The familiar hum of the engine was a steady metronome for the surge of adrenaline that drove them. The radio murmured static and the low voice of dispatch outlining new developments. Blue lights weaved past as they eased into the night, a thread stitching them to the city’s bloodstream.

  Nathan checked his equipment with fingers that were sharper than his thoughts: flashlight, gloves, a small recorder, the unspoken weight of a badge. Rita sat rigid beside him, jaw locked, eyes narrowed, not the expression of a woman who admirably flirted with danger, but the kind of composure born from years of facing the dark.

  The night air whipped past, full of the smell of wet tar and hot street food, but the car felt like it belonged to no one. In his mind, he saw Nancy’s face lit by streetlamps, saw her tilting her head to laugh at a joke he didn’t remember making. “Nancy,” he said under his breath, the name like a prayer and an accusation both. He spoke of it as a test against the night. “If you are the killer, then I will get you red handed tonight.”

  It didn’t take them up to five minutes before they were already in front of Nancy’s apartment. The car engine hummed quietly as it slowed to a stop a few houses away. Nathan killed the headlights, and silence swallowed the narrow street. The night was thick, black clouds swallowing the moon, the kind of darkness that made every shadow look alive. Both of their hearts were thundering so loud that each could hear it. The nervousness was just about the case, it was something else, something personal. Something about the suspect.

  They parked a bit far off and began to survey the yard. The apartment was a two-story complex tucked between tall, aging buildings. A single dim porch light flickered, throwing an unsteady glow over the entrance.

  Nathan’s gaze was hard, unblinking. His pulse thudded in his ears. Why is it so quiet? he thought. There were no footsteps, no flicker of movement behind the curtains, no faint sound of a television inside. Just silence. He dialed her line. It rang once. Twice. Then he died. No pickup. He tried again, but he had the same result.

  Static crackled over the comm. “Suspect one, clear. She’s at home,” Director Stephen’s voice echoed in Nathan’s earpiece. Another voice came through immediately after. “Suspect two, clear. She is at home with her family.” Then Stephen’s voice again, sharp and commanding: “Nathan, what’s the situation over there?” Nathan squinted toward the window. The curtains were drawn. No sign of life. “The suspect’s home seems quiet, sir. No sign of anybody inside.”

  There was a short pause, followed by the Director’s low tone: “Then engage. Knock at the door.” Nathan glanced at Rita. She nodded silently, opened her car door, and stepped out. Her boots hit the ground lightly. She approached the door, knuckles raised. For a moment, she hesitated, then knocked firmly. The sound echoed through the quiet night. But there was silence.

  Rita waited, knocked again. But still. there was nothing. Then she knocked so violently that even the deaf could feel the vibration, but still there was no response. She sighs believing Nancy Oakham is the killer but she needs to satisfy all her instincts. They walked round all the windows knocking and peeping through it, but there was no response nor a sign of anyone inside.

  She turned back toward the car. “The suspect seems not to be at home,” she reported into her comm. Nathan’s jaw tightened. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “What’s going on?” he muttered under his breath. “Is Nancy truly the murderer?” He gritted his teeth and hit the steering. “Was she fooling me all these while?” The question hung in the air. He wanted to believe no, but every piece of evidence staring at him in the face screamed yes.

  Director Stephen’s voice cut in. “Remain in surveillance. She will definitely return. Arrest her once on sight.” There was silence. “Understood,” Rita replied crisply.

  Time began to crawl. The night stretched thin as they remained in position. The minutes felt like hours. Nathan watched the door, his thoughts tangled between duty and doubt. “Please don't be the criminal,” he muttered.

  When Director Stephen and the other team members finally arrived, their black vans pulled silently to the curb. Within minutes, men were stationed at every corner; on rooftops, behind cars, blending into shadows. They formed a silent perimeter around the building. “Everyone maintain your position. Do not look aside or blink. I believe she will show up soon.”

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  Nathan could feel the weight of their readiness. One order, and the entire street would light up with flashing red and blue. But as the hours dragged on, Nancy never appeared. The wind grew colder. All eyes remained fixed in directions, but it yielded no result.

  The first hint of dawn was still far away. They kept their positions, eyes red with exhaustion but refusing to blink. Stephen barked over the comm, his voice hard as steel. “Nobody leaves until she returns. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Copy that, sir,” they all answered, though their mind wasn’t steady. Nathan's thoughts kept spiraling back to Nancy; her laugh, the way she smiled when she talked about helping and saving lives, how easily she had disarmed him without even knowing it. He wanted her to be innocent. Desperately. But he could still see the blood-soaked photos of the victims. He could still hear her voice the night of the incident. Too calm. Too rehearsed.

  Rita stole a glance at him. His face was pale, his eyes distant. This isn’t Nathan, she thought. “This is not the legendary shadow king of Vexmoor I have worked with for four years. He’s losing himself to her. She hated that. She hated Nancy for it, hated the control she seemed to have over him without even being here. And maybe, deep down, she hated herself for wanting his attention too. Loving a man who now seems to never notice her affection.

  The night pressed on. Every ticking second from Nathan’s wristwatch echoed louder than the last. Somewhere, a dog barked. Tires screeched faintly a few streets away. Then, silence again. Hours later, the sky began to shift. Dawn crept in, washing the dark with faint streaks of gray. The streetlights flickered off one by one. Then, a sound. Nancy’s door creak.

  Nathan’s eyes shot toward the door. His heart was hammered. The lock turned. Slowly, Nancy’s door swung open. And there she was. She stepped out of the apartment, dressed neatly for work, her brown hair tied into a bun, her office bag slung over her shoulder. Her face looked fresh, calm, almost glowing in the weak morning light, as if she had just woken up from a peaceful night’s sleep.

  Rita straightened immediately. “Here she is,” she said, her tone clipped with triumph. Director Stephen leaned forward, disbelief shadowing his face. “Shit, was she home all this while?”

  Rita frowned. “I don’t think so, sir. I knocked at the door and surveyed from outside. There was nobody inside. Nobody was lying on her bed. I saw it, it was empty.”

  Nathan straightened his face confused. In his six years as a detective, no situation has dazzled him like this one. With his eyes locked on Nancy. His voice was low. “Then if she wasn’t home, how did she get back inside without us seeing her?” His question was cold, heavy, almost rhetorical, but it made the entire team go still. Something wasn’t adding up. It is either Rita was mistaken, or she is a living ghost.

  Rita’s hand hovered near her gun holster. The others tightened their grips on their weapons, waiting for orders. But before any of them could move, a calm female voice cut through the tension. “What’s going on?” Every head turned. Nancy was standing by the front steps, brows raised, confusion softening her features. Her voice carried no fear, only curiosity, maybe irritation. “And why are men of the Vexmoor police force here in front of my property?”

  One of the junior officers hesitated, his hand shaking slightly on his weapon. Before he could respond, Director Stephen emerged from his car, straightening his coat. “We can only find out when we interrogate her,” he muttered. The rest of the team held their ground. Stephen approached Nancy slowly, his posture calm but authoritative. “Good morning, Miss Oakham,” he said, his tone polite but firm. “I’m Stephen Sabbath, Director of the Vexmoor Investigation Unit.”

  Nancy’s eyes narrowed slightly. She set her bag down and extended her hand. Her handshake was confident, firm, not the kind of gesture that screamed guilt. “The Investigation Unit?” she asked with a faint eyebrow raised. “What is the Investigation Unit doing on my property?”

  Nathan’s heart skipped. Property. Not home. She didn’t say home. Stephen exhaled slowly, studying her. “We had an investigation that led to this place, Miss Oakham.” Her brows furrowed, genuine confusion darkening her features. “Am I now a suspect of a crime, or has some criminal run into my property without my knowledge?”

  There was no tremor in her voice. No nervous tick. Her tone was cool and unshaken. Her only expression was that of confusion and curiosity.

  For a moment, Stephen just stared at her. He couldn’t see even the faintest flicker of fear, or lies. It unsettled him. He smiled, but his eyes were sharp. “If you don’t mind, Miss Oakham, where were you all through last night?” The question landed like a blade between them. The air went still. The officers froze. Even the early morning wind seemed to pause, hanging heavy in the space between question and answer.

  Nancy’s expression didn’t change. But her hand tightened slightly around the strap of her bag, a movement so subtle that only Nathan noticed. He swallowed, eyes darting between her and Stephen. Say something, Nancy, he thought. Say something that makes sense.

  The silence thickened. The whole street seemed to hold its breath. Every officer’s attention was locked on her lips, waiting for the slightest movement. And Nathan’s mind wouldn’t stop racing. He remembered the first time he saw her walking the Westlake street home. How she had looked at him across the table at their first dinner weeks ago, smiling as though she already knew that he was lost in her.

  He hated that memory now. Then he remembered her words. “The price for having me is not as simple as you think.” He gritted his teeth. “Could this be what he meant?”

  Because if she had been playing him all along, if this woman, standing so calmly before them, really was the killer, then every emotion he’d felt was nothing but a trap. Then one had fooled him for the first time in his career.

  Rita could feel his tension beside her. She crossed her arms, eyes on Nancy. Answer, damn it, she thought. Let’s see what kind of lie you’ll tell now. I know you are the criminal, just admit it.