The rain hit the cobblestones like a thousand small hammers.

It was the feast.

The Millers’ wedding.

Everyone was there.

You stood by the window.

Your glass was empty.

You did not ask for more.

Margaret was in the center of the room.

She wore white.

It was not pure white.

It was the white of old paper.

The white of bone.

She looked at you.

Her eyes were dark.

Deep wells.

You looked away.

You looked at the wall.

The wallpaper was peeling.

Like skin.

A man spoke.

It was Thomas.

Thomas Bradshaw.

He was the Chief Inspector.

He stood on the stage.

He held a microphone.

It hissed.

Like a snake.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said.

His voice was low.

Gravel.

“Tonight we celebrate.”

He smiled.

It did not reach his eyes.

You knew his look.

You had seen it before.

In the mirror.

In the police station.

In the dark.

You turned to leave.

Your foot caught the rug.

You stumbled.

No one saw.

You caught yourself.

Your hand touched the wall.

The paint was cold.

It felt like dead flesh.

You walked to the door.

The door was heavy.

Oak.

It smelled of dust.

You pushed it open.

The night rushed in.

The rain was harder now.

It lashed your face.

You walked to the alley.

The alley was narrow.

Wet stones.

Darkness.

You stopped.

You leaned against the brick.

You closed your eyes.

You listened.

The sound of the party was distant.

Muffled.

Like a dream.

You heard a voice.

It was close.

Right behind you.

“Detective?”

You did not turn.

You knew the voice.

It was yours.

Or it was not.

It was Margaret.

She was standing in the rain.

She was not in the wedding dress.

She was in a black coat.

Her hair was wet.

Sticking to her face.

She looked small.

She looked afraid.

“Why did you come out?” you asked.

Your voice was steady.

You trained it.

For years.

In the office.

In the interrogation room.

“I had to see you,” she said.

Her lips were blue.

From the cold.

Or from fear.

“You look tired,” she said.

She looked at your face.

She saw the lines.

The shadows under your eyes.

“I am always tired,” you said.

“Is it the case?” she asked.

“It is always the case,” you said.

She stepped closer.

The water dripped from her nose.

“Did you find it?”

“Find what?”

“The clue.”

Your chest tightened.

The rain ran down your neck.

“Clues are just stories,” you said.

“Until they are true,” she said.

She reached out.

Her hand was cold.

She touched your face.

Her fingers traced your jaw.

It was a familiar touch.

A lover’s touch.

A killer’s touch.

You pulled back.

You stepped into the dark.

“I have to go,” you said.

“Where?” she asked.

“To work.”

“You are not working,” she said.

“I am a detective,” you said.

“I am a wife,” she said.

“You are a suspect,” you said.

The words hung in the air.

Heavy.

Wet.

She did not flinch.

She did not cry.

She looked at you.

With a strange calm.

“Then find me,” she said.

She turned.

She walked back toward the house.

Back toward the light.

Back toward the lie.

You stayed in the alley.

The rain soaked you.

Through your coat.

Through your shirt.

To your skin.

You waited.

You waited for the siren.

It did not come.

You waited for the phone.

It did not ring.

You went inside.

The door was open.

The party was loud.

Music.

Laughter.

Clinking glasses.

You walked in.

Your shoes dripped.

A trail of water on the floor.

No one noticed.

You walked to the bar.

You ordered a whiskey.

Neat.

The bartender was a young man.

He had a scar on his chin.

He looked at you.

He recognized you.

He did not ask questions.

He poured the glass.

You drank.

The whiskey burned.

It went down like fire.

It lit your stomach.

It cleared your head.

You looked at the stage.

Thomas was still speaking.

He was holding a paper.

He was reading.

It was not a speech.

It was a report.

You moved closer.

You used your ears.

You used your heart.

“...the body was found,” Thomas said.

“...in the river.”

“...identity confirmed.”

“...Margaret Miller.”

The room went silent.

The music stopped.

The laughter died.

A gasp.

A sharp intake of breath.

From the crowd.

You looked at the stage.

Thomas looked at you.

His eyes were hard.

Like flint.

He pointed at you.

“Detective,” he said.

“Come here.”

You walked to the stage.

Your legs were heavy.

Like lead.

You stood next to him.

The crowd stared.

Faces in the dark.

Eyes like windows.

You saw their confusion.

Their fear.

Their judgment.

“Did you know?” Thomas asked.

His voice was quiet.

Only for you.

Only for me.

“I know,” you said.

“Did you kill her?”

You looked at the floor.

The wood was polished.

You saw your reflection.

Your face.

Your eyes.

Your soul.

“I don’t know,” you said.

Thomas laughed.

It was a dry sound.

Like leaves crunching.

“You always say that,” he said.

“That’s your problem.”

He handed you the paper.

The report.

You took it.

The paper was wet.

From his sweat.

Or from the rain.

You looked at it.

Your name was on it.

Not as the detective.

As the suspect.

The ink was fresh.

Blue.

Like a vein.

Like a bruise.

You looked at Thomas.

He stepped back.

He stepped away.

He did not look at you again.

He walked off the stage.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The rain poured in.

He walked out.

He did not look back.

You stood alone on the stage.

The crowd watched.

They did not speak.

They did not move.

They waited.

For you to move.

For you to speak.

For you to break.

You looked at the paper.

You looked at the name.

Your name.

You folded it.

Small.

Tight.

You put it in your pocket.

You walked down the stairs.

The crowd parted.

A sea of faces.

Eyes.

Mouths.

Silence.

You walked to the door.

The same door.

The heavy oak door.

You pushed it open.

The rain was gone.

The sky was clear.

The stars were out.

Cold.

Bright.

Indifferent.

You walked into the street.

The cobblestones were dry.

The air was crisp.

You felt light.

Empty.

Hollow.

You walked to the bridge.

The old bridge.

Over the river.

The river was black.

Still.

Like oil.

You looked down.

You saw your face.

In the water.

It was not your face.

It was Margaret’s face.

Pale.

Still.

Dead.

You touched the water.

It was cold.

It bit your finger.

You pulled your hand back.

The reflection broke.

Ripples.

Circles.

Expanding.

Fading.

Gone.

You stood on the bridge.

The wind blew.

It pulled at your coat.

It pulled at your hair.

It pulled at your mind.

You closed your eyes.

You remembered the kiss.

The last kiss.

In the dark.

In the alley.

Her lips on yours.

Salty.

Warm.

Alive.

Then the cold.

The stone.

The silence.

You opened your eyes.

The river was gone.

The bridge was gone.

The street was gone.

You were in the office.

Your desk.

Your chair.

The clock on the wall.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

It was midnight.

The phone rang.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

You did not pick it up.

It stopped.

The door opened.

It was Thomas.

He was wet.

His coat was dark.

He held a file.

Thick.

Brown.

He walked to your desk.

He put the file down.

It made a heavy sound.

Thud.

He sat in the chair.

Across from you.

He did not speak.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

The silence stretched.

Long.

Thin.

Like wire.

“You’re done,” he said.

His voice was flat.

No anger.

No pity.

Just fact.

“Why?” you asked.

Your voice was a whisper.

“Because it was us,” he said.

We?

You waited.

He did not elaborate.

He stood up.

He buttoned his coat.

He walked to the door.

He stopped.

He turned.

One last look.

It was not anger.

It was sorrow.

Deep.

Old.

“Choose,” he said.

“Who you are.”

He left.

The door closed.

Softly.

Gently.

Like a sigh.

You sat in the chair.

The file was on the desk.

You did not open it.

You did not need to.

You knew what was inside.

Your name.

Her name.

The date.

The time.

The place.

The evidence.

The motive.

The truth.

You looked at your hands.

They were still.

Clean.

Empty.

You looked at the window.

The city was dark.

The lights were on.

Yellow.

Warm.

Lying.

You stood up.

You walked to the window.

You looked out.

You saw the street.

Empty.

Quiet.

You saw the rain.

It was falling again.

Soft.

Gentle.

Washing everything clean.

Washing the blood.

Washing the guilt.

Washing the truth.

You turned away.

You walked to the door.

You opened it.

The hallway was dark.

The stairs were long.

You walked down.

One step.

Two steps.

Three.

You did not count.

You did not think.

You just walked.

Down.

Down.

Into the dark.

Into the night.

Into the rain.

You were the detective.

You were the suspect.

You were the killer.

You were the victim.

You were the story.

You were the end.

You walked out.

You walked into the street.

You walked into the rain.

You did not look back.

You did not look forward.

You just walked.

Into the distance.

Into the clue.

Into the void.

The rain kept falling.

It washed the world.

It washed you.

Until you were gone.

Until you were clean.

Until you were free.

The story ends.

The rain stops.

The silence remains.

You are still there.

In the dark.

In the rain.

In the truth.

You are the detective.

You are the end.

You are the clue.

You are the distance.

You are the silence.

You are the rain.

You are the void.

You are the story.

You are the end.

You are the clue.

You are the distance.

You are the silence.

You are the rain.

You are the void.

You are the story.

You are the end.