The morning after the three bodies was grey and cold. Davon sat at his desk, staring at the case board. Ellen Vasquez on a park bench. Alistair Finch in a bathtub. Silas in a basement. Three photographs. Three deaths. One day.
Claire walked in with two cups of coffee. She set one in front of him without a word.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I haven’t.”
She sat down across from him. “Neither have I.”
They drank in silence. The squad room was quiet. Most of the night shift had gone home. The day shift hadn’t fully arrived yet. It was just them and the ghosts of the case.
Davon’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.
“It’s Clifford,” he said.
“What does he want?”
“He didn’t say. Just asked if we could meet him. Not at the precinct.”
Claire frowned. “Where
