Four days passed without an attack.
The media started calming down.
News cycles move fast.
Three attacks in one week is panic.
Four quiet days is "developing story."
Pocho didn't relax.
He didn't say it out loud, but he knew.
The silence wasn't mercy.
It was distance.
---
The station felt different.
Less tension in the air.
Officers joked again.
Phones rang for normal reasons.
Harris even said it out loud.
"Maybe he skipped town."
"He didn't," Pocho replied.
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do."
Harris looked at him.
"You're sure."
"Yes."
He didn't explain.
He didn't need to.
The killer didn't feel like someone who ran.
He felt like someone who watched.
---
Pocho expanded the radius on the map by one mile.
Just to test it.
Then he erased it.
No.
Seven felt right.
He started reviewing security camera footage from small businesses inside the circle.
Hours of nothing.
People coming and going.
Delivery trucks.
Employees locking doors.
Routine.
Ordinary.
That's what the killer chose.
Ordinary.
People no one noticed.
You notice them.
The words came back without effort.
He shut the laptop.
---
At home, his wife was folding laundry on the couch.
He sat beside her.
"You're home earlier this week," she said.
"Nothing new."
"That's good."
"Yes."
She kept folding.
"Are you thinking about him right now?" she asked.
He paused.
"Yes."
She nodded once.
"At least you're honest."
He didn't know what that meant.
After a minute, she stopped folding.
"Let's go out tomorrow," she said. "Dinner. Just us."
He hesitated.
It wasn't a long hesitation.
But she noticed.
"Okay," he said.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"Don't cancel."
"I won't."
---
The next morning at the station, there was still nothing.
No new victims.
No suspicious calls.
No tips that went anywhere.
Pocho felt something unfamiliar.
Restlessness.
Not because he wanted another attack.
But because the pattern felt incomplete.
Three wasn't random.
Three was building.
Stopping at three didn't make sense.
Harris walked over with coffee.
"You look worse when nothing's happening," Harris said.
"I'm fine."
"You're waiting for something."
"Yes."
"That's not healthy."
"Neither is letting it go."
Harris shook his head.
"You're not the only detective here."
"I know."
"But you act like you are."
Pocho didn't answer.
He wasn't trying to act that way.
But he also didn't want it drifting.
He didn't want momentum lost.
He didn't want the killer comfortable.
---
That night, he and his wife went to dinner.
Small restaurant.
Nothing fancy.
They talked about normal things.
Her sister's job.
Their neighbor's dog.
A movie they hadn't seen.
It felt almost stable.
Halfway through dinner, she said:
"You seem calmer."
"I am."
"That's good."
He nodded.
It wasn't entirely true.
He wasn't calmer.
He was coiled.
There's a difference.
On the drive home, she reached for his hand.
He held it.
And for a moment, the case felt far away.
Not gone.
Just distant.
When they pulled into the driveway, he noticed something small.
The porch light was off.
They always left it on.
He stopped the car.
"Did you turn that off?" he asked.
"No."
He stepped out slowly.
The house looked normal.
Front door closed.
Windows intact.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Everything looked untouched.
He walked through the living room.
Kitchen.
Hallway.
Nothing moved.
Nothing broken.
He flipped the porch light back on.
Probably a power flicker.
Probably nothing.
He didn't say it out loud.
But the quiet didn't feel neutral anymore.
It felt watched.