Detective Rowan Keene sat in an unmarked sedan across from the row of abandoned homes on Franklin. His headlights were off, his coffee was cold, and his eyes hadn't blinked in what felt like hours.
Through the cracked windshield, he could see the outline of the house. The one the witness had pointed to. Boarded windows. Sagging porch. No lights. But Keene knew better—houses didn't creak that much if they were empty.
Beside him, his partner muttered, "We could hit it now. Get a warrant, drag 'em out before it festers."
Keene shook his head slowly, his voice low and patient. "Not yet. Men like them, they rot from the inside. Push too soon, they clam up. Wait long enough, they eat each other alive."
He adjusted his binoculars, watching as a shadow moved past a window. Broad shoulders. Ezra. Another shape lingered by the porch—nervous, twitching. Silas.
"They're in there," Keene muttered. "And they're already cracking."
He reached into his coat, pulling out his notebook, flipping back to the page where he'd written in sharp strokes: Hollow. Ezra. Silas. Naomi.
He underlined Hollow's name twice.
His partner sighed. "And when they implode?"
Keene lit his cigarette but didn't smoke it, letting the ember burn steady. "We'll be here to sweep the ashes. That's how you catch wolves—you wait 'til they bleed each other dry."
The wind howled down the block, carrying with it the faint creak of old wood. Keene's jaw tightened as his eyes stayed locked on the house.
He didn't know yet what was under those boards. But he knew something was trying to claw its way out.
And he was ready to dig it up when the time came.