Red Jack

Red Jack: Old Scars

Chapter Twelve: The House in the Rain

The clue came from the dead journalist’s files—handwritten notes about an abandoned property just outside the city limits. The name on the deed matched one of the shell companies the Callahans had used in the late 90s.

Aria and Ethan followed the lead.

The drive was long, gray clouds gathering above them, the air thick with the promise of rain.

The house sat alone at the end of a dirt road, half-hidden by overgrown trees. Its windows were boarded, its walls warped with time.

“This place looks like it hasn’t been touched in years,” Aria muttered, stepping out of the car. Her jacket was too thin, the cold wind already biting through it.

They went inside, flashlights cutting through the dark. Dust floated in the air. The smell of mold and wood rot filled their lungs.

Ethan found a stack of old newspapers in a corner, headlines barely readable through the water damage. “Aria,” he said, holding one up. “Look at the date—this is from the year the Callahans made that land deal.”

They searched for hours. A folder of receipts. A half-burned journal. Enough to prove someone had used the place as a hideout when the Callahans were under investigation years ago.

Then the sky cracked open.

Rain hammered the roof like gunfire. The dirt road leading back to town turned to mud in minutes. Their car wouldn’t make it out tonight.

They were stuck.

Aria shivered as the temperature dropped, her jacket soaked through from the dash back inside. Ethan noticed immediately.

“Here,” he said softly, shrugging off his own coat and draping it over her shoulders. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine,” she muttered, hugging it tighter anyway.

He smirked faintly. “Yeah, you look fine. Teeth chattering and all.”

They lit the old fireplace with some scraps of wood they found, the flickering light throwing shadows across the walls.

For the first time since the case began, the tension between them wasn’t about death or suspicion. It was… something else.

“Why’d you really take this case?” she asked quietly, watching the firelight dance across his face.

Ethan hesitated. “Let’s just say… I’ve lost people before. I don’t like watching it happen to anyone else.”

There was something in his eyes she hadn’t seen before—a softness hidden under all that calm control.

Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, the fire crackled. And for the first time in days, Aria felt the weight of the case lift… just a little.

—

Chapter Thirteen: Secrets in the Storm

The storm howled outside, wind slamming the shutters against the walls. Inside, the fire warmed the room, but the air still carried the weight of everything they hadn’t said.

Aria sat on the floor near the hearth, Ethan leaning against the wall close enough to feel the heat but not too close to crowd her.

She caught him watching her sometimes, like he wanted to say something but didn’t. Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe not.

The rain pounded harder, leaking through a broken section of the roof. Water dripped steadily onto the warped floorboards, softening the wood until a corner gave way with a sharp crack.

“Hold on,” Ethan said, grabbing the flashlight. He crossed the room, prying the loosened floorboard up.

Beneath it, wrapped in plastic and duct tape, was a small metal box.

Aria joined him, heart pounding. They carried it to the table near the fire, wiping off dust and grime before Ethan snapped the rusted lock open with his knife.

Inside were old photographs, receipts, and letters—some with the Callahan family name scrawled across the top.

But the real shock was the photo on top: the first murder victim.

Younger. Smiling. Standing beside Henry Callahan (Jason Callahan's father) himself at what looked like a private party.

“He knew them,” Aria whispered. “He wasn’t some random victim… he was connected to the family all along.”

Ethan flipped through more photos. One showed the victim shaking hands with another man whose face was partially cut off in the frame. Behind them, someone had scribbled a date and two initials: R.J.

Aria froze. Red Jack.

But before she could speak, lightning tore the sky outside, and for a moment, the whole room flashed white.

Ethan looked at her, eyes dark. “We need to find out who R.J. really is. Because whoever he is… he’s been close to the Callahans for years.”

Aria nodded, shoving the files back into the box. “And he’s killing to keep it that way.”

“It could be that the RJ didn't kill the Journalist but Henry Callahan.” Ethan said

The storm raged on, but neither of them slept that night.

—

Chapter Fourteen: Shadows Over the City

The storm had cleared by the time Aria and Ethan drove back into the city. The roads were slick, the sky pale and heavy with clouds, as if the weather itself hadn’t quite moved on from last night.

The metal box sat on Aria’s lap, its contents sealed in evidence bags.

At the precinct, Lieutenant Brooks scanned the photographs and letters, his jaw tightening with each page. “The Callahans are gonna lose it when they see this,” he muttered. “Half this stuff links them to illegal land grabs, missing funds… maybe even the first victim.”

“They already hate me,” Aria said dryly. “What’s a little more?”

But she noticed Ethan didn’t say much. He stood off to the side, arms crossed, eyes shadowed like he was weighing something in his head.

When Mason brought in coffee for everyone, he leaned close to Aria. “You sure about your new partner? Guy barely talks about himself. Shows up outta nowhere, takes over the case, now he’s digging through Callahan dirt like he’s got a personal stake in it.”

Aria shrugged, but the thought stuck. A personal stake?

The Callahans reacted exactly as expected when Brooks confronted them with the photos. Henry Callahan’s face turned red as he slammed a hand on the table.

“These are old lies dug up by a nobody journalist!” he snapped. “My son is dead, Detective. You should be finding his killer, not smearing my family!”

“Funny,” Aria said coldly, sliding the photo of the first victim across the table. “Because this nobody seemed pretty close to your family once.”

Henry Callahan froze. His wife paled.

They shared a look—just a second too long—and Aria saw it. Fear.

Ethan noticed too. His eyes narrowed slightly, just before Henry demanded a lawyer and stormed out with his wife in tow.

Aria turned to Ethan. “You saw that?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. They’re hiding something big.”

But Mason’s words nagged at her. A personal stake.

She glanced at Ethan as he gathered the files, his expression unreadable. Who exactly was Detective Ethan Cole… and why did it sometimes feel like he knew more than he said?

—

Chapter Fifteen: Bloodlines

The call came in at dawn.

Another body.

This time, it was Charles Hensley—Henry Callahan’s former business partner. Found in his luxury apartment, throat slit clean, no signs of forced entry.

Aria stood over the crime scene, the city lights flickering through the windows behind her. Hensley had been part of the same land deal from the old photos. Same signatures. Same secrets.

Ethan crouched beside the body, scanning the details with sharp, calculating eyes. “Same M.O.,” he murmured. “Red Jack’s sending a message.”

“Yeah,” Aria said quietly. “But to who? The Callahans… or us?”

Later that morning, Henry Callahan stormed into the precinct again, anger practically dripping from his tailored suit. His lawyer wasn’t far behind.

Ethan stepped in before Aria could speak.

And the way he handled the interrogation—

He was calm. Precise. Every question cut like a blade, cornering Henry with details so fast the man barely had time to react.

“You knew Hensley,” Ethan said flatly. “You did business together. He was found dead. That’s two men close to you gone within weeks. You expect me to believe you know nothing?”

Henry bristled. “I have nothing to hide.”

“Then you won’t mind explaining,” Ethan continued smoothly, “why the victim from the first murder was photographed with you at your private gala. Or why your business partner signed over land worth millions to a shell company owned by someone calling himself R.J.”

Henry froze. The lawyer stepped in, demanding the interview end. Ethan didn’t flinch, didn’t raise his voice. He just leaned back, eyes never leaving Henry’s.

“Fine,” Ethan said evenly. “But we both know lies have a way of catching up to people… fast.”

When Henry left in a fury, Aria turned to Ethan.

“You were… incredible in there,” she admitted before she could stop herself.

He gave a small smile. “I told you. I don’t like watching good people die.”

It wasn’t just his words. It was the way he carried himself—controlled, confident, like the chaos around him couldn’t touch him.

And for the first time, Aria felt something shift.

Not trust. Not yet.

But something close.

—

Chapter Sixteen: Old Scars

Night fell over the city, but Aria and Ethan stayed at the precinct, the metal box and crime scene files spread out across the table between them.

Rain tapped softly at the windows.

Aria sifted through an old letter recovered from the abandoned house, its ink smudged but still legible:

“You promised protection. Instead, you left me to take the fall. This city owes me blood.”

The signature at the bottom was only initials: R.J.

Aria stared at it, heart thudding. “Ethan… this isn’t random. Red Jack didn’t just pick victims. He was after the Callahans from the start.”

Ethan leaned closer, his arm brushing hers as he read over her shoulder. “Looks like they made a deal with him… then sold him out. Maybe to the cops. Maybe to someone bigger.”

“And he disappeared,” Aria murmured. “Until now.”

The pieces were falling into place: the first victim, the land deal, the sudden deaths. The Callahans hadn’t just angered some stranger—they had created their own nightmare.

Ethan looked at her then, his expression unread

—