I woke to the sound of my father dropping something in the kitchen, followed by a string of muttered curses that would've made a sailor proud. Nothing new there. Dad's coordination went to shit before his first cup of coffee.
Rolling onto my back, I stared at the water stain on my ceiling - the one that looked like Australia if you squinted just right. Another day in paradise.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. 6:45 AM. Earlier than I usually dragged myself out of bed, but something in Dad's tone last night made me set the alarm. He'd come home late, eyes bloodshot, case files clutched to his chest like they might sprout wings and fly away. He'd looked at me differently, too - like he was memorizing my face.
Not exactly subtle, Detective Cross.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed at the sleep crusted in my eyes. My room was small but functional - desk, dresser, bed. A few posters of bands Dad hated and a bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks I'd found at thrift stores. Normal teenage shit.
Funny how you don't appreciate normal until it's gone.
The floorboards creaked as I made my way to the bathroom, the apartment's old bones complaining under my weight. I caught my reflection in the mirror - dark brown hair desperately in need of a cut, stubborn cowlick making the front stand up, green eyes that Dad always said I got from my mother. Not that I'd know. She died when I was too young to remember, leaving Dad to figure out how to raise a kid between murder cases and stakeouts.
He'd done alright. Better than alright, considering.
When I finally made it to the kitchen, Dad was hunched over a mug of coffee, surrounded by paperwork. His detective badge glinted on the counter beside him, the light catching the scratches earned over fifteen years on the force. He looked up when I entered, a ghost of a smile crossing his face before disappearing behind the rim of his mug.
"Morning, kid," he said. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"Bold of you to assume I was sleeping," I replied, making a beeline for the coffee pot. "What'd you break this time?"
"Mug. The one with the pun about evidence."
I snorted. "The 'I find this very compelling' one? That was a terrible mug anyway."
Dad ran a hand through his graying hair. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, and his five o'clock shadow had graduated to a full - on beard. He'd been pulling double shifts all week, chasing something he wouldn't talk about.
"You look like shit," I said, pouring myself coffee and adding enough sugar to make a dentist cry.
"And you're a ray of fucking sunshine." He shook his head, but there was no heat in it. We'd always talked to each other like this - honest, sometimes brutal, never sugarcoated. "How's school?"
"Same circus, different clowns." I leaned against the counter, surveying the organized chaos of his case files. Pages of interview notes, crime scene photos partially hidden beneath report forms, and maps with locations circled in red. I caught a glimpse of strange symbols sketched in the margins before Dad slid them into a folder.
"Any plans today?" he asked, too casually.
I shrugged. "Classes, then maybe hanging out with Jake. Why? You need the apartment for your secret double life as a male stripper? Because I've seen your dance moves, and you might want to reconsider that career path."
He didn't laugh. Instead, he stared at me with an intensity that made my stomach knot. "Listen, Ash. I might be working late tonight. Later than usual."
"Shocker," I said, rolling my eyes to cover the unease crawling up my spine.
"I'm serious." He closed the folder in front of him. "If I don't make it back by midnight, I need you to - "
" - call Uncle Ray, lock the doors, don't order pizza from that place that gave me food poisoning last time. I know the drill, Dad." I took a long sip of coffee. "I'm seventeen, not seven."
Something dark flickered across his face. "Yeah, well, seventeen's still young enough to get yourself into trouble."
I gestured to our cramped apartment with its second - hand furniture and walls thin enough to hear the neighbors arguing. "What trouble? The most exciting thing that happens here is when Mrs. Patel's cat escapes and terrorizes the building."
Dad stood suddenly, chair scraping against the linoleum. He moved to the window and peeked through the blinds, a habit I'd noticed more and more lately. "Just - be careful, alright? Stay aware."
"Are you going to tell me what's got you jumping at shadows, or am I supposed to guess?"
He turned to look at me, jaw tight. "It's just a case."
"Bullshit." I set my mug down harder than necessary. "You've had tough cases before. This is different."
For a moment, I thought he might actually open up. His shoulders sagged, and he looked older than his forty - three years. But then, like flipping a switch, Detective Cross was back - professional, controlled, walls firmly in place.
"Eat something before school," he said, gathering his papers. "There's leftover Chinese in the fridge."
"Sweet and sour chicken for breakfast. My nutritionist would be so proud."
Dad paused at the counter, fishing something from his pocket. A key - old, heavy, brass. He placed it on the counter with a soft clink.
"What's that for?" I asked.
"Safety deposit box at First National. If something happens - " He caught himself, jaw working. "Just keep it somewhere safe."
"Dad - "
"Promise me, Ash."
The kitchen suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. "I promise."
He nodded once, satisfied, then moved toward the door, checking his gun and badge as he went. At the threshold, he paused, doing something he hadn't done since I was a kid - he came back and ruffled my hair.
"Be good, kid. And remember what I always tell you."
I swallowed against the lump in my throat. "Trust your gut, not your heart."
"That's my boy." He smiled, a real one this time, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Then he was gone, door closing behind him with a soft click.
I stared at the key on the counter, cold dread pooling in my stomach.
Just a normal day. Right.
- - -
School was its usual mind - numbing parade of boring classes, clueless teachers, and classmates more concerned with their social media than actual human interaction. I drifted through it like a ghost, half - listening to lectures and giving one - word answers when called on.
"Earth to Cross," Jake said, snapping his fingers in front of my face at lunch. "You still with us, man?"
Jake Marshall had been my best friend since sixth grade when I'd punched a kid who was stealing his lunch money. He'd repaid me by showing me how to pick locks - a skill his petty - thief father had taught him before disappearing to avoid arrest.
"Yeah, sorry," I muttered, pushing my mystery meat around my tray. "Distracted."
"No shit." Jake followed my gaze to where I'd been staring at nothing. "You've been weird all day. What's up?"
I thought about telling him - about Dad's strange behavior, the key, the feeling like my skin was two sizes too small. But what would I say? My dad's acting paranoid and I have a bad feeling? That wasn't exactly breaking news.
"Just tired," I lied. "Dad's working a big case. Kept me up with his pacing."
"Detective Cross on the trail of another bad guy?" Jake grinned. "Your dad's such a badass. My mom still talks about how he caught the guy who robbed her store."
I nodded, chest tightening with pride despite my worry. Dad was good at his job - the kind of detective who saw connections others missed, who couldn't let go of a case until it was solved. It made him a fantastic cop and a frequently absent father.
"Hey, you want to hang at my place after school?" Jake asked. "Mom's working late, so we've got the apartment to ourselves. Could order pizza, play some games."
"Rain check?" I said, the key in my pocket feeling suddenly heavy. "I've got some stuff to do at home."
Jake shrugged. "Your loss. Emily's coming over too." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"You and Emily have been 'hanging out' for two months. When are you going to admit you're dating?"
"Labels are for losers and soup cans, my friend." Jake stole a fry from my tray. "Besides, keeping it casual means I can still appreciate the view when Deena Rodriguez walks by."
As if on cue, Deena passed our table, purposefully ignoring Jake's existence while he stared after her like a lovesick puppy.
"Yeah, she's clearly into you," I deadpanned. "I can tell by the way she completely pretends you don't exist."
"Playing hard to get," Jake insisted. "It's all part of the dance."
"If that's dancing, you've got two left feet and a broken ankle."
The bell rang, saving Jake from having to defend his non - existent love life further. We dumped our trays and headed to our separate classes, but before we parted, Jake caught my arm.
"Seriously, Cross. You good?"
For a moment, I considered telling him everything. Instead, I forced a smile. "Never better."
He didn't believe me - I could see it in his eyes - but he let it go. That was Jake, always knowing when to push and when to back off.
"Text me later," he said, disappearing into the crowd.
I watched him go, unable to shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted in my world. Like tectonic plates moving beneath my feet, imperceptible but catastrophic.
Throughout the rest of the day, the unease followed me. In English, we discussed Poe's "The Tell - Tale Heart," and I found myself fixated on the narrator's paranoia, his certainty that others could hear the beating heart beneath the floorboards. In Physics, I stared out the window, half - convinced I saw a figure watching the school from across the street - a tall, thin silhouette that seemed to waver like heat shimmer on asphalt.
By the time the final bell rang, my nerves were shot to hell. I skipped my last class, unable to sit still any longer, and headed home, the key a constant weight in my pocket.
- - -
The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Our apartment was never quiet. The building itself was alive with noise - neighbors arguing, pipes groaning, the ancient refrigerator humming like it was about to take flight. But when I stepped off the elevator onto our floor, the silence hit me like a physical thing.
No TVs, no voices, no sounds of life.
My palms began to sweat as I approached our door, keys jingling in my trembling hand. I tried to tell myself I was being ridiculous - Dad's paranoia had infected me, that's all. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was -
The door was ajar.
Not kicked in, not broken. Just slightly open, as if someone had closed it in a hurry and it hadn't latched.
"Dad?" I called, pushing the door wider with my foot.
No answer.
Every instinct screamed at me to run, to get the hell out and call for help. But if Dad was hurt...
I stepped inside, the floorboards creaking beneath my weight. The living room looked normal - couch where it should be, TV off, Dad's recliner empty. But there was a smell in the air, copper and salt, that made my stomach turn.
"Dad?" I tried again, moving toward the kitchen. "You home early?"
Still nothing.
The kitchen was empty too, but one of the chairs had been knocked over, and there was a smear of something dark on the counter. My eyes darted to where Dad had left the key that morning, but it was gone.
Good. That meant he'd come home, grabbed it, realized he didn't need it after all.
Right?
I moved deeper into the apartment, drawn toward Dad's room by a certainty I couldn't explain and didn't want to acknowledge. His door was closed, a thin line of light visible underneath.
"Dad, if you're in there, answer me," I said, my voice cracking. "This isn't funny."
With a shaking hand, I turned the knob and pushed the door open.
The first thing I registered was red. So much red. Splattered across the walls, pooling on the hardwood, soaked into the sheets of Dad's usually immaculate bed.
The second thing was the symbols - strange, angular markings painted on the walls in what could only be blood.
And then, finally, I saw him.
Dad lay on his back beside the bed, eyes wide and unseeing, throat torn open in a ragged, gaping wound. His service weapon was still clutched in his right hand, unfired. His left hand was curled around something small and white - a piece of paper.
I don't remember screaming. I don't remember falling to my knees. I don't remember crawling to him, hands slipping in his blood as I shook him, begging him to get up, to stop fucking around, to not be dead.
But I must have done all those things, because suddenly I was cradling his head in my lap, sobbing so hard I couldn't breathe, his blood soaking into my jeans.
"Please," I whispered, over and over. "Please, Dad. Please."
But Detective James Cross was beyond hearing me. Beyond helping me. Beyond everything.
I don't know how long I knelt there, holding him. Time seemed to stretch and contract, meaningless. Eventually, a strange calm descended - the eye of the storm, perhaps, or shock setting in.
My gaze fell to his left hand, still clutched around that scrap of paper. With gentle fingers, I pried it from his grip.
An address, written in Dad's hurried scrawl:
Blackthorn Home for Wayward Youth
1734 Hollow Creek Road
Below it, in letters that seemed to have been written with a shaking hand:
They'll keep you safe, Ash. I'm sorry I couldn't.
And that's when I noticed something else - the key. Not on the counter where he'd left it that morning, but on a chain around his neck, hidden beneath his shirt. I reached for it with blood - slick fingers, tugging until the chain broke.
As I clutched the key, a sound from the doorway made my head snap up.
Nothing there. Just shadows.