The precinct buzzed with a strange, chaotic energy that morning — papers flying between desks, phones ringing off the hook, agents barking orders across the bullpen.
But none of it made any sense.
Not to Mark.
He moved like a man possessed, his boots heavy against the cracked tile floors as he carried another stack of files to his desk, brows drawn together in deep frustration.
Something wasn’t right.
Something was wrong.
He shoved the files down and raked his hands through his hair, growling low under his breath.
The fingerprint results had finally come back — but the answer only raised more questions.
Peter Bennett.
The partial print on the threatening note matched Peter Bennett.
Exactly. Unmistakably.
But that was impossible.
Peter was still locked up.
So how the hell was P
