Every Four Years

The unfinished message

We’re standing outside Haven, and it’s not what I expected at all.

Grace had told me the basics — that Alley bought up old office blocks and turned them into safe havens for the homeless, for men, women, and children escaping abuse. I pictured something practical, sterile even: concrete walls, beige corridors, fluorescent lighting. Efficient, maybe, but impersonal.

What’s in front of me looks more like a boutique hotel than a charity shelter. Warm light spills through the wide security glass. There’s a reception desk shaped like a wave, bright murals of city skylines, and a kids’ corner with enough toys to fill a shop window. At the back, just visible through an open archway, is a gleaming kitchen with copper pans and big communal tables.

It’s impressive — not intimidating, not clinical. It feels alive. Loved.

It feels like her.

Grace pulls Alley aside the second we step through the gates. They move out of earshot, voices low, posture tense. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Grace keeps glancing at me, and Alley keeps gesturing in that exasperated, sharp way that makes me think I’m the subject of their argument.

I want to know what’s going on, but I’ve learned enough about Alley in the last week to know she doesn’t appreciate curiosity — especially from cops. I honestly think she’d knock me out and tie me to a radiator if I annoyed her right now.

Eventually, the two of them separate. Grace heads toward me, pasting on a placating smile. Alley walks away, out of sight, every movement precise and controlled.

“Hey, Lucas,” Grace says brightly. Too brightly. “It was really nice of you to come, but Alley’s right — it’s nothing to worry about. I’m sorry we ruined the evening.”

“You said someone graffitied the building,” I reply. “That’s a crime, Grace. If it’s targeted, it’s harassment. Do you know who did it?”

Before she can answer, a man appears beside us. Late forties, maybe fifty, tall, ex-army posture. Cargo pants, dark windbreaker, a radio clipped to his belt.

“We have CCTV of the perpetrators,” he says. “And an eyewitness. One of our guards spotted them — looked like teenagers. He called for backup, but they saw him before he could approach and took off.”

Grace’s eyes dart toward the corner of the building where Alley disappeared.

I offer the man my hand. “Detective Lucas Reed.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face before he takes it. “Adam West. Head of security.”

His grip is firm, assessing. He studies me for a heartbeat, and then his mouth quirks. “Well, damn. Looks like Miss Kase finally got over her grudge.”

“Who?”

Grace exhales softly, almost groaning. “Kase is Alley’s last name. And Adam…” she lowers her voice, “…Lucas is our new neighbour.”

Adam chuckles. “Ah. Guess not, then.”

I grin despite myself. “Where’s the graffiti?”

Grace opens her mouth “That’s okay, we’ve—” but Adam speaks over her. “Right around the corner. Miss Kase just went to take a look.”

That’s all the invitation I need. Before Grace can stop me, I walk toward the corner, ignoring her whisper-hissed “Lucas, wait—” that trails after me.

⸻

It hits me before I even turn the bend — the faint chemical sting of spray paint.

Then I see it.

The graffiti sprawls across half the wall, a mural done in quick, heavy strokes of red and black. A man stands at the edge of a pier, holding a fishing rod bent under the weight of something massive. At the end of the line — a shark, half out of the water, mouth open in a silent snarl.

Underneath, in thick crimson letters, the message:

“T.S I’M—”

It stops there, the paint running out mid-sentence. They must’ve bolted when the guard spotted them.

But it’s enough.

I know a message when I see one. This isn’t vandalism. It’s personal.

And it’s meant for her.

Alley is standing in front of it, completely still. Not just still — frozen. The calm, sarcastic woman who rolled her eyes at me an hour ago is gone. Her expression is carved from stone, eyes locked on the wall, blue gone almost black. Every muscle in her body is coiled tight, but her face is blank.

For a moment, I’m not looking at a charity founder. I’m looking at someone who’s been to war.

“It’s bigger than I thought,” I murmur, trying to break the silence.

Nothing.

I take a step closer, studying the mural. “Is that a shark he’s caught?”

Still nothing.

When I glance at her again, it’s like she’s somewhere else entirely. Her focus isn’t on the paint; it’s on the message beneath it. I’ve seen that look before — victims, witnesses, even cops — when a ghost from their past steps out of the shadows.

Grace and Adam round the corner, and in an instant, Alley changes. Her face smooths out. Shoulders lower. She puts on a mask so natural it would fool anyone who didn’t know what to look for.

I do.

“Alley?”

She doesn’t even glance at me.

“We have CCTV footage of the incident?” she asks Adam, voice calm, professional.

“Yes, ma’am. Waiting for you to review it.”

The way Adam answers her intrigues me. There’s respect in his voice which is to be expected, she is his boss after all, but there’s something else in it too — reverence, maybe even wariness.

I try again. “Alley.”

No response.

“Grace,” she says instead, “call someone to get this cleaned up. I don’t want every tagger in the city thinking Haven’s a new canvas.”

Grace nods, already dialing.

“ALLEY.”

The name comes out louder than I meant. It echoes in the silence.

She turns. Slowly.

And I swear, for a split second, I understand why hardened criminals used to tell stories about monsters in the dark.

Her eyes are pure ice, her jaw sharp as a blade. The polite, socially awkward neighbour is gone. What stands in front of me is someone dangerous — someone who’s learned the hard way how to survive.

If I were a lesser man I might have peed my pants. Hell, I still might.

Grace and Adam vanish in the same quiet, efficient way people leave a room before a fight breaks out.

“Thanks for coming, detective,” she says, using my title like a curse. “But your services aren’t required.”

Her tone is polite. Her eyes say leave it alone.

I’m not good at leaving things alone.

I hold my ground. “I’m sorry I shouted,” I say carefully. “But I needed your attention.”

She tilts her head, voice calm, deliberate. “Looks like you have it.”

Her tone should sound hostile, but it doesn’t. It sounds like control — a weapon she’s using to keep herself steady.

I take a slow breath. “Are you okay?”

“What?” she snaps, startled.

“That message,” I nod at the wall. “It’s for you.”

Not a question.

She doesn’t reply.

“It’s a threat, isn’t it?”

Still nothing.

“Is it from the person you said you ran into the other day?”

No reaction, just the faintest muscle twitch in her jaw.

“Are you in danger?”

Silence.

I sigh, rub the back of my neck. “Are you going to answer any of my questions?”

Finally, she moves. Turns to face me, eyes still unreadable.

“No. Yes. Probably. Most likely. Almost certainly.”

She exhales. “I’ll be fine.”

Then adds dryly, “And I just did.”

She walks past me, leaving me alone with the mural, the paint fumes, and a thousand images buzzing in my skull.

Her face when she saw the wall.

Her composure cracking for half a second.

The way she went completely still, like a soldier under fire.

She’s hiding something. I don’t need a warrant or a witness to know that — my instincts have been honed on people like her. Victims who refuse to admit they’re victims. Survivors who think protection is weakness.

And then there’s the other thing — the part I shouldn’t be thinking about.

When she turned on me, fury burning under that ice, I should’ve stepped back. Instead, I felt it — that pull. The sharp edge of attraction wrapped around danger.

It’s not professional. Hell, it’s not even smart. But it’s there.

She confuses the hell out of me. One second she’s fragile enough to make me want to guard her from the world; the next she’s terrifying enough to make me wonder who’s guarding the world from her.

And now there’s a threat on the wall with her name written all over it.

I tell myself it’s about the case. About protecting the people who live in that building. About doing my job.

But it’s not just that.

It’s her.

The way she carries herself like she’s waiting for the next hit.

The way she keeps everyone, even Grace, at arm’s length.

The way her voice cracks slightly only when she says the word “safe.”

I’ve seen that before. The aftermath of trauma. But there’s something else — a hardness that comes from being forged in it.

If I push her, she’ll shut down.

If I back off, someone else might get hurt.

And if I let myself care too much, I’ll end up crossing lines I can’t uncross.

I rub a hand over my face, the city lights flickering across the building.

She’s hiding something dangerous — not just from me, but from everyone. And the more I see of her, the more I want to know what it is.

But tonight proved something: whoever she’s running from has found her.

And if they come for her again, I need to be ready.

Even if she doesn’t want me there.

Especially then.

Because whatever this message means, I have a feeling it’s about to surface — and when it does, we’ll both be in deep water.