Chapter 2

Mark killed what was left of his health on the report.

Three hours of typing, deleting, typing again. The screen blurred in front of his eyes. His coffee went cold twice. He did not notice either time.

David slipped out somewhere around eight — some excuse about a family thing, rare enough that Mark just waved him off without asking. “Go. Have a life.” David hesitated for half a second, then was gone.

Mark stayed.

He pulled up the database. Searched for similar crimes. Similar symbols. Similar setups — body displayed high, blood pooled but not dried, no weapon, no witnesses.

Nothing.

Zero. Zilch. Not even a close match.

He tried different keywords. The symbols. The altar. The nails. The lack of blood trail.

Nothing.

Mark rubbed his eyes until he saw stars, shut down the computer, and headed home.

“Home,” Mark announced to the empty hallway.

He peeled off his jacket, then his T-shirt — still damp with sweat from the church. The fabric clung to his skin, and he had to wrestle it over his head. He threw both toward the laundry basket. Missed. Did not care.

From the living room came a scratch of claws on wood. Then Lisben appeared in the doorway, blinking sleepily, tail wagging in slow, lazy arcs. She yawned, stretched, and looked up at him with the expression of a dog who had definitely been sleeping on her bed and not on his pillow.

“Right,” Mark said, crouching down. “I totally believe you.”

Lisben’s tail sped up. She knew the drill. She leaned into his hand as he scratched behind her ears, then gave his cheek a single, apologetic lick. The apology was for the pillow. Probably. Then she trotted toward the kitchen, throwing him a look over her shoulder.

Feed me. Now.

Mark sighed and followed.

He fed her first — because if he did not, she would stand there and stare at him until he did. Irish wolfhounds were supposed to be dignified. Lisben was. Mostly. Except when it came to dinner.

While she buried her face in the bowl, Mark opened the fridge. A sad collection of condiments, half a carton of milk, and something wrapped in greasy paper that might have been last night’s dinner. He sniffed it. Edible. Probably.

Into the microwave. Then a beer. He cracked it open and took a long swallow before the microwave even started spinning.

Outside, the rain returned. It had stopped for maybe an hour. Now it was back — harder, angrier, drumming against the glass like it wanted in.

The overhead light flickered. Once. Twice. Mark stared at it. Die already or do not. He could not be bothered to change the bulb. He reached over and switched it off. The desk lamp was easier. He clicked it on.

It flickered too.

“Of course,” Mark muttered.

He fell onto the couch — more collapsed than sat — and closed his eyes. The exhaustion hit him like a wall. His limbs were heavy. His skull throbbed behind his eyes. He was hungry enough that his stomach hurt, but moving seemed impossible.

The microwave beeped.

Lisben barked once — sharp, impatient.

Mark did not move.

Thunder rolled outside. Not distant. Right overhead. The whole building shook. Lightning flashed — so bright he could see it through his closed eyelids.

Mark groaned and pushed himself up.

Another flash. For a second — just a second — he saw a shape in the window. A silhouette. Human.

His heart stopped.

The next flash showed a dog standing in the middle of the street. Just a dog. Nobody else.

Lisben’s hackles went up. She planted her feet and let out a low, throaty growl — not her usual bark. This was different. Deeper. Meaner.

“Liss, shut it.” Mark shook his fist at her without looking. No luck.

He opened the microwave. The smell hit him first — grease, cheese, something that had been meat once. Then he looked down at the paper wrapped around the food.

And froze.

Brown. Scrawled. Jagged symbols covered the grease-stained wrapper. Dozens of them. Crowded together like they were trying to escape.

Mark’s blood went cold.

That was not there before.

He would swear on his badge. On his life. He had wrapped that thing himself last night. Nothing on the paper. Clean.

He pulled the wrapper out, spread it on the counter. The symbols stared back at him. Familiar. Too familiar.

His forehead broke out in sweat.

The altar. The church. The blood.

Same symbols.

His hand moved before his brain caught up — reaching for his sidearm, which was not there because he was home, because he was an idiot. He grabbed it from the coffee table instead. The weight felt good. Solid.

Silence.

Mark stood perfectly still, listening. The rain. The thunder. His own heartbeat.

Nothing else.

He checked the apartment. Room by room. The bedroom. The bathroom. The closet. The door — locked from the inside. The window — closed, latched. No signs of forced entry. No wet footprints. No open drawers.

Nothing.

The light flickered again.

Mark pulled the door open and looked into the hallway. Empty. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting that sick green glow that all apartment buildings seemed to have. From behind the neighbor’s door, the muffled murmur of a TV.

Lisben padded up beside him, her growl gone. She sniffed the air, decided nothing interesting was happening, and sat down.

Mark closed the door.

He grabbed his phone.

David answered on the fourth ring. His voice was thick — half-asleep, half-annoyed. “Brennan. It is late.”

“Yeah, I know.” Mark was pacing now, phone pressed to his ear, eyes scanning the room. “Someone broke into my apartment.”

Silence on the other end. Then: “What?”

“Someone broke in. Left something.” Mark stopped pacing. “You are going to think I am crazy.”

“I already think you are crazy. What did they leave?”

Mark looked at the wrapper on the counter. The symbols had not disappeared. “The same writing. From the church.”

A long pause. Then: “Mark…”

“I know how it sounds. Just — never mind. Go back to sleep.”

“You sure you do not want me to call it in?” David’s voice had shifted — still tired, but with that familiar edge of dry humor. “Patrol backup? Maybe a SWAT team? I mean, you are just homicide. Might be too much for you.”

Mark almost smiled. Almost. “Screw you.”

“That is a no on the SWAT team, then?”

“That is a no on everything. Go to bed, David.”

“Fine. But if you get yourself killed, I am not explaining it to the captain.”

“Yeah. Goodnight.”

Mark hung up.

The symbols were still there.

Mark stared at them for a long time. Lisben had lost interest — she was back on the couch, her giant head resting on her paws, watching him with one eye.

He took out his phone again. Photographed the wrapper. Both sides. The symbols showed up clear on the screen.

Then he sat down at the kitchen table and held the paper up to the light.

The symbols began to fade.

Not slowly. Immediately. Like they were afraid of the brightness. Mark yanked the paper back into the shadow of his hand. The symbols stopped fading. Held.

He sniffed the paper. Grease. Cheese. Meat. Nothing else.

He touched the tip of his tongue to one of the symbols.

Nothing. Just paper. Just old food.

The light flickered one last time. Then died completely. The room went dark except for the weak glow of his phone screen.

Lisben growled low in her throat.

From somewhere above — the ceiling, the fixture, the dark — came a hum. A vibration. Like something waking up.

Then every light in the apartment turned on at once.

Not the warm, dim glow of old bulbs. Something else. Cold. Bright. Blinding. The kind of light that hurt to look at, that made shadows feel like they were hiding.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut.

When he opened them, he was on the floor. Next to the couch. His back ached. His head pounded. And in his hand — crumpled, greasy, empty — was the wrapper.

No symbols. No marks. Nothing.

Just dirty paper.

Mark sat up slowly. Lisben was watching him from the couch, her head tilted. You okay? her eyes seemed to ask.

“No,” he said.

He grabbed his beer from the coffee table — warm now, flat — and drank the rest of it in one long swallow. Then he sat there, rubbing the top of his head, staring at nothing.

The symbols were gone from the paper. But they were still on his phone. He checked. Yes. Still there.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Think about it tomorrow.

His head felt like it was about to split open.

Mark dragged himself to the bedroom, fell face-first onto the mattress, and did not move again.

The next day came in hot.

Mark’s phone started buzzing at six a.m. and did not stop. Dispatch sounded tired. Or shell-shocked. Hard to tell over the static.

Domestic. West End.

Another domestic. Same street.

Assault with a weapon. Church district.

Stabbing. Church district.

Attempted murder. Church district.

By eight, Mark had stopped counting.

The neighborhood around St. Catherine’s — the church, the crime scene, the blood — had lost its mind. That was the only explanation. Something had cracked overnight, and now the whole area was bleeding out in slow motion.

Mark met David at the precinct. No jokes about Prada glasses this morning. No recruitment poster comments. David’s face was grim, his perfect hair already messed up — like he had been running his hands through it all night.

“What do we got?” Mark asked, grabbing a coffee that tasted like burnt plastic.

David handed him a printout. “Seven domestics so far. Five attempted murders. Three successful.”

Mark skimmed the list. “Successful?”

“Dead. All of them.” David’s jaw tightened. “And that is just the humans.”

Mark looked up. “What else?”

“Animal cruelty.” David’s voice was flat. “Some kid — seventeen, maybe eighteen — threw a cat out of a second-story window.”

Mark waited. There was more. He could see it in David’s face.

“The cat had been cut open,” David said. “Alive. Then thrown. Landed on a woman pushing a stroller.”

Mark set down his coffee. “The baby?”

“Not hurt. Woman is in shock.” David finally looked at him. “The cat landed inside the stroller, Mark. Right next to the kid.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

“The world has gone crazy,” David said. Not a question. A statement.

He threw his radio onto the dashboard — harder than necessary — then kicked the tire of the patrol car for good measure. And swore. A long, quiet, vicious string of words Mark had never heard his partner say.

Mark stared at him.

“What?” David snapped.

“Nothing.” Mark opened his door. “I just never heard you curse before.”

“There is a first time for everything.” David got in on his side. Slammed the door. “One more call. Then the captain wants us back.”

“The priest?”

“The priest.” David started the engine. “The mayor knew him. Personally. So now we have a psycho killer and an angry mayor breathing down our necks. He wants the case solved yesterday.”

Mark stared out the windshield. His phone was heavy in his pocket. The photos were still there — the symbols, the wrapper, the proof that something had happened last night. Something he could not explain.

He had not told David yet.

Should I?

“You feel that?” David asked, pulling out of the lot.

“What?”

“The pressure.” David glanced at him. “That is the mayor’s foot on our necks. And the captain’s. And probably the commissioner’s.”

Mark grunted. “I feel it.”

“You going to tell me what is going on with you?”

Mark turned his head. “What do you mean?”

“You have been quiet all morning. Quieter than usual.” David’s eyes stayed on the road. “And you keep touching your phone like it is going to bite you.”

Mark opened his mouth. Closed it.

Not yet.

“Just tired,” he said.

David did not look convinced. But he let it go.

“Fine,” David said. “Let us go see what fresh hell is waiting for us.”

The call was nothing special.

Or it should have been nothing special. A domestic. Man drinks, man hits, wife cries, cops show up. Standard. The kind of call Mark had answered a hundred times.

Except this time they had to break the door down.

No one answered. No one opened. The TV was blaring inside — some daytime talk show, audience laughing. Mark knocked. David knocked. Nothing.

David looked at Mark. Mark nodded.

One kick. The frame splintered. Two kicks. The door swung open.

The apartment smelled like vodka and fear.

She was in the corner. Curled up against the wall, arms wrapped around her head, like she could make herself small enough to disappear. Her shoulders shook. When she lowered her arms, Mark saw why.

Bruises. Purple and fresh, blooming across her face, her neck, her bare arms. Her lip was split — still wet, still bleeding. She did not say anything. Just stared at them with eyes that had stopped asking for help a long time ago.

Then he came out of the bedroom.

Big guy. Red-faced. Fists still clenched. He took one look at the uniforms — at Mark, at David — and charged.

Not smart.

David sidestepped him like a matador. Stuck out his foot. The guy stumbled, arms flailing, and Mark was there to catch him — not gently. A hard palm to the chest, a twist, and the guy hit the floor face-first.

David was on him in a second, knee in the back, cuffing him.

Mark looked down at the man’s face.

And froze.

Rusty.

The patrol officer from the church. The one who had been standing near Fergus. The one who had looked at the blood and shaken his head.

“Rusty,” Mark said.

Rusty’s eyes went wide. Then narrow. Then he started swearing — a slurred, drunken promise of violence. He would kill them. He would rip their heads off. He knew people. He would—

And then he stopped.

His face went slack. His eyes rolled back. His body convulsed once, twice — a violent, ugly shake — and then he went limp.

His wife screamed.

She lunged forward, grabbing at Rusty’s arm, at his face, at anything. David caught her around the waist — not rough, but firm — and pulled her back. Held her as she thrashed.

“Does he have seizures?” David demanded.

She shook her head. Frantic. Desperate. Tears streaming down her bruised face.

“Does he hit you often?”

Another shake. But different this time. Less denial, more please do not make me answer.

David looked at Mark.

Mark was already on his knees, unlocking the cuffs. He rolled Rusty onto his side — airway open, head tilted back. Foam bubbled from the man’s mouth. His lips moved, but no words came out. Just wet, choking sounds.

Seizure. Or something like it.

David was on the radio, calling for an ambulance, calling for backup, calling for anything. His voice was calm — the kind of calm that meant he was anything but.

Mark pressed Rusty’s head to the floor, keeping him still, keeping him from cracking his skull on the cheap laminate.

What the hell is happening to this city?

“She says he never laid a hand on her.”

Mark took a drag from his cigarette, then spat with disgust. The taste was wrong. Everything was wrong.

“I called his coworkers. Talked to Richie.” He shook his head. “Same story. Not aggressive. Level-headed. Normal. Did not drink, did not smoke…”

David reached over, took the cigarette from Mark’s fingers, and pulled a drag. His face twisted. He spat too — a quick, sharp thing — and handed it back.

“Something is off,” David said. “Maybe we got dosed with some new designer drug?”

“Then it is airborne.” Mark flicked ash onto the ground. “Because I feel it too.”

David raised an eyebrow. “Feel it how? You going to spin-kick me?”

“No.” Mark almost smiled. Almost. “Not yet.”

He dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his heel, and crouched down. Chewed his lip. Hesitated.

Then he told David. Everything. The wrapper. The symbols. The lights. The way he had woken up on the floor. The photos still on his phone.

David did not interrupt. Just listened. When Mark was done, David let out a long, slow breath.

“Well,” David said. “That is interesting.” He looked at the phone screen, at the symbols Mark had photographed. “Let us get back to the precinct before the captain skins us alive. He is already—”

The phone screamed.

Mark grabbed it. Richie’s name on the screen. He put it to his ear —

And jerked it away.

A scream. Not a call. Not words. Just raw, animal terror, ripping through the speaker.

They did not speak. Did not plan. Just moved.

The relief unit was already pulling up as Mark and David sprinted for their car. Mark yelled something — take over, we have to go — and then they were gone, tires squealing, lights flashing.

They arrived at Richie’s place at the same time as the ambulance.

Someone had called it in. A neighbor, probably. The paramedics were hanging back — smart. Waiting for the all-clear. Mark did not wait. He hit the door frame at a sprint, nearly took it off its hinges.

David stayed outside with the neighbors. They grabbed at him like he was a lifeline, all of them talking at once, pointing, crying, describing what they had seen, what they had heard.

Mark did not hear any of it.

Richie was on the floor.

Her service weapon was still in her hand — fingers locked around the grip like she had died that way. But she was not dead. Not yet.

The living room looked like a bomb had gone off. Not shrapnel. Blood. Spray on the walls. Puddles on the floor. Drips. Smears. A whole room painted red.

No one survives this much blood loss.

Mark checked her pulse anyway.

Faint. Thready. There.

“She is alive!” he shouted toward the door. “Get in here!“

The paramedics flooded in. Mark stepped back, let them work. He had done a quick sweep — no visible wounds on her body, no stab wounds, no cuts. Just bruises on the back of her head and her face. Someone had beaten her. Hard. But that was not where the blood came from.

Where did all this blood come from?

“Mark!”

David’s voice. From across the room.

Mark turned.

David was standing by the dresser, staring down at the floor. His face was pale. “Come here.”

Mark walked over.

The symbols were there. Winding across the floorboards, crawling under the dresser — even though the dresser had not been moved. No scratches. No signs. Just symbols appearing from nowhere, disappearing into shadow.

David crouched down. Dipped his finger into a thick pool of blood. Rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. Smelled it.

“Your airborne drug,” David said quietly, “just got me too. Because I see them.”

He looked up at Mark. His eyes were dark. Unreadable.

“We are all sick now.”

Mark pulled out his phone. Took photos. The flash lit up the room — white, harsh, unforgiving.

The symbols did not fade.

“Nothing was stolen from the church,” Mark said thoughtfully. “Our guys took a ton of photos. The cleaning crew spent hours scrubbing blood off the floor.” He stared at the symbols on his screen. “If we assume the same person did both…”

“Would be nice to know what the hell this says.” David straightened up, wiping his finger on his pants. “I did some digging last night. Before bed. Nothing matches. It is just… hooks. Scratches. Does not look like any language I have ever seen.”

“Could be a cipher? Some kind of code?”

David gave him a look. The kind that said I expected better from you. He rubbed the back of his neck. “No. Unless someone invented their own private system of squiggles. Which does not help us at all. All it tells us is the killer is probably unbalanced.” He paused. “Which we already knew.”

Mark nodded. His eyes drifted to the paramedics. They were lifting Richie onto a stretcher — carefully, slowly, trying not to step in the blood. One of the medics caught Mark’s gaze, nodded, and scribbled something on a piece of paper. The name of the hospital. He held it up. Mark nodded back.

Then they were gone.

“Why her?” Mark asked.

David frowned. “What?”

“Why Richie?” Mark turned to face his partner. “She was at the crime scene yesterday. At the church.”

David’s eyes widened slightly. “You think the killer was there too.”

“I think if he remembered her face, he was there.” Mark pulled out his notebook. “We need a list of everyone who gave a statement at the church. Every single person. Shake the tree. If this is really a psycho, we might have missed something.”

A neighbor called out to David — something about the time, about a statement, Mark did not catch it. David walked over.

Mark dialed the precinct.

The desk sergeant picked up. Mark asked to be transferred to the captain’s secretary.

Veronica.

She was pretty — blonde, delicate, with a sweet smile and eyes that looked like they had never seen anything bad in their lives. But everyone in the precinct knew better. Veronica knew everyone in the city. Outside the city too. Sometimes it seemed like she knew everyone in the country. No one knew how. No one knew why. But if you needed connections, you went to Vera. She could get you in touch with anyone faster than twenty years of your own networking.

“You finally stopped hiding from me?” Veronica said. No hello. Just that.

Mark winced. He had forgotten. The movie thing. He had asked her to go to the cinema after work — just a movie, just two colleagues — and she had thought it was a date. It was not. He had spent a week avoiding the captain’s office while David explained, very slowly, why he was an idiot.

“Vera, I will make it up to you. I swear. But I really need your help.”

A long sigh on the other end. “Fine, Sergeant. What is so urgent that you are willing to pay with your precious company?”

“You heard about yesterday?”

“The whole city heard. It is horrible.”

“Did you see the case file?” Mark paused. “The symbols? The writing on the altar?”

A snort. “I saw the photos.”

“I am at Richie’s place right now.” Mark lowered his voice. “It is the same. The same symbols. Everywhere.”

“Oh God. Is she—”

“Alive. Barely.” Mark ran a hand through his hair. “Vera, I need to know what this says. Because right now we have nothing. No leads. No suspects. Just blood and scratches.” He glanced at David, who was still talking to the neighbor. “David thinks it is gibberish. But what if it is not? Do you know anyone — anyone at all — who specializes in… I do not know… weird writing? Ancient languages? Ciphers? Anything?”

Veronica was quiet for a moment. In the background, Mark could hear voices. Raised voices. The captain. Hard to mistake that voice — a smoked-out bass that cracked into falsetto when he started yelling. Which was often.

“I do not,” Veronica said finally. “But I know someone who might. Let me make some calls.”

The line went dead.

Mark shoved the phone back into his pocket and stood there, watching the crime scene techs work. One of them had found something on the door frame. He was dusting it carefully, head tilted.

A hand landed on Mark’s shoulder. He flinched.

David did not apologize. “They found fresh prints. On the door. On the dresser. Same set on both.” He nodded toward the tech. “Now we just need to figure out who they belong to. Chris says they are not Richie’s. He knows her well enough to be sure.”

“The husband?”

“Lives in another city. I already sent a request.” David paused. “But I do not think it is him.” He looked at Mark. “Was she seeing anyone?”

Mark shook his head. “I do not know her that well. We need to ask around the precinct.”

David raised an eyebrow. “Or we ask Lucas.”

Richie’s son.

Mark blinked. “He is back in town?”

“Finished college. Moved back this summer.” David tapped his fingers on the door frame. “I helped him with the moving. He swore he was done with all the stupid stuff.”

“Or he just got better at not getting caught.” David’s voice was dry. Skeptical. “Either way. We call him, or we go see him?”

From the other room, the captain’s voice boomed again — something about overtime, something about press conferences.

Mark winced. “Let us go see him. I do not want to be under that.”

David almost smiled. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Lucas was home. Asleep. He took forever to answer the door, hair a disaster, squinting like the light personally offended him.

Then he saw Mark.

“Mark?” His voice cracked. “What — is it Mom?”

David slid past Mark — smooth, quiet — and guided Lucas inside. “She is alive. In the hospital. Sit down.”

Lucas did not sit. He grabbed Mark’s shirt instead. “What happened?”

“Someone attacked her.” Mark peeled the kid’s fingers off his chest. “She will be okay.”

“Who? Why?”

“We do not know yet.”

David had already found the kitchen. No idea how. A minute later he was back with coffee — strong, black, steaming. Where he had found beans, let alone brewed them, was a mystery.

Lucas took the mug. Did not drink. Just held it. “Can I see her?”

“Yeah. We will take you.”

Mark sat down next to him. Heavy. Hands loose between his knees. He hated this.

“Lucas. Was your mom seeing anyone?”

The kid blinked. “You mean dating? No. She and Peter broke up a couple weeks ago.”

“Who ended it?”

“Mom did.” Lucas finally took a sip of coffee. “He started drinking. A lot. She could not take it. They fought a few times.” A shrug. “Peter came by once. Asked me for advice. I told him to get lost.”

“Was he angry?”

Another shrug. “Upset. Not crazy upset. I figured he would just drink for a week and get over it.”

The doorbell rang.

Lucas shot up. David caught him — arm across the chest, easy, like stopping a toddler from running into traffic.

“Expecting someone?” Mark was already on his feet.

“It is Maria…”

The bell rang again. A woman’s voice called Lucas’s name.

David opened the door. An older woman stood in the hallway, a baby carrier in her arms. She flinched when she saw him.

Inside the carrier, a tiny girl in a pink onesie waved her fists and sucked on a pacifier like her life depended on it.

David’s smile appeared — the one that made people trust him even though it never reached his eyes. “Sorry to startle you, ma’am. Please, come in.”

The woman stared at him. At Mark — hand still near his holster. At David, blocking the hallway.

“Mr. Perman?” she asked, bewildered. “What is going on?”

“It is okay, Maria.” Lucas took the carrier from her. “These are Mom’s friends. Come in.”

The baby’s face scrunched up. Then she let out a thin, reedy squeal — not a full cry, just a warning shot.

The baby’s face scrunched up. Then she screamed.

David went pale. Muttered something — Mark did not catch it — and walked out. The man could handle a week-old corpse. Babies? Absolutely not.

Maria took the baby back, still eyeing Mark suspiciously, and disappeared into the other room.

Mark waited. “This Peter. Where does he live?”

Lucas vanished. Drawers opened. Things shifted. When he came back, he had a scrap of paper in his hand. An address. A phone number. Neat handwriting.

Mark took it. Nodded toward the other room. “The baby?”

Lucas smiled. First real smile all day. “That is Mia. She is mine.”

Mark nodded. The jilted lover angle was already dead. Too neat. Too easy. Cases like this did not solve themselves.