Detective Rowan Keene sat in the dim glow of the precinct's back office, crime scene photos scattered across his desk. The freight job. The clerk's murder. Witness statements. All threads leading to the same place: the house on Franklin.
His partner leaned against the doorway, arms folded. "Rowan, we got enough to hit 'em now. Warrant's ready. SWAT's itching."
Keene didn't look up. He traced a finger across the grainy photo of the boarded-up rowhouse, its windows black, porch sagging. "Not yet."
His partner scowled. "Not yet? They're unraveling in there. One wrong move and half the block gets sprayed."
Keene lit his cigarette but didn't smoke it, letting the ember glow. His voice was calm, almost cold. "That house is a coffin. They're burying themselves piece by piece. We rush it, we just make noise. We wait? They give us everything. Blood, weapons, cash, the whole play."
The radio on his desk crackled. "…possible shots fired near Franklin… neighbors reporting noises inside abandoned homes."
Keene's eyes narrowed. He crushed the cigarette in the tray, finally standing. "It's time."
Within an hour, unmarked sedans crept into position down Franklin, headlights off. Shadows moved in silence, vests strapped, rifles ready.
Keene stayed in his car across the street, binoculars steady. Through the boarded windows, faint light flickered—someone pacing with a lighter. Hollow. Another shadow slumped in a chair. Ezra. A smaller shape rocking in the basement glow. Silas.
And then, by the window, Keene caught her—Naomi. Still, watching the street, a cigarette burning between her fingers.
Keene scribbled her name on his pad, circling it twice. "She's the crack," he muttered.
His partner's voice crackled in his earpiece. "Orders, Keene?"
He lowered the binoculars, jaw tight. "Not yet. Let the floor creak one more time. Then we break it open."
The house across the street groaned in the winter wind. And Keene waited, knowing secrets don't stay buried forever.