Veil of innocence

Chapter Ten: A Familiar Shadow

The call came just after 3:00 a.m.

Grey was already half-awake, sitting at his kitchen table with the journal open again, tracing the loops of Marek’s handwriting like they held a hidden code. The ring of his phone was sharp, cutting through the silence.

Navarro’s voice was tight. “Another one. Just found. Riverbank. Southside.”

Grey was already pulling on his coat.

The sky was still bruised from the storm as Grey and Navarro arrived at the scene. Flashing lights lit the banks of the river in fractured reds and blues. Uniforms kept bystanders back, though the street was quiet.

The victim lay half-submerged in the shallows. Female. Young. Blonde hair splayed in the water like silk thread. She wore a white nightgown, soaked and clinging to her frame. Staged like the others—cleaned, positioned carefully, almost gently.

But not perfectly.

“There,” Navarro said, pointing. “Glove print on the jaw. Pressure bruise. He used force.”

Grey leaned closer. “No gloves before.”

“He rushed it,” Navarro said. “Something spooked him. Or he’s slipping.”

The coroner arrived and began examining the body. “She’s still warm. Less than an hour dead. No water in her lungs—she was killed before being placed.”

Navarro added, “And no wipe-down on the inside of the fingernails. CSU’s already pulling samples.”

Grey stood silent, scanning the area. Something wasn’t right. This scene lacked the Watcher’s usual precision. There was an edge of panic here.

And then Ruiz jogged over, breathless. “We’ve got something big.”

He handed Grey a clear evidence bag.

Inside it: a disposable camera. Water-damaged, but intact.

The photos were developed by noon. Grainy, poorly lit, but the first few frames showed the woman walking alone—likely taken while she was still alive.

Then the last frame.

A figure, partially caught in the lens. Hoodie, face shadowed. But one detail stood out: a faded tattoo on the wrist. A crooked chess pawn, barely visible.

Grey’s heart slammed against his chest.

He’d seen that tattoo before.

Michel had drawn it on himself as a teenager, bored during a suspension. He used to say pawns were the only pieces that could become something else.

Navarro leaned in. “Frank… that’s your son.”

Back in his office, Grey sat still while the evidence surrounded him like fog. The camera. The partial prints. The sudden change in the Watcher’s pattern.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said aloud.

Navarro paced. “Unless Michel’s the killer.”

“No,” Grey snapped. Then softer, “Or not alone.”

He rose and pointed to the photo wall. “Marek worked with Michel at Hopefield. That place broke them both. What if Marek groomed him? Fed the anger. Made him believe this was justice?”

Navarro nodded slowly. “So Marek was the mastermind… and Michel’s the knife.”

Grey’s voice cracked. “And I didn’t see it coming.”

Later that day, CSU confirmed the fingerprint under the victim’s nail. Partial. But enough.

Match: Michel Grey.

Grey didn’t speak for a long time.

Navarro asked gently, “You still think he’s being used?”

“I don’t know what I think anymore.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “What do we do now?”

Grey stared at the photo of his son, fifteen years old, half-smiling, unaware of what was coming.

“We find him,” Grey said. “Before the next body drops. Before he becomes something he can’t come back from.”