed a pile of broken pallets and crouched near a rusted shipping crate. Inside—empty. Dust. Spiderwebs. Nothing recent.

She stood, eyes narrowing. Something was off. Too still. No birds. No traffic. Even the water seemed to hold its breath.

She exhaled slowly, nerves razor-thin. She turned a slow circle.

“Alright,” she muttered. “Let’s not pretend.”

Nothing.

She started toward the terminal office.

Maverick froze. A soft whimper in his throat. Head low, eyes locked forward.

Myra raised her gun, and the flashlight flicked on with a snap.

A door slammed behind her.

She spun.

They were already there

Three figures stepped out of the dark—shadows molded into men. Hooded. Gloved. One of them dragging a crowbar across the concrete. Another had a black patch sewn onto his sleeve: a jagged half-circle split by three vertical lines.

No doubt now.

Maverick barked—loud, sharp, angry.

Myra didn’t speak. She just aimed.

The one on the left rushed her.

She fired—once, clean—and dropped him. He hit the ground hard, blood painting the dock.

The second one tackled her from behind, slamming her shoulder into the crate. Her flashlight scattered across the concrete, spinning out.

Maverick lunged, teeth flashing white as he latched onto the attacker’s arm with a snarl like hell itself. The man screamed, dropped his grip.

Then a third figure raised a gun and—

Bang. Bang.

Maverick yelped. The sound cracked the air—as if it split the world open.

Myra screamed—with pure fury—and slammed her elbow into the man behind her. He stumbled.

She turned and fired again—point-blank into his gut. He collapsed.

The last man charged.

She raised her weapon—

Click. Empty.

He crashed into her, both of them tumbling back onto the dock.

Fists flew. Myra got a knee in, landed two punches, maybe broke his nose. But he was bigger, and her arms were starting to shake.

He slammed her down hard, arm across her throat.

She clawed at his wrist, gritting her teeth, vision flashing white at the edges.

Then a blade appeared.

She saw it too late.

The knife wasn’t clean. It looked old, like something passed down. Curved and menacing, as if it was made for this.

It sank deep. Fire tore through her gut—white-hot.

She gasped, breath stolen from her lungs.

The man wore a ski mask, but his eyes were bare. Cold. Hard. Locked on hers.

He didn’t flinch. Just twisted the knife.

Myra didn’t scream. She spat blood in his face.

He jerked back, startled—and she swung. One last punch—her whole body behind it.

She heard something crack under his mask. He cursed and staggered.

She rolled onto her side, trembling. Blood soaked through her shirt, hot and fast.

“You don’t get to erase me,” she growled.

He recovered, breathing hard, eyes wild now. She saw fear there—just for a second.

Then he stepped forward and drove his boot into her chest.

She hit the dock hard, vision swimming.

Maverick let out a low growl from somewhere behind her, but he couldn’t move. He tried. She could hear the dragging of claws against wood.

He was still trying.

“Mav,” she whispered.

She turned her head toward the sky. It was almost dark now. Almost gone.

A voice crackled through her radio, distant and distorted.

“Sullivan? Come in. Detective Sullivan—”

But the sky was the only thing that answered.

Scene 12

Rodriguez pulled up outside Daniel’s aunt’s house, engine still running. He shifted into park but didn’t kill the ignition.

Myra wasn’t here. And he didn’t know where to start.

He sat for a moment, thinking—no, stalling. He needed a game plan.

His eyes drifted to the stack of files in the passenger seat. He reached over and grabbed the paperback Myra had pulled from Daniel’s locker.

Flipping it open, something slipped out—a folded piece of paper, browned at the edges.

He caught it before it hit the floor, unfolded it, and read aloud:

“Tuesday, 7:00 PM. The docks. Old terminal, Bay 3. Don’t bring anyone. —T”Tuesday, 7:00 PM
The docks. Old terminal, bay 3.
Don’t bring anyone.
—T.

“Fuck.”

He threw the car into reverse. Daniel’s aunt would have to wait. The sirens came alive as he hit the lights and floored the gas. It was already 8:00 p.m. Was he too late?

Rodriguez gripped the wheel with one hand and fumbled for the radio with the other.

“Sullivan? Come in. Detective Sullivan—”

Nothing. Just static.

He slammed the side of the radio, heart climbing into his throat. Then barked into it.

“Dispatch, this is Detective Rodriguez—need units en route to the docks, old terminal, Bay Three. Possible 10-33. Officer may be in danger.”

The radio crackled.

“Repeat that? You said officer—?”

“I said, possible OFFICER DOWN!” he shouted. “Bay Three, now!”

He tossed the mic back and floored it, tires shrieking as he tore through the intersection. A horn blared. He swerved hard around a delivery van, the Crown Vic rattling as it jumped the curb before slamming back onto asphalt. He didn’t care.

He blew past a red light, barely missing a city bus, sirens wailing through the night. Cars scattered. People shouted. One kid flipped him off from a bike.

The clock on the dash read 8:03.

It was too late.

Too late.

You should’ve known.

His chest tightened. Myra had said they’d meet in the morning. She said it like it was just another lead, another case. But there’d been something in her voice—too calm. Too final.

The lights of the riverfront appeared ahead. The city peeled back, replaced by warehouses and forgotten roads. He didn’t slow down. Not yet.

The Crown Vic fishtailed as Rodriguez hit the gravel near the river, the tires screaming their protest. He yanked the wheel hard and skidded to a stop just outside the rusted chain-link gate to Bay 3.

The headlights cut through the darkness, landing on the old terminal building—still, silent, and wrong.

He jumped out, gun already in hand.

“MAV! MYRA!”

Silence.

His boots crunched across the dock, every step louder than the last. He moved fast but carefully, sweeping corners, heart pounding so loud it blurred his hearing.

He passed a bloodied flashlight on the ground. Cracked. Familiar.

He froze. Then turned the corner—

And saw her.

Laid out on the dock like she’d been dropped from the sky. Blood pooled beneath her, dark and sticky in the fading light. A bullet wound marked the side of her head—clean, final.

Her shirt was torn at the shoulder, and carved into her skin—

A jagged half-circle with three vertical lines piercing through.

The Broken Crown.

Same as the alley.

Same as the boy.

Maverick lay beside her, his body curled into hers, muzzle resting gently on her chest. Blood matted his fur. One of his back legs was twisted beneath him. He was shaking, barely breathing—but he hadn’t left her. Not once.

Rodriguez’s breath hitched. He stepped forward like the ground might give way beneath him. The scene was too quiet. Too still. They were gone. Whoever did this—whoever left that mark—they’d disappeared into the dark.

He’d missed them by minutes.

And all he had left now was this.

Rodriguez dropped to his knees beside her, hands shaking as he reached for her wrist.

No pulse.

He already knew. The blood, the stillness, the wound—he knew. But he had to try. His fingers lingered there anyway, pressing into lifeless skin.

He turned to Maverick. The dog let out a sound that didn’t seem possible—a low, broken wail that cut straight through him. It wasn’t barking. It wasn’t a whimper.

It was grief.

Rodriguez pulled him close, careful not to hurt him further. Maverick leaned into his chest, breathing shallow, muzzle still pressed to Myra’s side.

“It’s gonna be okay, Mav,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I got you. I got you…”

From somewhere behind them, sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Red and blue flickered faintly off the steel walls.

But it was too late.

For her.

Rodriguez pulled Maverick in tighter, cradling him like something sacred. The dog’s blood smeared across his shirt, but he didn’t care. Maverick trembled against him, eyes never leaving Myra’s face.

Rodriguez’s jaw clenched as tears finally broke loose. He didn’t wipe them away. He let them fall.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped you.”

The sirens closed in. Tires screeched nearby. Doors slammed. Boots hit gravel.

He didn’t move.

An EMT knelt beside him and reached for Maverick.

“We’ve got him,” she said gently. “He’s still breathing.”

Rodriguez nodded once.

Carefully, he slid his arms under Maverick’s battered body and stood. The dog whimpered, but didn’t fight him.

He took one last look at Myra, lying beneath the broken sky, blood pooling around the carved mark on her shoulder.

“I’ll finish it,” he said.

Not loud. Not for anyone else. Just for her.

We dig. We don’t stop. I promise.

Scene 13

One Week Later.

The precinct smelled like old coffee and lemon cleaner—someone had finally mopped the front hallway. Outside, rain tapped against the windows in a soft, uneven rhythm. Inside, everything felt heavier.

Rodriguez stood alone in the main corridor, staring at the newly mounted photo. Myra Sullivan. Badge 319. Detective. Partner. Pain in the ass. The picture showed her just how he wanted to remember her—cigarette in one hand, Maverick at her side, half-smile that said she knew something you didn’t.

He took a step back and straightened the frame again. It didn’t need it. He just couldn’t walk away yet.

Behind him, Chief Graves cleared his throat.

“She’d have hated this ceremony shit,” he muttered.

Rodriguez nodded, but didn’t smile.

Graves stepped up beside him, looking at the photo.

“She was the real thing,” he said quietly. “Sharp. Relentless. Wouldn’t let go of a case if it bit her in the leg.”

He paused.

“Maybe if I’d pulled her off it sooner…”

“You couldn’t have,” Rodriguez said. “She wouldn’t’ve let you.”

Graves nodded once.

“You good?”

Rodriguez didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted to the glass doors at the end of the hallway.

Maverick lay just beyond them on a blanket, tail thumping once when their eyes met. The bandages were still fresh. The limp was permanent. But he was alive.

“She left me the files,” Rodriguez said finally. “Everything she had on the Broken Crown. Even some from that old case.”

Graves raised an eyebrow.

“You saying you want to take this on?”

Rodriguez looked back at the photo.

“I’m saying I’m not letting it go.”

A long silence hung between them.

Then Graves gave a slow nod.

“When you’re ready, come see me. We’ll make it official.”

He left without another word, boots echoing down the hallway.

Rodriguez stayed a moment longer, just him, the photo, and the quiet. He looked at Myra one last time and whispered:

“They left a mark. But so did you.”

Then he stepped through the glass doors, knelt beside Maverick, and helped him to his feet.

The dog leaned against him, limping, loyal.

Rodriguez gave one last glance toward the storm rolling in over the city.

“Come on, partner,” he said softly. “We’ve got work to do.”

THE END

To be continued...

Author’s Note

Thank you for reading The Mark They Left. I hope the story gripped you, moved you, and maybe even stuck with you after the final page. Writing this short story was both a challenge and a joy, and I’m truly grateful you took the time to step into the streets of Heartland with me.

This is just the beginning.

My debut full-length novel, A Petal Through Stone, is coming soon—and it takes everything introduced here to a whole new level. More danger. More heartbreak. More secrets buried beneath the surface.

If you’d like updates on the release, behind-the-scenes insights, or exclusive content, you can visit my website:

www.ChristopherTateBooks.com

You can also follow me on social media—I’d love to connect:

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All at @ChristopherTateBooks

Thanks again for reading. Your support means more than you know.

– Christopher Tate