No Alibi
The cartons sweated on Bennett’s desk, white paper growing translucent with grease, the smell of soy and ginger cutting through the room’s stale radiator heat. Marcus tore open a packet of chopsticks, snapped them clean, and jabbed at a mound of noodles like he was interrogating it. “Never thought a triple homicide would taste like lo mein,” he muttered. “Four,” Ethan corrected quietly, sinking into the chair opposite with the posture of a man who’d forgotten what straight felt like. His own carton stayed mostly closed; the steam fogged his glasses when he tried to look inside. He didn’t bother again. For a while, they ate in the lull of fatigue, chopsticks clinking against cardboard. Outside, the city muttered under a thin veil of winter rain. Then the knock came. Quick, clipped—someo
- Writer
