The office smelled faintly of ink, stale paper, and burnt coffee. The rain outside tapped against the glass, streaking the window in crooked lines that blurred the city lights. Norman Drake sat hunched over his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled, a pencil tapping against the wood. The board above his head held three photographs of smiling women—therapists, mothers, professionals. All dead. All suicides. Officially.
But Norman’s gut told him otherwise. He’d stopped believing in coincidence years ago.
The door creaked. Jason McMillan entered, a folder tucked tightly under his arm. His expression was taut, cautious, but there was a spark in his eyes. He crossed the room and dropped the folder on the desk with a heavy thud.
“I pulled a favor,” Jason said. “Juvenile records. Sealed, but I go
