The Man The Called Ghost 2
1144 Words
The card slipped into a clear evidence bag, quiet and quick. Just like that. Gone. Yet Ava had seen enough—not just the symbol, but Mason's face when he reacted. Fear isn’t the same for everyone. Sometimes it’s loud, some people can’t hide it. Others, like Mason, have spent years mastering the art of concealment. Today, he’d just failed.
"You're staring," he muttered without even glancing her way.
"I'm thinking," he added.
"That's usually when I get a headache."
"You already have one," she teased.
"I've had it since I met you."
Almost a smile tugged at her lips, but she held back. Instead, her eyes followed the technician as he carried the evidence bag toward the mobile forensic van, accompanied by two officers—no, two instead of one, just as deliberate as their silent tension.
For a single playing card. Interesting. Very interesting. She pulled a small notebook from the pocket of her coat. Not her work notebook. The black one. The one she never showed anyone. Inside were names, dates, photographs, crime scenes, newspaper clippings—every unsolved case her father had investigated before he died. She turned to the last page, where a yellowed photograph from twenty years ago showed a warehouse fire, four bodies, and one missing witness. Her father’s handwriting ran beneath the picture: "Find the Ghost before the Ghost finds you." She traced the words with her thumb; the ink had faded, but the memory hadn't. People always thought obsession struck suddenly, like lightning. But it didn't. It grew quietly—one unanswered question at a time, one sleepless night, one funeral—until one day, you woke up and realized your whole life had been built around a ghost no one else believed in. "Ava." She shut the notebook. Mason was watching her now. "You still carry that thing?" "It reminds me." "It keeps you trapped." "No," she replied, slipping it back into her pocket. "It keeps me honest." He sighed. "I knew your father." "I know." "He wouldn't want this." Ava looked at him for a long moment. "You didn't know him as well as you think." "I knew enough." "No." Her voice was calm. "He taught me something before he died." Mason waited, silent. "If people with power are afraid of a story..." she swallowed.
... that's usually the story worth telling.
Mason looked away, as if trying to hide something.
There was no real argument for it.
Only the weight of consequences.
A murmur swept through the crowd.
Heads turned, eyes curious.
Black SUVs rolled onto the street—unmarked, government plates.
Men in dark suits stepped out before the vehicles had fully stopped, no badges, no introductions—just sharp eyes scanning everything.
One of them headed straight for Mason.
The detective stiffened, shoulders tense.
They exchanged quiet words—too quiet, almost to himself.
Ava lifted her camera, clicked.
The suited man immediately looked at her—not annoyed, not surprised, but calculating.
He approached her politely but with an unmistakable authority.
"Delete those," he said.
His tone was kind, yet it sounded more like an order.
"Why?"
"This is now a federal matter."
"I'm standing on public property," she challenged.
"Delete them."
"No," she insisted.
A heavy silence fell between them, rain softly tapping on his coat hood.
He held her gaze without a flinch.
"Miss Carter," he finally said.
She hadn't told him her name.
"You have a remarkable career ahead of you."
"I plan on keeping it," she replied firmly.
"Then stop chasing stories that don’t belong to you."
His expression didn't change, but a cold flicker passed behind his eyes.
"You sound like your father," he said quietly.
The words hit her like a slap.
Her heartbeat faltered.
"How do you know my father?" she asked.
He didn’t answer, simply turned and walked away, leaving more questions than answers.
Ava stood still, rain soaking her sleeves, fingers tightening on her camera until it hurt.
Mason knew him. She saw it—the way Mason avoided eye contact, how he suddenly became interested in directing officers.
He knew exactly who that man was..
And he wasn’t going to tell her.
Not here.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
By noon, the body had been removed.
The blood remained.
Dark stains stretched across the courthouse steps despite workers hosing the stone.
Death always lingered longer than people expected.
Ava walked toward the press area, flipping through the photographs she'd taken.
Most were ordinary.
Evidence.
Officers.
Crowds.
Then she stopped.
One image.
She zoomed in.
Behind Holloway's body, reflected in the courthouse glass, stood a figure across the street.
Black coat.
Umbrella.
Face hidden.
Watching.
She didn't remember seeing him.
Her stomach tightened.
She checked another photo.
The figure was still there.
Different position.
Same street corner.
Watching.
Third photo.
Still there.
Fourth.
Gone.
Not walking away.
Simply...
Gone.
A chill crept beneath her skin.
People who watched crime scenes usually wanted answers.
This man looked like he already knew them.
Her phone buzzed.
Daniel – Editor
She answered.
"Tell me you're leaving."
"I'm working."
"I know you're working."
His voice was strained.
"That's the problem."
"What happened?"
A pause.
Then:
"Three emails came in while you were at the scene."
She frowned.
"So?"
"They weren't sent to the newspaper."
Ava stopped walking, her breath catching as her eyes darted around her.
"What photograph?" she asked, voice trembling.
Daniel's breathing grew audible, steadying her nerves. "It was taken this morning," he replied softly.
"When?"
"About ten minutes after you arrived."
Her pulse quickened, a mix of fear and curiosity. "Daniel..." she started.
"The photo is of you," he said gently.
She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping across the street—beyond the cozy coffee shop, past the bus stop, past the line of parked cars—hundreds of strangers, each one possibly watching her.
"Are you still there?" Daniel’s voice broke through her thoughts.
"Yeah," she replied.
"What do you want me to do?"
A crowd had gathered, and she knew someone had taken her picture—someone who knew exactly where she stood, what she was looking at, close enough to watch her without being seen.
She lowered her voice. "Forward me the email."
"Ava—"
"Please, forward it."
"You need police protection."
"I need answers."
"They threatened you."
"They're afraid."
"Or warning you."
"Both."
She ended the call before he could protest. Seconds later, the alert appeared on her screen. She opened the attachment—her own face stared back, rain in her hair, camera in her hand, gazing at Holloway’s body from across the street. At the bottom, someone had typed seven words: ‘Stop chasing ghosts before one finds you.’
Ava looked up. The crowd was thinning, but one question haunted her: who was behind the camera? And how did they know her every move?
- Writer
