The Scars That Bind Us by Dori Patrick

The Scars That Bind Us-1st Draft
Part 1

Chapter 1: Echoes of Salt and Silence
The day had stretched long and weary, and now the sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky above the Pacific Ocean in hues of amber and crimson. Marcus Lake stood by the window of his modest office, gazing out at the horizon where the water swallowed the light. It was April 29, 2019, and the clock on his desk read 7:43 PM. He worked late most nights, not because the cases demanded it, but because the alternative was stepping into the hollow silence of an empty house.
With a sigh, he shrugged on his weathered leather jacket, flicked off the buzzing fluorescent lights, and made for the door. As he pushed through the exit, his eyes caught on the faded lettering affixed to the glass:
“Marcus Lake, Private Investigator.” The black vinyl was peeling again, curling at the edges like dead leaves. He muttered a curse under his breath, the salt air from the nearby ocean carrying his words away. “That’s the third time this year I’ve had to order new lettering for that damn door,” he grumbled. Astoria, Oregon, was a charming little coastal town, perched on the edge of the Columbia River where it met the sea, but its relentless wind and dampness ate through everything, signage included. The quaint clapboard buildings and rugged cliffs might have been picturesque, but they were no match for the elements.

Marcus trudged across the gravel lot to his 2010 Chevy Suburban, its dark blue paint chipped from years of battling the coastal weather. He slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar creak of the leather welcoming him, and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, and the stereo kicked on mid-song, Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” blaring through the speakers. He let the gritty chords wash over him as he pulled out of the lot and pointed the SUV toward home. The drive was short, just a few winding miles along the shoreline, past the weathered fishing boats and the neon glow of the Workers Tavern. Soon, he turned into the narrow driveway of his beach cabin, a cozy, cedar-shingled retreat nestled among wind-twisted pines. Before heading inside, he paused at the mailbox, flipping open the rusted lid to retrieve a small stack of envelopes.
Kicking off his scuffed boots just inside the threshold, Marcus padded across the worn hardwood floor to the kitchen. The cabin smelled faintly of salt and cedar, a scent that had seeped into every corner over the years. He yanked open the fridge door, its contents sparse but predictable: a six-pack of Corona, a block of cheddar, and a jar of pickles. Grabbing a beer, he twisted off the cap with a satisfying hiss and shuffled to the living room. He sank into his favorite recliner, a faded green monstrosity that had seen better days, and took a long, cold swig. The chill of the bottle felt good against his palm, grounding him as he tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
“Another night, another beer, and no one to share it with,” he mused aloud, the words hanging in the quiet air. A pang of self-pity tugged at him. It had been over six months since Nicole walked out, six months since the cabin lost its warmth, its laughter. She’d been a bright spot in his life, with her quick wit and wild curls, but she’d grown tired of his late nights and brooding silences. At 32, Marcus wasn’t old, but he wasn’t getting any younger either. The thought nagged at him: maybe it was time to dust off his charm, to step back into the world of dating. He snorted softly at the idea, Marcus Lake, private eye, fumbling through small talk over coffee. Yeah, right.
Reaching for the remote on the side table, he flicked on the TV, letting the low hum of a late-night talk show fill the void. He turned his attention to the mail, sorting through it with half-hearted interest. “Advertisement, advertisement, political bullshit,” he muttered, tossing each piece into the waste bin beside the recliner with a flick of his wrist. His fingers paused, though, when they brushed against something different, an ivory envelope, heavier than the rest. He held it up to the dim light of the lamp, squinting at the elegant, looping script that spelled out his name: Marcus Lake. A faint floral scent wafted from the paper, delicate and out of place in his rugged world. Turning it over, he noticed the flap was sealed with a gold sticker embossed with a single letter: H.
He leaned forward, curiosity sparking in his tired eyes. This wasn’t junk mail, this was something else entirely. The bottle of Corona sat forgotten on the table as he carefully slid a finger under the flap, breaking the seal. Whatever was inside, it was about to pull him out of his quiet, lonely night, and into something far more intriguing.

Chapter 2: The Invitation
WE JOYFULLY INVITE YOU TO THE MARRIAGE OF
KATE ELOIS HOLLOWAY
&
THOMAS JACOB HUNTINGTON
SATURDAY THE FIFTEENTH OF JUNE
TWO THOUSAND AND NINETEEN
AT HALF PAST FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
ZENITH VINYARD
5657 ZENA RD NW, SALEM OREGON
CELEBRATION TO FOLLOW

Marcus sat frozen for a moment, the ivory envelope still clutched in his hand, its floral scent lingering like a ghost from the past. Well, well, he thought, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Kate’s getting married. The name on the invitation, Katherine Elise Holloway, stirred memories he’d long tucked away. Back in high school, he and Kate had been something of an item. She’d been the golden girl: sweet as summer honey, with a laugh that could light up a room and a sophistication that made their small town of Salem feel too small to hold her. Marcus, on the other hand, had been the rough-around-the-edges kid with a chipped tooth and a penchant for trouble. She’d been out of his league, even then, and when she left for college, bound for bigger things, he hadn’t been surprised. Just disappointed.
He leaned back in the recliner, the TV droning on with some late-night host’s monologue, and traced a finger over the gold-embossed H on the envelope. It was nice to be invited, he supposed, a polite nod to old times. But going? That was another story. Weddings weren’t his scene, especially not ones where the bride was someone he’d once kissed under the bleachers after a football game. He set the invitation on the table next to his half-empty Corona and let out a slow breath. Nah, I’ll pass.
Later that evening, with the TV still murmuring in the background, Marcus decided to shake off the nostalgia and distract himself. He hauled himself out of the recliner, grabbed his beat-up laptop from the kitchen counter, and flopped onto the couch. Time to see what’s out there, he thought, firing up Facebook. He wasn’t above a little late-night scrolling, trolling, really, hoping to spot a dating prospect among the sea of familiar faces. He clicked through his friends’ posts, past the predictable parade of baby photos and vacation selfies, searching for any hint that a mutual acquaintance might be single, bored, or lonely enough to say yes to a movie and a burger at the diner down the road.
Twenty minutes in, his optimism was waning. The pickings were slim, meager, he corrected himself with a snort. A recently divorced cousin was whining about her ex again, and a high school buddy’s sister had posted a cryptic “feeling lost” status, but neither sparked his interest. He was about to slam the laptop shut and call it a night when a sharp ping cut through the quiet. A notification bubble popped up in the corner of the screen. New message. His eyebrows shot up, and a chuckle rumbled in his chest. Maybe it’s a hot new chick looking for a good time, he thought, half-joking. He clicked the message bar, expecting spam or a random “hey” from some old client. Instead, his breath caught as the name appeared: Kate Holloway.
The chat window blinked open, and her first words stared back at him.
Kate: Marcus, is that you?
He grinned, fingers hovering over the keys before tapping out a reply.
Marcus: Who did you think it’d be? You messaged me.
Kate: Don’t be an ass. I only asked because I was nervous to talk to you. Did you get my wedding invite in the mail yet?
He paused, glancing at the envelope on the table. Lying crossed his mind, “Nope, must’ve gotten lost in the mail”, but what was the point? She’d know eventually.
Marcus: Yes, it just came today.
Kate: Are you coming?
His fingers hesitated. He could picture her, even now, those hazel eyes, that way she had of tilting her head when she wanted something. He typed slowly.
Marcus: I’m not sure. It depends, I guess.
A beat passed, the cursor blinking in the silence. Then her next message popped up, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.
Kate: Can you please come? I need you.
He stared at the screen, the words sinking in. Need you. What the hell did that mean? His mind raced, old feelings warring with confusion, curiosity tugging at the edges of his resolve. The TV chattered on, oblivious, as Marcus leaned closer to the laptop, the glow casting shadows across his face. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just a wedding invite anymore.
Marcus: Of course I’ll be there.
He typed the words quickly, hitting send before he could second-guess himself. The moment the message whisked off into the digital ether, a flicker of uncertainty crept in. What exactly was he agreeing to? Kate’s plea, I need you, hung in the air like a riddle he couldn’t quite unravel. He stared at the glowing screen for a beat, the cursor blinking back at him, then shook his head with a low chuckle. “Guess I’ll find out,” he muttered to himself, snapping the laptop shut. The cabin felt quieter now, the TV’s chatter reduced to a dull hum as he hauled himself off the couch and shuffled toward the bedroom. “Guess I’ll find out,” he repeated under his breath, the words trailing him like a promise, or a warning, as he collapsed onto the bed, the faint scent of Kate’s floral envelope still lingering in his mind.

Chapter 3: Vows and Shadows
The wedding day arrived on June 15, 2025, a warm, golden afternoon that seemed to stretch endlessly under a cloudless Oregon sky. Marcus guided his Chevy Suburban down the winding roads toward Zenith Vineyard, just outside Salem. The drive from Astoria had taken a little over two hours, the rugged coastal cliffs gradually giving way to the gentle swells of rolling hills and sprawling farmland. He pulled into the vineyard’s gravel lot, tires crunching as he parked alongside a row of polished cars, sleek sedans and SUVs that made his weathered blue Suburban look like a relic. Stepping out, he tugged at the collar of his charcoal suit, the same one he’d worn to a client’s funeral two years back, its fabric slightly creased from months in the closet. The summer sun bore down, warming his skin, while a faint breeze carried the sweet, earthy scent of ripening grapes from the sprawling vines that stretched across the estate.
Marcus adjusted his tie, a muted blue he’d chosen to match the season’s vibrancy, and took in the scene. Zenith Vineyard was postcard-perfect: a rustic barn with weathered red siding anchored one end of the property, its charm offset by rows of white chairs facing a wooden arbor draped in wildflowers and cascading ivy. Guests mingled beneath the dappled shade of ancient oak trees, their voices a soft hum mingling with the clink of wine glasses. Women in flowing sundresses and men in crisp linen suits dotted the lawn, their laughter bright against the lush backdrop of the Willamette Valley. His watch read 3:47 PM; the ceremony was set for 4:00, leaving him just enough time to slip in unnoticed, or so he hoped.
He ambled toward the seating area, boots scuffing against the packed earth path. The invitation had been precise, Zenith Vineyard, Salem, OR, and now he understood Kate’s choice. The place radiated an effortless elegance, a world apart from the salty, wind-whipped grit of Astoria. He slid into a chair near the back row, offering a curt nod to a middle-aged man who flashed a polite smile from beneath a straw fedora. The air thrummed with anticipation, laced with the faint perfume of lavender and the warm undertone of oak. Up front, the arbor framed a sweeping view of the vineyard rolling toward the horizon, and a trio of bridesmaids in sage-green dresses fussed with their flower crowns, their whispers barely audible over the rustling leaves.
Marcus’s eyes drifted to the groom, a lanky figure with dark hair swept back in a polished, almost-too-perfect style that screamed wealth and confidence. He stood beside the officiant, tugging nervously at his cuffs while flashing a tight, practiced smile to the crowd. Marcus didn’t recognize him, didn’t care to. Probably some city slicker with a trust fund and a handshake that promised more than his spine could deliver. A flicker of something, envy, maybe, or the sting of old wounds, twisted in Marcus’s gut, but he shoved it down. He wasn’t here for the groom. He was here for Kate, though the mystery of her I need you had been gnawing at him for weeks, a quiet itch he couldn’t scratch.
The soft strum of a guitar broke the murmur of the crowd, signaling the start. The guests hushed, heads turning toward the barn where the bride would emerge. Marcus straightened in his seat, heart kicking up a notch despite his best efforts to stay detached. I need you, she’d said. As the music swelled and the first glimpse of white fabric appeared in the doorway, he braced himself. Whatever Kate had dragged him into, the answer was moments away.

Chapter 4: Beneath the Vines
The ceremony had been short and, to Marcus’s surprise, genuinely sweet, unfolding beneath the flower-draped arbor with a simplicity that cut through the vineyard’s grandeur. As the final vows were spoken and the crowd erupted in applause, guests rose from their white chairs, stretching and murmuring as they began drifting toward the reception pavilion near the barn. Marcus lingered for a moment, watching the scene unfold, the golden June light spilling across the lawn, the faint hum of guitar chords fading into the breeze. Good, he thought, seizing the opportunity. Now’s my chance. He straightened his tie, smoothed a hand over his charcoal suit, and made his way toward the newlyweds, a casual smile tugging at his lips.
Kate stood radiant in her white gown, the soft fabric catching the late afternoon sun as she laughed at something the groom said. Thomas, the lanky city type Marcus had clocked earlier, looked relaxed now, his dark hair still impeccably swept back. As Marcus approached, Kate’s hazel eyes landed on him, and her face lit up with a grin that stirred a decade’s worth of memories. He extended a hand to the groom first, keeping it easy. Thomas met the gesture with a firm shake, his grip confident but not overdone.
“Thomas, this is my old high school friend Marcus,” Kate said, her voice warm and lilting as she made the introduction.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Marcus said, nodding. “Congrats, man. Nice ceremony.”
“Thanks,” Thomas replied, flashing a quick, genuine smile. “Appreciate you coming out. Kate’s told me a bit about you, Astoria, right?”
“Yeah, still holding down the fort up there,” Marcus said with a half-shrug. “Long drive, but worth it. This place is something else.”
“Isn’t it?” Kate chimed in, gesturing toward the vineyard with a sweep of her hand. “We fell in love with it the second we saw it. The vines, the barn, perfect for a summer day like this.”
“Couldn’t ask for better weather,” Marcus agreed, squinting up at the cloudless sky. “Beats the usual coastal fog I’m stuck with. You picked a hell of a spot.”
Thomas chuckled. “That was all Kate. She’s got an eye for these things. I just said yes to whatever she wanted.”
“Smart man,” Marcus said, smirking. “Happy wife, happy life, right?”
“Exactly,” Thomas said, slipping an arm around Kate’s waist. “Though I think I got the easy part, showing up and looking good.”
Kate swatted his arm playfully. “Oh, please. You spent twenty minutes on your hair this morning.”
“Guilty,” Thomas admitted, laughing. “Had to keep up with you.”
Marcus took a sip from the pinot noir he’d snagged earlier, letting the small talk roll. “Wine’s not bad either. Local, I assume?”
“Straight from the vineyard,” Kate said proudly. “They’ve got a killer pinot noir here. You a wine guy, Marcus?”
“Not really,” he admitted, swirling the glass. “More of a beer man, but this’ll do. Beats the cheap stuff I keep in the fridge.”
“Still living that bachelor life, huh?” Kate teased, her tone light but her eyes searching his for a moment.
“Something like that,” Marcus replied, keeping it vague. “Keeps things simple.”
The three of them stood there, the chatter of the reception crowd swelling in the background as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the grass. They traded a few more pleasantries, Thomas asking about the drive from Astoria, Marcus complimenting the guitarist’s set, Kate mentioning how the wildflowers had been a last-minute addition. Then, mid-sentence, Kate’s expression shifted, a subtle seriousness flickering across her face. She touched Thomas’s arm gently, her voice softening.
“Hey, hon, why don’t you head into the reception hall? Maybe check on the cake or see if the band’s ready. I just want to catch up with Marcus for a quick sec.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow, but his smile didn’t falter. “Sure, babe. Don’t keep him too long, I’ve got a first dance to claim.” He gave Marcus a friendly nod, “Good meeting you, man”, before turning and strolling toward the pavilion, leaving Marcus and Kate alone in the fading light.
Kate turned to Marcus, her radiant glow dimming as a nervous pallor crept over her face. She clasped her hands together, fingers twisting anxiously, and took a shallow breath before speaking. “Marcus, I didn’t just want you here for the wedding. I mean, I’m glad you came for that, but… I need your help. By help, I mean I need to hire you. It’s my mom. There’s something seriously wrong, and I feel like I’m the only one who’s worried.”
Marcus tilted his head, his easy demeanor sharpening into focus. He set his wine glass down on a nearby table, giving her his full attention. “Tell me all about it,” he said, his voice steady and low. “I’m all yours.”
Kate nodded, her gaze flickering toward the pavilion where Thomas had disappeared, then back to Marcus. She swallowed hard, her words coming out shaky at first, like she was testing the weight of them. “A few months back, I started noticing something off with Mom. She’s been getting bumps and bruises, a lot of them. Not the normal kind, you know, like tripping over a rug or bumping into a counter. These are… different. They look like the kind you’d get from fighting, or, or something worse. She’s been trying to brush it off, saying she’s just clumsy, but I don’t buy it.”
Marcus frowned, his mind already ticking through possibilities. “Go on,” he prompted gently.
She took another breath, steadying herself. “It started after she got back into dating. Dad passed a few years ago, heart attack, out of nowhere, and she was alone for a while. I was glad when she said she was ready to meet someone new; she deserves to be happy. But then she met this guy, Nelson, and that’s when I started seeing the marks. He’s… I don’t know, he’s charming enough when I’ve met him, but there’s something about him that doesn’t sit right. Mom’s been vague about him, where they go, what they do, and I’m worried, Marcus. Really worried. I think he might be hurting her.”
Her voice cracked on the last sentence, and she pressed her lips together, eyes glistening as she looked at him, waiting for his response. The hum of the reception faded into the background, the clinking glasses and distant laughter swallowed by the gravity of her words. “Well, Kate, I think it’s time you reintroduce me to your mother,” I suggested.

Chapter 5: Faces in the Crowd
Kate and I stepped into the reception pavilion together, the warm glow of candlelit tables and dim overhead lights casting a soft, romantic haze over the room. The faint strains of violin music drifted from hidden speakers, filling the air with a gentle melody as guests mingled and the live band set up in the corner. I glanced at the bass drum as we passed, catching the logo emblazoned across it: “Jump The Shark.” A grin tugged at my lips, pleasant surprise kicking in. They were a popular local act, a staple up and down the coastal beach towns, known for their gritty covers and laid-back vibe. I’d caught them a few times at the Workers Tavern back in Astoria. But tonight, their set would have to wait, I had more pressing business.
Kate steered me through the crowd, her white gown brushing the hardwood floor as she made a beeline for her mother. “I want you to talk to her before things get too loud,” she murmured, her voice tight with purpose. We stopped in front of a petite woman with silver-streaked hair, dressed in a pale lavender dress that shimmered faintly under the lights. Ellen Holloway turned toward us, her face lighting up with recognition as Kate spoke.
“Mom, you remember Marcus? My old high school boyfriend.”
“Marcus!” Ellen exclaimed, her voice bright with delight as she clasped her hands together.
“Oh, it’s so nice of you to come to the wedding. Look at you, all grown up and handsome as ever!”
I flashed a small smile, dipping my head. “Good to see you too, Ellen. Been a while. How’ve you been?” As I spoke, my eyes subtly scanned her, taking stock of the exposed parts of her body, her wrists, her neck, the curve of her shoulders. Her skin showed the gentle wear of age, fine lines etched around her eyes and mouth, but she still carried a warm, youthful glow. Then I spotted it: a small, purplish mark on her left wrist, faint but unmistakable. A dab of makeup had been smeared over it, though not quite enough to hide the bruise entirely. My jaw tightened slightly, but I kept my tone easy, casual.
Ellen waved a hand, brushing off the years.
“Oh, you know, getting by. It’s so sweet of you to come all this way for Kate. She’s been glowing all day.”
“She deserves it,” I said, glancing at Kate as she hovered nearby. “Ceremony was beautiful.” Just then, Thomas appeared at Kate’s side, extending a hand to lead her toward the dance floor for their first dance. Kate shot me a quick, meaningful look, keep going, before letting herself be whisked away, leaving me alone with Ellen.
I turned back to her, easing into the conversation. “I was sorry to hear about Kate’s dad,” I offered, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Must’ve been tough.”
Ellen’s smile softened, a flicker of sadness passing through her eyes. “Thank you, Marcus. That’s sweet of you to say. It was a shock, losing Jim like that, but time helps. And, well, ” she chuckled, a little spark returning to her voice, “you should know I’m back on the dating scene now.”
I raised an eyebrow, playing along. “Oh yeah? Well, I’m available,” I teased, leaning in just enough to coax a laugh out of her.
She swatted the air playfully. “Oh, stop it, you. Always the charmer, weren’t you?” Her laughter faded into a comfortable pause, and I seized the opening, shifting my tone to something a touch more serious.
“Anyone special catch your eye out there?” I asked, keeping it light but watching her closely. Now was the moment to feel her out, to see what she’d let slip about Nelson, or anything else.
Ellen didn’t miss a beat, launching into her story about Nelson with an ease that caught me off guard. “He’s a dump truck driver for one of the local road companies around here,” she said, her voice steady and warm, as if she were recounting a pleasant Sunday outing. “We actually met on one of those online dating apps, you know, the kind for people looking for a second chance at love.” She smiled softly, a flicker of nostalgia in her eyes. “His wife passed away too, a few years back. Cancer, I think he said. So we’ve got that in common, I suppose.”
She paused, sipping from a glass of wine she’d been cradling, then brightened again. “Oh, and he has a daughter, Lindsey. Beautiful girl, single, too. She’s an absolute joy. Always smiling, full of life.” Ellen’s gaze slid toward me, a suggestive glint sparking in her expression. “You know, I should introduce the two of you. She’s around your age, an elementary school teacher Marcus, might be a nice match.”
I studied her as she spoke, searching for any crack in her tone, any twitch of unease that might betray something darker beneath the surface. Nothing. Her demeanor was smooth, relaxed, her words flowing without a hint of hesitation or strain. If Nelson was trouble, she wasn’t letting it slip, not yet. I leaned into the opening she’d given me, keeping my response light but deliberate. “That’d be great,” I said, flashing a grin. “I’m sticking around town for a few days before I head back to Astoria. I’d love to meet her.”
It was the perfect in, a chance to dig deeper without raising suspicion. Ellen beamed, clearly pleased with the idea. “Wonderful! I’ll set something up. You’ll like her, Marcus, she’s got a good head on her shoulders.” Her enthusiasm felt genuine, but I couldn’t shake the image of that faint mark on her wrist, the makeup smudged just enough to hint at something she wasn’t saying. For now, I’d play along, let her think this was just a friendly catch-up.
As the evening wore on, the wedding reception at Zenith Vineyard began to wind down. The fairy lights strung across the pavilion twinkled against the deepening dusk, and the lively chatter of guests softened into a contented hum. “Jump The Shark” had finished their set, the last notes of a coastal rock ballad fading into the night, leaving the violin music to reclaim the air. I weaved through the thinning crowd, my boots scuffing the hardwood floor, and found Kate and Thomas near the dessert table, laughing as they fed each other bites of cake.
I approached with a casual smile, hands tucked into my pockets. “Hey, you two. Just wanted to say my goodbyes before I head out. Great night, congrats again.”
Thomas grinned, wiping a smear of frosting from his chin. “Thanks, Marcus. Glad you could make it. Safe drive back to Astoria.”
Kate turned to me, her expression softening but her eyes sharp with intent. “Actually, we’re taking off for the honeymoon on Monday, heading to Hawaii for a week. But…” She paused, glancing at Thomas before leaning in slightly, her voice dropping. “Let’s meet up for coffee Monday morning before we leave.” She punctuated the offer with a quick wink, a subtle signal that told me everything I needed to know. We were on the same page, the real investigation was just getting started.
“Sounds good,” I replied, matching her tone. “Text me the spot. Enjoy the honeymoon, you two.” I gave Thomas a nod and Kate a knowing look before turning to slip out into the cool June night, the weight of her trust, and her mother’s mystery, settling firmly on my shoulders.

Chapter 6: Beneath the Surface
The soft glow of Sunday morning light filtered through the thin curtains of my hotel room, nudging me awake with its gentle insistence. I groaned, rolling over in the tangle of sheets to squint at the clock on the nightstand: 10:06 AM. Late by some standards, but I wasn’t on a deadline, not yet. Time for a coffee, I thought, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. A little fuel before I started poking around Salem for clues about Nelson sounded just right.
After a quick shower, I threw on a faded flannel shirt and jeans, grabbed my keys, and headed downstairs to the hotel’s cramped breakfast nook. A stale muffin and a strong cup of black coffee later, I was feeling human enough to get moving. I climbed into my Chevy Suburban, the engine rumbling to life as I pulled out of the parking lot and eased onto the quiet streets of Salem. The town unfolded around me, a charming patchwork of brick-front shops with painted signs and Victorian homes tucked among sprawling oaks, their gingerbread trim catching the morning sun. It was one of those quaint little places that felt frozen in time, peaceful, but hiding its secrets just beneath the surface.
I steered the SUV lazily through the grid of downtown, eyes scanning for a glimpse of a patrol car. A cop could be my shortcut, someone who might know Nelson, or at least point me toward the kind of guy he was. Dump truck driver, widower, maybe a charmer, maybe something worse. Salem wasn’t big; if he had a reputation, it wouldn’t take much to dig it up. The streets were sleepy this early on a Sunday, just a few folks strolling with dogs or sipping from to-go cups outside a café. I kept my pace slow, windows cracked to let in the cool air, ready to pivot the moment I spotted a black-and-white cruiser, or anything else that might lead me closer to the truth.
The Sunday morning light spilled through the windshield as I cruised through Salem’s quiet streets, the quaint brick-front shops and Victorian homes rolling by in a sleepy blur. I’d barely finished my coffee, the bitter taste still lingering on my tongue, when a flash of red and blue erupted in my rearview mirror. I almost laughed, almost. The sight of a cop car lighting up behind my Suburban was absurd enough to tickle my funny bone, but a quick glance at the speedometer wiped the smirk off my face. Thirty-two in a thirty zone. Hardly a crime. This wasn’t about speed, I realized. Small towns like Salem had a habit of flexing their muscle on out-of-towners, pulling them over just to sniff out who they were and what they were up to. Fine by me, I’d been hoping to chat with a cop anyway.
I eased the SUV to the curb, tires crunching against the gravel shoulder, and killed the engine. The patrol car, a dented black-and-white with “Salem PD” stenciled on the side, rolled up behind me, lights still flashing like it was some big damn deal. I watched in the side mirror as the officer stepped out, all swagger and stiff posture, his boots thudding against the pavement. He was a stocky guy, maybe early-fifties, with a buzz cut and a jaw that looked like it chewed nails for breakfast. His uniform was crisp, badge glinting in the sun, but there was something sour in the way he carried himself, like he was itching for a fight.
He sauntered up to my window, tapping the glass with a knuckle like he owned the damn town. I rolled it down, keeping my expression neutral. “Morning, officer,” I said, voice steady.
“License and registration,” he barked, skipping the pleasantries. His name tag read Sgt. Billy Johnson, and his tone told me he wasn’t here to make friends. I fished my wallet out of my pocket and handed over the documents, along with the Suburban’s paperwork from the glove box. He snatched them like I’d insulted his mother, squinting at my license like it was written in code.
“Marcus Lake,” he read aloud, dragging out the syllables. “Astoria, huh? What’s a coast boy doing sniffing around Salem?”
“Just visiting for a wedding,” I said, keeping it simple. “Friend of mine got hitched yesterday at Zenith Vineyard.”
He grunted, unimpressed, and handed my stuff back with a flick of his wrist. “You were going thirty-two in a thirty. That’s speeding.”
I raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to call bullshit. “Didn’t realize two miles over was a capital offense around here.”
His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in closer, resting a meaty forearm on my doorframe. “You got a smart mouth, Lake. I don’t like smart mouths. You think you can roll into my town and do whatever the hell you want?”
“Just driving, Sergeant,” I said, holding his gaze. “Not looking for trouble.”
“Well, you found it,” he snapped, stepping back and crossing his arms. “This is a warning, next time, it’s a ticket. Or maybe I’ll just haul you in for wasting my time. We keep things orderly here, and I don’t need some outsider stirring up shit. You got that?”
“Crystal,” I replied, voice flat. What an ass, this guy was a walking stereotype, a small-town cop with a power trip and a chip on his shoulder. But as much as I wanted to push back, I needed him more than he needed me. “Say, while I’ve got you here, you know a guy named Nelson? Drives a dump truck for a road crew around town?”
Johnson’s face hardened, suspicion flickering in his piggy eyes. “What’s it to you?”
“Friend of a friend,” I said casually, shrugging. “Heard he’s been seeing someone I know. Just curious what kind of guy he is.”
He snorted, a nasty edge to it. “Nelson’s a working stiff. Works at Lakeside Construction. Keeps his nose clean, far as I know. But I ain’t your damn gossip line. You wanna play detective, get a badge, or stay the hell outta my jurisdiction.” He jabbed a finger at me, then turned on his heel and stalked back to his cruiser, muttering something I couldn’t catch.
I watched him peel out, lights still flashing for no damn reason, and let out a slow breath. Sergeant Billy Johnson was a grade-A prick in a police uniform, but he’d given me something, confirmation Nelson was known, and at least outwardly, not a blatant troublemaker. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. I fired up the engine and pulled back onto the road, the quaint charm of Salem feeling a little less quaint now. Time to dig deeper, with or without Johnson’s blessing.

Chapter 7: Gravel and Dust
I cruised through Salem’s quiet streets a while longer, the quaint brick shops and Victorian homes blurring past as the sun dipped lower in the sky. My next stop was the gravel-strewn yard on the edge of town where Nelson’s dump truck supposedly lived, a hulking yellow beast parked among a fleet of heavy machinery, its cab streaked with dust and road grime. I idled nearby, scanning the lot from my Suburban, but it was Sunday-quiet, no workers or clues to be found. Sergeant Billy Johnson’s sour attitude still lingered in my mind, but he hadn’t given me much beyond a vague nod to Nelson’s existence. With nothing else shaking loose, I decided to call it an evening, until my phone buzzed in the cupholder, lighting up with a text from Kate.
Kate: Marcus, here’s mom’s number. She’s been bugging me on my first day of marriage LOL. I told her I’d give you her number. Please call her before she interrupts my evening of marital bliss again.
I smirked, thumbs tapping out a quick reply.
Marcus: No problem Kate. I’ll call her now. Go enjoy your evening.
I pulled Ellen’s number from the text and dialed, the phone barely finishing its first ring before her voice burst through the line, eager and bright. “Marcus! Oh, I’m so glad you called,” she exclaimed, like she’d been hovering over her phone, waiting for it to light up.
“Hey, Ellen,” I said, leaning back in the driver’s seat. “Kate said you’ve been keeping her busy.”
She laughed, a little sheepish. “Guilty as charged. I just couldn’t help myself, she’s my baby, you know. But I’m thrilled you’re still in town. Listen, Nelson and Lindsey are stopping by for dinner tonight at 6:00. I’d love for you to meet them, say you’ll come?”
I glanced at the dashboard clock: 4:47 PM. Plenty of time to swing by the hotel, ditch the flannel for something less rumpled, and head over. This was the break I’d been fishing for, a chance to size up Nelson in person and see if Lindsey’s “joyful” vibe held any hints about her dad. “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, keeping my tone light. “What’s the address?”
She rattled off a street name and number, a cozy-sounding spot near the edge of Salem, not far from the vineyard. “Perfect,” I told her. “I’ll see you at six.” As I hung up, the faint hum of anticipation kicked in. Ellen sounded genuinely excited, not a trace of the unease Kate had flagged. Either she was a damn good actress, or whatever was bruising her wrist hadn’t rattled her enough to show it. Dinner with Nelson and Lindsey would tell me more than any cop or truck yard could. I turned the key in the ignition and pointed the Suburban back toward the hotel, ready to trade recon for a seat at the table.
I pulled up to Ellen’s place just before 6:00 PM, the Suburban’s tires crunching against the gravel driveway of a tidy Victorian house on the outskirts of Salem. The exterior was painted a soft sage green, with white trim framing the wraparound porch and a riot of late-June flowers spilling from window boxes. The sun was dipping low, casting a warm golden hue over the scene, and the faint scent of grilled meat wafted from the backyard. I’d swapped my flannel for a clean button-down shirt, dark blue, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and ran a hand through my hair before stepping out. Time to meet the man behind Kate’s worries and see if Ellen’s matchmaking held any water.
Ellen greeted me at the door with a wide smile, her lavender dress from the wedding traded for a casual blouse and slacks. “Marcus, right on time! Come in, come in,” she said, ushering me through the foyer. The house smelled of rosemary and garlic, and the sound of laughter drifted from the kitchen. She led me past a cozy living room, complete with overstuffed furniture and framed photos of Kate through the years, and into a bright, open dining area where two people stood by the counter, chatting over a platter of grilled chicken and veggies.
“Marcus, this is Nelson,” Ellen said, gesturing to a broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a friendly grin. He looked every bit the dump truck driver, sturdy build, weathered hands, and a flannel shirt that matched the laid-back vibe of a Sunday night. He stepped forward, wiping his palm on a napkin before offering a firm handshake.
“Good to meet you, Marcus,” Nelson said, his voice deep and easy. “Ellen’s been singing your praises all day.”
“Likewise,” I replied, sizing him up. His grip was solid, his smile genuine, no red flags jumping out yet. “Heard you keep the roads around here in shape.”
He chuckled, nodding. “Try to, at least. Keeps me busy and out of trouble.”
“And this,” Ellen cut in, her tone taking on a playful lilt, “is Lindsey.” She nodded toward a woman leaning against the counter, a glass of iced tea in hand. Lindsey was striking, tall and tan, with dark blonde hair pulled into a loose braid and a smile that lit up the room. She wore a simple sundress, yellow with little white flowers, and her green eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and warmth as she stepped forward.
“Hey, Marcus,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of a laugh. “Dad’s been warning me you’re some kind of coastal detective. Should I be on my guard?”
I grinned, instantly at ease. “Only if you’ve got something to hide. Otherwise, I’m harmless.”
She raised an eyebrow, teasing. “I’ll take my chances.”
Ellen clapped her hands together, delighted. “Well, let’s not stand around, dinner’s ready. Grab a plate and dig in.” We filled our plates from the spread, grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, a fresh green salad, and settled around a wooden dining table set with mismatched chairs and a vase of daisies. The conversation flowed as easily as the iced tea, Nelson kicking things off with a story about a muddy haul gone wrong on a backroad job, his booming laugh filling the room. He was a natural storyteller, animated but unpretentious, and Ellen hung on his every word, her face glowing with affection.
Lindsey slid into the seat next to me, her elbow brushing mine as she reached for the salt. “So, Astoria,” she said, turning those green eyes on me. “What’s it like living by the ocean all the time? I’ve only been up there once, foggy as hell.”
“Pretty much sums it up,” I said, chuckling. “Fog, salt, and a lot of fish. Keeps things quiet, though. You ever get out of Salem much?”
“When I can,” she replied, spearing a potato with her fork. “I teach first grade, so summers are my escape window. Been thinking about a coast trip, actually, maybe you can recommend a spot.”
“Depends on what you’re after,” I said, leaning in a little. “Cannon Beach is touristy but gorgeous. Or there’s this little hole-in-the-wall bar in Astoria, Workers Tavern. Best clam chowder you’ll ever have.”
“Sold,” she said, grinning. “I’m a sucker for chowder. You’ll have to show me sometime.”
I caught the flirtatious edge in her tone and matched it with a smirk. “Deal. Just don’t blame me if the fog strands you there.”
Across the table, Nelson was pouring Ellen another glass of wine, his movements gentle and attentive. “You holding up okay over there, El?” he asked, his voice soft. She nodded, patting his hand, and he turned to me. “So, Marcus, Ellen says you’re a private investigator. That as exciting as it sounds?”
“Sometimes,” I said, keeping it vague. “Mostly it’s paperwork and waiting around. Every now and then, you get a good story out of it.”
“Like what?” Lindsey piped up, resting her chin on her hand, genuinely curious.
I thought for a second, then shrugged. “Tracked down a missing fishing boat once, turned out the guy just wanted a week off from his wife. Found him drunk on a sandbar with a cooler of beer.”
They all laughed, Nelson’s deep chuckle blending with Lindsey’s lighter one. “Sounds like my kind of case,” he said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “To the simple life.”
As the meal wound down, Ellen brought out a tray of homemade lemon bars, and the talk shifted to lighter things, Lindsey’s students, Nelson’s latest road project, the quirks of Salem’s small-town gossip mill. I watched Nelson closely, looking for any hint of the trouble Kate feared, a sharp word, a tense glance, anything. Nothing. He was warm, steady, quick with a joke, and clearly smitten with Ellen. If he was hiding something, he was damn good at it. Lindsey, meanwhile, kept me on my toes, her wit sharp and her laugh infectious. By the time I pushed my chair back, full and relaxed, I was half-convinced I’d misjudged the whole situation.
“Marcus, you’re welcome back anytime,” Nelson said as I stood to leave, clapping me on the shoulder. “Good to have a new face around.”
“Appreciate it,” I said, meaning it. “Dinner was great.”
Lindsey walked me to the door, lingering as I stepped onto the porch. “So, about that chowder tour,” she said, smirking. “I’m serious, let’s make it happen.”
“Count on it,” I replied, holding her gaze a beat longer than necessary. “I’ll be in touch.”
I climbed into the Suburban, the night air cool against my skin, and started the engine. Nelson seemed like a stand-up guy, no cracks in the facade, no whiff of menace. Lindsey was a bonus I hadn’t expected, and Ellen looked happier than I’d seen her in years. But Kate’s worry still gnawed at me, a quiet itch I couldn’t shake. I’d need more than a good dinner to call this case closed.


Chapter 8: Coffee and Questions
Kate jolted me awake at 8 AM with a text on Monday morning.
Kate: 9AM, Issac’s Downtown, 201 Commercial St. NE
Marcus: Good morning, lol. I’ll see you there.
I strolled into Issac’s Downtown Coffee Bar just past 9 AM, the faint aroma of roasted beans greeting me as I spotted Kate in the corner, cradling two steaming mugs. I figured one was mine. Sliding into the seat across from her, I leaned in for a quick hug. “Coffee, black,” she said, nudging a mug my way. “You remembered,” I replied with a grin. “So, how was dinner at Mom’s last night?” she asked, her tone brimming with curiosity. “Surprisingly nice. Nelson’s a decent guy, Lindsey was a pleasant surprise, and your Mom seems genuinely happy with him. I’m starting to wonder if we’re chasing shadows here, Kate,” I admitted. She frowned, her brow creasing. “That actually worries me more. Thomas and I are leaving for our honeymoon tomorrow, and we won’t be back for over a week. Marcus, can I trust you to keep an eye on things while I’m gone? I don’t want to tip Mom off, but something feels… off.” Her voice wavered slightly. I reached across the table, resting my hand over hers. “Don’t worry. I’ve got to head back to Astoria tonight to tie up some loose ends at the office and grab more clothes, but I’ll be back in Salem by Wednesday evening. I’ll use Lindsey as my cover, maybe get to know her better while I’m at it.”
After finishing our coffee, I said goodbye to Kate and pulled out my phone as I stepped outside. I shot a quick text to Lindsey:
Marcus: Hey, Lindsey. Heading back to Astoria tonight for work, but I’ll be back in Salem later this week. Enjoyed meeting you last night, would love to chat more and get to know you. You free sometime soon?
She replied almost instantly:
Lindsey: Hey! Glad you had a good time. I’m around later this week, let me know when you’re back!
Smiling to myself, I pocketed the phone and headed to my car. The drive to Astoria was a quiet three hours, the coastal highway stretching out under a graying sky. By early afternoon, I was at my office, a small space cluttered with blueprints and permits. I spent the next few hours sorting through paperwork, finalizing a client invoice, signing off on an investigation for a local lawyer, and clearing my desk of stray coffee cups and Post-its. A couple of days later, I tidied up my apartment, tossing a load of laundry into the washer and packing a suitcase with enough clothes for at least a week. I watered the lone cactus on my windowsill, locked up, and grabbed a burger from a drive-thru on my way out of town.
Tuesday had blurred into Wednesday as I wrapped up the last of my Astoria errands, a quick stop at the post office to forward my mail and a call to my neighbor to keep an eye on the place. By late afternoon, I hit the road again, the suitcase rattling in the trunk as I pointed the car back toward Salem. I rolled into town just as the sun dipped below the horizon on Wednesday evening, the streets glowing faintly under street lights. I checked into a motel near downtown, tossing my suitcase onto the bed with a thud. I wasn’t just here to crash, I’d promised Kate I’d stick around at least until she and Thomas got back from their honeymoon, and I meant to keep that promise. Tomorrow, I’d reach out to Lindsey and start digging a little deeper, all while keeping things casual. For now, I kicked off my shoes and let the hum of the motel’s heater lull me into a plan.

Chapter 9: Fists in the Dawn
The next morning, I woke to the sound of shouting in the hotel parking lot. As I untangled myself from the sheets, I glanced at the bedside clock: 7:04. Kinda early for shouting, I thought. I got up and parted the curtains, only to see that asshole cop Billy Johnson roughing a guy up in the parking lot. I swiftly threw on a sweatshirt and jeans, shoved my feet into my shoes, and bolted out the door. I wasn’t sure who needed help, the guy or that cop, but I was going to find out.
I darted across the parking lot and slowed as I approached. The guy was shouting in defense as Billy shoved him up against the side of a grey car, pressing his chest and face into the cold metal. “Hey, he doesn’t look to be struggling,” I shouted. “Mind your own business, Lake,” Billy warned. “No problem,” I said, raising my palms to show I wasn’t taking sides. “This cop thinks it’s okay to bust a guy for just having a pipe in his car,” the guy growled from under Billy’s bracing arm. “Hey, why don’t you let the guy up and give him a moment to explain?” I offered to Billy. “He doesn’t look like a member of the cartel, and he’s still got all his teeth,” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.
It must’ve worked because Billy eased up, stepping back but keeping a wary eye on the guy. “You’ve got ten seconds to explain,” Billy barked. By now, I could see Billy had roughed the guy up good, his left eye was already bruising, and he had a bloody cut on his lip. “I was just walking out to my car to grab my stuff, and this cop assaults me, accusing me of being a dope head. I just smoke a little pot now and then, so I don’t get what the big deal is, it’s legal, and I have a medical pass,” the guy explained. “I get it, man,” I said. “You can see he isn’t causing any trouble, Billy. Why don’t you just let him go about his way? I’ll keep an eye on him while I’m here at the hotel and let you know if I see anything suspicious. I’ll call it right in. Right… what’s your name, dude?” I asked the guy. “Name’s Kyle,” he replied.
Billy stood there, jaw tight, clearly weighing his options. He must’ve realized he’d gone overboard, and now I was a witness if Kyle decided to make a fuss and press charges. After a tense moment, he let out a grunt and waved a hand. “Fine. Get outta here, Kyle. But I catch you with anything sketchy, you’re done, no warnings next time.” Kyle nodded quickly, rubbing his wrists as Billy uncuffed him. He shot me a grateful look before hightailing it back to his car.
As Kyle disappeared, I turned to Billy. “Hey, man, you okay? That seemed… intense.” Billy’s eyes flicked to me, wild and sharp, like a cornered animal. “Don’t start with me, Lake,” he snapped, his voice low and shaky. “You don’t know what it’s like out here, guys like him, they’re all trouble waiting to happen.” I took a step back, hands up again. “Sure, sure. Just saying, maybe ease up a bit next time. No harm done here, right?” He didn’t answer, just stared me down, his chest heaving. That’s when I saw it clear as day, Billy wasn’t just a tough cop. He was unhinged, teetering on some edge I didn’t want to get too close to. I gave him a nod and backed off, leaving him standing there, fists clenched, alone in the parking lot.

Chapter 10: Bruises in the Light
The Thursday morning sun streamed through the hotel diner’s smudged windows as I slid into a vinyl booth and ordered biscuits and gravy with a steaming cup of black coffee. The rich, peppery aroma hit me as I dug in, mulling over my next move. Kate’s worry about Ellen’s bruises still gnawed at me, despite Nelson’s easy charm at dinner the night before. To get closer to the truth without tipping my hand, I needed more time with Ellen and Nelson, and the best way to do that naturally was through Lindsey. Forking a bite of biscuit, I admitted to myself that I was looking forward to seeing her again, her sharp wit and green eyes lingering in my mind. I wiped my hands, pulled out my phone, and tapped out a text.
Marcus: Hey Lindsey. I’m back in town. I know you’re probably in class this morning but I just wanted to say Hi. Let me know if you’re free later.
To my surprise, my phone buzzed almost instantly.
Lindsey: Hi Marcus! It’s so nice to hear from you. I’m actually in my teacher’s planning period so, perfect timing. Do you want to meet up later? Maybe dinner?
Marcus: Dinner sounds great. You pick the place. I’ll pick you up. You’re just going to have to text me your address.
She sent her address, a little apartment near downtown Salem, along with a quick See you later! I grinned, pocketing the phone. With dinner set for tonight, I had the day to kill. If I could snag some time with Ellen now, I’d be free to switch off work mode later and just enjoy Lindsey’s company. I fired off another text.
Marcus: Good morning Ellen. I am in town for a few days again and at loose ends. Any chance you are free for lunch?
Ellen: You kids and your texting. Pick up the phone Marcus, and call when you want to talk to an “old lady” lol.
Marcus: Lol? HA, and you call me a kid. Calling now.
I chuckled and dialed her number. She picked up on the first ring, her voice bright and teasing. “Good morning, Marcus! I saw your text and couldn’t resist a little jab. I’m actually having lunch at the country club with some gal friends today, but I’m free until then. How about a little shopping? I could use a man’s opinion on a few things.”
“Shopping, huh?” I said, rolling my eyes but keeping my tone light. “I’m in. If it means spending time with you, I can handle a few stores. You ready now? I’ll head right over.”
“Perfect,” she chirped. “I’m at home, see you soon!”
I paid my tab, grabbed my keys, and drove the Suburban across town to Ellen’s sage-green Victorian. She was waiting on the porch when I pulled up, a wide-brimmed hat perched on her head and a purse slung over her shoulder. But as she waved and stepped toward me, I froze. A fresh bruise bloomed on her cheek, faint, but unmistakable, a purplish shadow peeking out from under a hasty swipe of makeup. My gut clenched, but I forced a smile as she climbed into the passenger seat.
“Morning, sunshine,” I said, keeping it casual. “You look ready to take on the town.”
“Oh, I am,” she replied, oblivious to my scrutiny. “Let’s hit a flower shop first, I need something for the gals at lunch. Then maybe that vintage decor boutique downtown. I’ve been eyeing a lamp there for weeks.”
“Lead the way,” I said, pulling onto the road. We drove to a little florist’s shop tucked between brick storefronts, its windows bursting with color, roses, lilies, and sprays of lavender. Inside, the air was thick with sweetness, and Ellen flitted between the displays, holding up bouquets for my approval. “What do you think, Marcus? The peonies or the daisies?” she asked, her hat tilting as she beamed at me.
“Peonies,” I said, nodding. “Fancier. Matches the country club vibe.”
“Good call,” she agreed, handing her choice to the clerk. As she chatted about her lunch plans, I kept an eye on that bruise, the way she turned her head to hide it. She paid, and we stepped back into the sun, the bouquet cradled in her arms.
Next, we swung by the vintage decor boutique, a cramped, eclectic space stuffed with old clocks, velvet chairs, and chipped porcelain. Ellen zeroed in on a brass table lamp with a stained-glass shade, its amber glow catching her eye. “Isn’t it darling?” she said, running a finger along its base. “Nelson thinks I’m nuts for collecting this stuff, but it’s got character.”
“Character’s good,” I said, leaning closer. “Suits you. What’s Nelson say about the bruise on your cheek, though?” I slipped it in smooth, testing her.
She froze for a split second, then laughed it off, brushing her hair forward. “Oh, this? Clumsy me, I bumped into the cabinet door last night. Too much wine at the wedding, probably.” Her tone was breezy, but her eyes darted away, and I didn’t buy it for a second.
We wandered the shop a bit longer, her picking up a cracked teacup to admire, me pretending to care about a rusty typewriter while my mind churned. She bought the lamp, and I carried it to the Suburban, the bruise still nagging at me as we drove back to her place.
I pulled the Suburban into Ellen’s gravel driveway, the engine rumbling to a stop as the sage-green Victorian loomed in the late morning light. She reached for the door handle, the brass lamp and peony bouquet cradled in her lap, but I couldn’t let her go without pressing, just a little. I softened my voice, leaning on years of coaxing answers out of reluctant clients. “Ellen,” I said, turning to her, “when you said you bumped into a cabinet door, I caught a defensive edge in your tone. That’s not what really happened, is it?” My eyes met hers, gentle but steady, the investigator in me tempered with genuine concern.
She froze, her hand lingering on the door, and for a moment, I thought she’d brush me off again. Then she sighed, a shaky little sound, and turned back to me, her fingers brushing that fresh bruise on her cheek. “You’re too perceptive for your own good, Marcus,” she said, a wry smile flickering before it faded. “No, it wasn’t a cabinet. Truth is, I don’t know how it happened. It just… appeared. Like the others.”
I raised an eyebrow, keeping quiet to let her fill the space. She shifted in her seat, setting the lamp on the floorboard, and stared out the windshield at the flower boxes lining her porch. “They all just appear,” she continued, her voice dropping. “The bruises, the marks, sometimes I wake up and they’re there. No bumps, no falls, nothing. I’ve been hiding it from Lindsey, Nelson too, mostly. I didn’t want them worrying. But I’ve been seeing a doctor about it, quietly. They’re stumped, Marcus. Blood tests, scans, everything, they can’t figure it out. I even had a tiny fracture in my wrist a few months back, just out of nowhere. It’s only recently healed, and now this.” She touched her cheek again, her eyes distant, then met my gaze. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, but it’s not Nelson. He’d never hurt me, I’d stake my life on that.”
Her words hung heavy between us, a mix of relief and fresh mystery. I nodded slowly, processing. “Okay,” I said, keeping my tone even. “I believe you. But something’s going on, and I’m gonna help you figure it out. You don’t have to hide it anymore, not from me.” She gave a small, grateful nod, and I let her slip out of the car, watching her climb the porch steps with her purchases before I pulled away. My mind was already spinning, Ellen wasn’t lying, but bruises didn’t just “appear.” Something was off, and I’d need more than a hunch to crack it. I headed to the hotel to clean up for dinner with Lindsey.
By 6:30, I was outside Lindsey’s brick apartment building, the ivy climbing the walls catching the last of the daylight. She bounded out in a denim jacket and a flowered skirt, her braid swinging as she hopped into the Suburban. “Hey, stranger,” she said, her grin infectious. “I’m taking you to this Italian joint, best pasta in Salem. You ready?”
“Starving,” I said, matching her smile. “Lead on.” As we drove, the easy banter from dinner the night before picked right up, her teasing me about my “detective swagger,” me firing back about her first-graders probably running the show. Nelson came up naturally, her talking about how he’d fixed her car last week. “He’s a good guy,” she said, twirling her fork through spaghetti later at the restaurant. “He’s a good dad too.”
I nodded, filing it away. Nelson sounded solid, great, even, but that bruise on Ellen’s cheek didn’t lie. Dinner stretched into coffee, then a slow walk back to her place, the night air cool and her laugh warm. “I had a great time,” Lindsey said quietly as we approached her door. “I did too,” I replied as I leaned in and gave her a gentle kiss and an embrace. “I’ll call you tomorrow if that’s okay,” She smiled and said “I’d like that”. As I drove back to my hotel I went over the details of the day. Lindsey and I hit it off, no question, but Kate’s plea and Ellen’s cover-up kept me tethered to the job. Whatever was hurting Ellen, I was determined to figure it out.

Chapter 11: Threads of the Past
Friday morning jolted me awake with the insistent buzz of my phone vibrating against the hotel nightstand. I fumbled for it, squinting at the screen, Kate’s name flashing in the dim light. I swiped to answer, her voice spilling out before I could even grunt a hello. “Sorry to wake you, Marcus, but I can’t stop worrying about Mom. How’s it going?” She sounded frayed, a tight edge to her words that didn’t belong on a honeymoon, and it tugged at me, nobody should be that distressed with a new ring on their finger.
“She’s fine, Kate,” I said, sitting up and rubbing sleep from my eyes, my tone firm but warm. “I’m keeping a close eye on her. We even went shopping together yesterday, flowers and vintage lamps, the works.” That earned me a small laugh, a brief crack in her tension, and I seized the moment to dig deeper. “Look, I’ve got a question. Is there anyone in your mom’s life, or maybe her past, who’d want to hurt her?”
A sharp intake of breath came through the line. “Why, what are you thinking?” she asked, shock lacing her voice.
I leaned back against the headboard, choosing my words carefully. “I’m just tossing ideas around. Her bruises, they’re not from accidents. She says they ‘just appear.’ I’m wondering if someone could be getting into the house, maybe drugging her, hurting her without her knowing.” It was a stretch, but I needed to test every angle.
“I can’t imagine!” Kate exclaimed, her disbelief ringing clear. “Everyone loves Mom. She’s the sweetest person, nobody would do that.” She paused, then added, softer, “The only strange thing is from her past. She was adopted, you know? As an infant. Doesn’t even know who her real parents are.”
That piqued my interest, and I sat up straighter. “Adopted? What’s the story there?”
“Not much of one,” Kate said, her voice steadying as she recounted it. “She was born in 1967, Salt Lake City, Utah. Adopted at three months old. That’s all she’s got, just those bare bones. No records, no names. She’s never cared to dig into it, says she’s happy with the life she’s had. Obviously, she’s got no memory of it, and it’s never been a thing for her.” She sighed. “You think that could matter?”
“Maybe,” I said, noncommittal but already turning it over in my head. “Probably not, but I’ll keep it in mind. You focus on your honeymoon, let me handle this. I’ll call you if anything turns up.” She murmured a thanks, and we hung up, leaving me staring at the ceiling, Salt Lake City and 1967 echoing faintly. It was a long shot, but Ellen’s mystery was starting to feel like a thread I could pull, one that might unravel something bigger than a clumsy lie or a bad boyfriend.
After Kate and I hung up, I didn’t waste a second, I grabbed my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t used in years. Judge Harlan Reese owed me a favor from a messy case I’d unraveled for him back in Astoria, and I was cashing it in. Adoption records through official channels could take weeks, even months, and Ellen’s mystery wasn’t giving me that kind of runway. “Harlan, it’s Marcus Lake,” I said when he picked up, cutting through the small talk. I fed him Ellen’s details, born 1967, Salt Lake City, adopted at three months, and he grumbled but promised results in a day or two. “You’re lucky I like you, Lake,” he muttered before hanging up. Good enough.
With the judge on it, I had a chunk of morning to burn, so I decided to check in on Ellen. I hopped into the Suburban and drove across Salem, the quaint streets buzzing faintly with Friday energy, shopkeepers sweeping stoops, a jogger weaving past Victorian porches. I pulled into Ellen’s driveway, the sage-green house looking a little less cheerful in the overcast light, and rapped on her door. When she answered, her face was pale, her eyes shadowed, and she moved like every step hurt. “Morning, Ellen,” I said, easing into it. “How you holding up?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she replied, her voice thin as she waved me inside. “Just a little sore. It happened again last night.” She shuffled toward the living room, and I followed, my gut tightening. “I woke up late, middle of the night, really, curled up on the floor in a fetal position. There’s a bruise on my stomach now. Feels like I got kicked.” She lifted the edge of her blouse just enough to show me, a purplish mark spread across her midsection, faint but distinct, the outline of a boot tip pressed into her skin like a cruel signature.
I kept my face steady, but my mind was racing. “Ellen,” I said, dropping my voice to that gentle investigator tone I’d honed over years, “walk me through it. The hour or two before you woke up on the floor, what happened?”
She sank onto the couch, rubbing her hands together as if to warm them. “Around ten o’clock last night, I couldn’t sleep. I was tossing and turning, restless, and then it hit me, this wave of fear and depression, like it wasn’t even mine. It’s been happening more lately, these feelings out of nowhere. I got up, figured I’d settle my nerves with a cup of tea. I remember boiling kettles, grabbing a mug, that’s it. Next thing I know, I’m on the kitchen floor, curled up, hurting. No idea how long I was there. I dragged myself to bed eventually, and I’d only just gotten up when you knocked. I was going to call you, Marcus, I swear, first thing.”
Her eyes met mine, wide and pleading, and I nodded, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m here now. We’re gonna figure this out.” A boot-shaped bruise didn’t just “appear”, but her story didn’t line up with a break-in or an attack either. Something was hitting her, hard, and it wasn’t leaving footprints I could track the usual way. Salt Lake City, 1967, flickered in my mind, maybe Harlan’s call would crack this open. For now, I’d stick close and keep digging.
“Ellen,” I said, crouching slightly to meet her eyes as she sat on the couch, her hands still clasped tightly together, “I need you to do me a favor. From now on, the second you feel that wave of fear and depression creeping in, call me, right away, no hesitation. I want to be here when these episodes hit, see if I can catch what’s happening. Can you do that for me?” My voice was steady, a quiet anchor in the room’s unease.
“I sure can, Marcus,” she replied, her tone firm despite the tremor in her hands. A faint smile broke through her worry, softening her pale features. “I’m just relieved I’ve got you to lean on through all this. It’s been… heavy, keeping it to myself.”
I gave her shoulder a reassuring pat, the kind that says I’ve got your back without words, and straightened up. “You’re not alone in it anymore. I’ll be back, just keep that phone close.” She nodded, and I headed out, the creak of her front door echoing behind me as I stepped into the gray Salem morning, her promise and that boot-shaped bruise lodged firmly in my mind.


Chapter 12: Diamonds in the Dirt
As I stepped off Ellen’s porch and headed toward the Suburban, my phone buzzed in my pocket, cutting through the quiet hum of the morning. I fished it out, glancing at the screen, Lindsey’s name lit up with a text.
Lindsey: Marcus, are you busy this afternoon? Some of the kids in my class are playing at the softball park, and I wanted to see if you’d come watch with me.
A grin tugged at my lips, perfect timing to shake off the weight of Ellen’s latest bruise. Marcus: That sounds like fun. What time? She shot back a quick reply, and we settled on meeting at the ball field at 4:00.
By the time I rolled into the dusty parking lot at the Salem softball park, the sun had broken through the clouds, casting long shadows across the diamond. Kids in colorful uniforms darted around, their laughter bouncing off the bleachers, while parents clustered with coolers and folding chairs. As I climbed out of the Suburban, I spotted a familiar figure, Sergeant Billy Johnson, that ass in a police uniform, stepping out of a beat-up sedan. A little boy, maybe six, trailed behind him, decked out in a too-big jersey and clutching a mitt. His dark hair flopped over his forehead, and he kept his eyes down, sticking close to Billy’s shadow.
I locked the car and made my way to the bleachers, where Lindsey waved me over, her denim jacket swapped for a light hoodie, her braid peeking out from under a baseball cap. She grinned as I slid onto the bench beside her. “Hey, you made it! The kids are a riot, total chaos out there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, settling in. My gaze drifted back to Billy, now barking something at the boy as he shuffled toward the field. I nodded in their direction. “You know that guy? The cop with the kid?”
Lindsey followed my look, her smile fading slightly. “Yeah, that’s Billy Johnson. His son Michael’s in my class.” She paused, watching as Michael fumbled with his mitt, head still low. “Sweet boy, really shy, reserved. Doesn’t say much, keeps to himself. I sometimes worry his dad might be a bit hard on him, you know?” Her voice softened, a flicker of concern creasing her brow as Billy’s sharp tone carried faintly across the field. “He’s not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy type.”
I nodded, filing that away. Billy’s swagger from our roadside run-in fit the picture, gruff, controlling. Michael’s hunched shoulders and quiet steps painted another. “Yeah,” I said, keeping it light for now, “he didn’t strike me as father-of-the-year material either.” Lindsey gave a small laugh, but her eyes lingered on the boy, and I couldn’t shake the itch that this, Billy, Michael, might tie into Ellen’s bruises somehow, even if I didn’t know how yet. For now, I’d watch the game and let Lindsey’s easy company keep me grounded.
The softball game wrapped up under a fading June sky, the crack of bats and cheers giving way to the shuffle of kids grabbing their gear. Michael’s team had lost, 8-5, and the disappointment hung thick in the air as parents rounded up their little leaguers. I walked Lindsey to her car, parked near the bleachers, her cap still pulled low over her braid. She chattered about the kids’ wild swings and a near-home-run that had the crowd roaring, but my eyes kept drifting across the field. Behind the dugout, Billy Johnson loomed over Michael, his voice cutting through the evening like a blade, sharp, loud, berating. “You call that hustle? You embarrassed me out there!” Michael stood small beneath the tirade, his head bowed low, mitt dangling limp at his side, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into the dirt.
Lindsey caught my stare and sighed, unlocking her car. “Poor kid,” she muttered, tossing her bag into the passenger seat. “Billy’s always like that after a loss, yelling like it’s the World Series. Michael just takes it. Breaks my heart a little.”
“Yeah,” I said, my jaw tightening. “Doesn’t look like the kid’s got much fight in him, or room to breathe.” I gave her a quick grin to lighten it. “Thanks for the invite, though. Good to see you.”
She smiled back, sliding behind the wheel. “Anytime, Marcus. Let’s do it again, minus the shouting matches.” I waved as she pulled out, but my focus was already shifting. Billy was herding Michael toward their sedan now, his hand clamped on the boy’s shoulder, steering him with a grip that looked more like control than comfort. Something about it, Billy’s anger, Michael’s quiet surrender, stirred the investigator in me. Ellen’s bruises, her unexplained pain, flickered in my mind. Long shot or not, I needed to see more.
I climbed into the Suburban, letting Billy’s dented sedan roll out of the lot first. Keeping a safe distance, two cars back, then three, I tailed them through Salem’s winding streets. The town’s charm faded into dusk, brick storefronts and Victorian homes blurring past as Billy’s taillights bobbed ahead. He drove fast, aggressive, cutting corners like he owned the roads. I hung back, headlights off when I could risk it, blending into the evening traffic. After ten minutes, he turned onto a quiet street lined with modest bungalows, pulling into the driveway of a squat, gray house with peeling paint and a patchy lawn. I parked half a block down, under the shadow of an overgrown oak, and killed the engine.
Billy hauled Michael out of the car, barking something I couldn’t catch, the boy stumbling slightly as he clutched his mitt. They disappeared inside, the front door slamming shut with a crack that echoed down the street. I waited a beat, then slipped out of the Suburban, sticking to the shadows as I crept closer. The house sat on a corner lot, bordered by scraggly bushes, perfect cover. I crouched low behind a thick tangle of rhododendrons along the side yard, their leaves brushing my shoulders, and peered through a gap toward the living room window.
The half-drawn curtains framed the scene inside Billy Johnson’s gray bungalow, yellow light leaking out into the dusk like a weak pulse. Billy paced the cramped living room, his broad frame dominating the space, a beer bottle already gripped in his meaty hand, condensation dripping onto the worn carpet. Michael perched on a sagging couch, still clad in his oversized softball uniform, his small hands twisting together in his lap, head bowed so low his chin nearly touched his chest. Billy’s voice thundered through the thin windowpane, muffled but cutting, each word a lash. “You think that’s good enough? Standing there like a damn statue? I didn’t raise you to be a loser, Michael!” The boy flinched at every syllable, his shoulders hunching tighter, curling into himself as if he could shrink away from the storm of his father’s rage. No blows fell, not yet, but the tension crackled like static, violence hovering just beyond the next shouted insult.
I shifted my weight behind the rhododendrons, my boots sinking deeper into the damp, loamy earth, the sharp scent of wet leaves brushing against me as I steadied my view. Ellen’s boot-shaped bruise flared in my memory, sudden, unexplained, a phantom kick etched into her skin. Michael’s defeated slump, Billy’s barely-contained fury, it didn’t connect yet, but the edges of the puzzle were brushing against each other, teasing a shape I couldn’t quite grasp. I’d stay put, crouched in the shadows with the night creeping closer, until something gave. My mind churned, chasing a new thread: Could Billy be breaking into Ellen’s house, hurting her somehow? That kind of anger, raw, explosive, could spill anywhere, and with a guy like him, anything felt possible. He had the build, the boots, the temper. But why Ellen? What tied them? I exhaled slowly, the question coiling tighter as I watched, waiting for the crack that might split this open.
The night deepened, the air growing colder, heavier with the threat of rain that still wouldn’t fall. Inside, Billy paced, his shadow looming large against the flickering TV light, the beer bottle now half-empty in his grip. Michael stayed rooted to the couch, a small, silent figure swallowed by the oversized uniform, his hands still twisting, twisting, like he could wring out the fear if he tried hard enough. Then it came: Billy stopped mid-stride, his head snapping toward the boy, eyes narrowing with that drunk, dangerous glint I’d seen in too many bar fights. “Get up,” he barked, voice slurring but sharp. “You think you can just sit there all night? Move!”
Michael flinched, his small frame jerking as if pulled by strings, but he didn’t rise fast enough. Billy lurched forward, slamming the bottle onto the coffee table with a crack that made me wince, glass wobbling but not breaking. He grabbed Michael by the arm, yanking him off the couch with a force that sent the boy stumbling, his sneakers scuffing the carpet. “Bed, now!” Billy roared, shoving him toward the hallway. Michael caught himself against the wall, a soft whimper escaping as he shuffled out of sight, head still bowed. Billy stood there a moment, chest heaving, then snatched the bottle again, draining it in one long pull before tossing it into a corner where it clattered against a pile of empties.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction. No blows tonight, not yet, but the air still thrummed with the promise of it, a storm held back by a thread. Michael was out of the line of fire for now, disappearing into whatever passed for safety in that house. Billy staggered to the recliner, collapsing into it with a grunt, his head tipping back as the TV’s glow washed over him. The fight seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a bleary stupor, but I knew better than to trust it. Guys like him could flip in an instant, calm one second, fists flying the next.
After I watched Michael head off to bed, I decided it was time my own head hit the pillow and headed back to my hotel. The rhododendrons rustled as I eased out from behind them, my legs stiff from the crouch, the damp earth clinging to my boots. I slipped through the shadows, retracing my steps to the Suburban two blocks away, the night swallowing me whole. Billy hadn’t crossed any lines I could prove, not tonight, but the pieces were still shifting, Ellen’s bruises and Michael’s fear orbiting each other in a dance I couldn’t yet name. The drive back was quiet, Salem’s streets a blur of sodium lights and silence, my mind churning over that boot-shaped mark, Billy’s temper, and the twin hunch I hadn’t dared voice aloud. Sleep wouldn’t come easy, but I’d need it, tomorrow, the real digging would start.

Chapter 13: Unveiled Shadows
Saturday morning broke gray and heavy over Salem, the kind of day that promised rain but held off just to keep you guessing. I was sprawled across the hotel bed, coffee cooling on the nightstand, when my phone pinged with an email from Judge Harlan Reese. The subject line read simply: Johnson File. I sat up, pulse ticking up a notch, and opened the attachment, a digital scan of old records, yellowed even in pixel form, alongside a grainy news clipping. Harlan had come through, and fast.
The first page was a birth certificate: Ellen Marie Johnson and William Keith Johnson, twins, born January 3, 1967, in Salt Lake City, Utah, to Keith and Mary Johnson. I skimmed the details, standard stuff, weights and times, but the next document stopped me cold. A news article, dated March 17, 1967, from some long-defunct Salt Lake paper: Woman Arrested in Fatal Shooting of Husband Amid House Fire. The text laid it out starkly: Mary Johnson, 28, had shot her husband Keith dead after years of unreported abuse, a final stand to protect herself and her infant twins. That night, in the chaos of the struggle, a fire broke out, faulty wiring or a knocked-over lamp, the article didn’t say. Mary dragged the three-month-old twins from the blaze, but not before Ellen and William suffered burn wounds, scarring that might’ve faded but never fully erased. With no documented history of Keith’s violence, bruises hidden, cries unheard, Mary went down for murder, sentenced to prison. The twins, orphaned by law and flame, landed in foster care. Ellen was adopted almost immediately, scooped up by a family eager for a daughter, her past sealed away. William wasn’t so lucky, he bounced through the system, a ghost in the shuffle, keeping the name Johnson.
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling as the pieces spun. William Johnson. Billy Johnson. Ellen’s twin brother, Sergeant Billy Johnson, the loudmouth cop with a temper and a six-year-old son. My mind raced, connecting dots that didn’t quite line up yet. Michael, shy, beaten-down Michael, and Ellen, with her mystery bruises and sudden collapses. Could there be a link? It sounded crazy, a stretch even for a guy used to chasing wild leads, but the coincidence was too sharp to ignore. Billy was Ellen’s twin, separated by decades and circumstance, and now their lives were brushing up against each other in ways I couldn’t yet fathom.
I pulled up the photo I’d snapped of Billy and Michael at the ball field, zooming in on the kid’s face, dark eyes, pinched expression, a quiet weight no six-year-old should carry. Then I thought of Ellen’s latest bruise, that boot-shaped mark on her stomach, and her words: It just appeared. Billy’s rage at the game, his heavy tread, those work boots he wore, they matched the imprint, but he hadn’t been near her house, not that I’d seen. I’d tailed him home, watched him tear into Michael, but Ellen lived miles away. So how? Why?
I grabbed my notebook, jotting down the timeline: 1967, twins born; March, fire and murder; Ellen adopted, William lost to foster care. Fast-forward to now, Billy’s a cop in Salem, Ellen’s nearby, and Michael’s caught in the middle. The burn scars, Ellen had none I’d noticed, but maybe they’d faded or been hidden under makeup, like her bruises. Billy, though, I’d seen his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves at the field, faint, mottled patches that could’ve been old burns. And then there was Mary, their mother, locked away or long gone, leaving her kids to drift apart.
I paced the room, coffee forgotten, wrestling with the strangeness of it. What if Michael was the key? A kid under Billy’s thumb, taking the brunt of his father’s anger, could he somehow be tied to Ellen’s injuries? It didn’t make sense, not logically, but the idea gnawed at me. Ellen’s episodes, fear, depression, pain, mirrored what I’d seen in Michael’s hunched frame, his flinches. Twins shared bonds, weird ones sometimes, stories of feeling each other’s joys or hurts across miles. But this? Bruises crossing town lines, a boy’s suffering etching itself onto his aunt? It was nuts, until it wasn’t.
I needed more. I fired off a text to Lindsey, Hey, you free today? Got a hunch I want to run by you, and then called Ellen, hoping she’d had a quiet night. She picked up, voice shaky but steady enough. “Marcus, I was just about to call. It happened again, smaller this time, a mark on my arm, but I felt it, that dread, around midnight.” I told her to hang tight, I’d be over soon. Billy Johnson was Ellen’s twin, and Michael was his son, her nephew. Whatever was hurting her, it was tangled up in that house I’d watched from the bushes, and I’d dig until I found the thread that tied it all together.

Chapter 14: Eyes in the Dark
Saturday morning hung heavy over Salem, the sky a dull slate that seemed to press down on the town, muting its usual charm. After Judge Harlan’s email dropped the bombshell, Ellen and her twin brother William “Billy” Johnson, born 1967, split by a tragic fire and a mother’s desperate act, I couldn’t sit still. The digital file burned a hole in my pocket: birth certificates, a grainy news clipping about Mary Johnson killing her abusive husband Keith, the twins scarred by flames before being torn apart, Ellen adopted fast, Billy lost to foster care. And now, decades later, Billy was the asshole cop I’d tangled with, his son Michael a quiet shadow under his rage. Ellen’s bruises, Michael’s flinches, something linked them, something beyond reason, and I was damn well going to figure it out.
I fired up the Suburban and headed for Ellen’s, the new details spinning in my head like a storm I couldn’t tame. How do you tell someone their twin brother’s a bully in a badge, let alone that he might be tied to the pain ripping through her life? On the drive, I decided to keep the adoption bombshell to myself for now, Ellen was rattled enough without me dumping a family reunion gone wrong on her. But I needed eyes on her, something concrete to catch these “episodes” she kept describing. Halfway there, I swung into a Walmart lot, the neon sign flickering against the gray. Inside, I grabbed a cheap security camera, nothing high-tech, just a motion-activated job with an app that’d ping my phone the second anything moved. It wasn’t much, but it might snag the answers slipping through my fingers.
I pulled into Ellen’s driveway just past noon, the sage-green Victorian looking weary under the overcast sky. She answered my knock in a loose cardigan and jeans, her face pale but her smile brave. “Marcus, good to see you,” she said, stepping aside. “I meant it, I was about to call. It happened again last night, smaller this time. Just a mark on my arm, but that dread hit me around midnight, like clockwork.”
“Show me,” I said, keeping my tone steady. She rolled up her sleeve, revealing a fresh bruise, faint, thumb-sized, blooming purple on her forearm. No boot shape this time, but the sight still twisted my gut. “Ellen, we’ve gotta get ahead of this. I picked up a camera on the way over, motion-activated, links to my phone. I want to set it up tonight, after 6:00, see if we can catch whatever’s happening when these hit.”
She blinked, surprise flickering across her face. “A camera? You think something’s… what, sneaking in here?”
“Maybe,” I hedged, setting the Walmart bag on her coffee table. “Or maybe it’s just to rule stuff out. You said you don’t remember anything between the tea and the floor last time, let’s see what the lens picks up. Humor me, okay?”
She hesitated, then nodded, wrapping her cardigan tighter around herself. “Okay, Marcus. If it’ll help, I’m in. I just want this to stop.” Her voice cracked slightly, and I gave her a reassuring nod, unpacking the camera, a squat little thing with a blinking red light. We spent the next few minutes figuring out the best spot, settling on a bookshelf in the kitchen, angled to catch the counter where she’d made her tea and the stretch of floor where she’d woken up. I synced the app to my phone, testing it with a wave of my hand; the screen lit up with a grainy feed, motion alert pinging instantly.
“After 6:00 tonight,” I said, sliding my phone into my pocket, “stick to your usual routine, make your tea, whatever settles you. If that feeling creeps in, the fear, the dread, call me right away, like we agreed. Don’t mess with the camera, though; it’s set to kick on with any motion. I’ll get a live feed straight to my phone, and we’ll finally see what we’re up against.” I tapped the app icon on my screen for emphasis, the little red dot confirming it was live.
Ellen managed a faint laugh, though it barely reached her tired eyes. “Like a ghost hunt, huh? Are you gonna bust in with a proton pack if something spooky shows up?” Her attempt at humor didn’t hide the unease etched into her face.
“Close enough,” I said, offering a half-smile to ease her nerves. “I’ll be parked a street over, glued to the app.” I didn’t mention my real plan, casing Billy Johnson’s house that night, just a few blocks from here. Close enough to bounce between both if the camera pinged, far enough to keep my tracks covered. “You won’t be riding this out alone, Ellen. I’ve got you.”
She nodded, gratitude softening the tight lines around her mouth, and tugged her cardigan closer, like it could shield her from whatever was coming. “Thanks, Marcus. It’s a relief knowing you’re on this.” I gave her a reassuring nod and headed out, leaving the camera’s unblinking red eye perched on her kitchen shelf, silently standing guard.
Back in the Suburban, I slumped into the driver’s seat, letting the engine idle as I turned the facts over in my head like stones in a riverbed. Ellen and Billy, twins torn apart by fire and fate in ’67. Her scooped up by a new family, adopted into a fresh start; him left to harden in the churn of foster care, emerging as William “Billy” Johnson, now a Salem cop with a temper that could crack pavement. His son Michael, six and shrinking under that same fury, a kid who flinched like he’d learned it young. Then Ellen’s bruises, boot marks, fractures, sudden and sourceless, echoing violence she couldn’t pin down. I hadn’t caught Billy anywhere near her house, not when I’d tailed him after the game, but the timing gnawed at me. Last night, midnight, she’d felt that crushing dread and woken up marked on her stomach. What was Billy doing then? Still stewing from Michael’s loss, maybe taking it out on the kid? I’d seen his rage up close, boots heavy enough to leave a print, but they were miles apart. Physically, it didn’t add up. Yet the twin bond, those burn scars from a shared inferno, the frayed thread of their past, it tugged at me, wild and unformed.
I shifted into gear and pulled out, the day’s plan locking into place. After 6:00, I’d set up near Ellen’s, phone primed for the camera’s alert, but I’d swing by the police department first to see what I could find out there. I’d texted Lindsey earlier, and she’d agreed to coffee later at a diner downtown; I’d run this by her, see if she’d picked up anything odd with Michael after Billy’s blowups, flinches, absences, anything off. For now, I’d keep Ellen’s adoption buried, no sense dropping that grenade until I had more than a hunch and a bruise to back it up. The camera would talk tonight, catch whatever shadow was stalking her kitchen. If something, or someone, was hitting her, I’d see it, live and unfiltered. The truth was clawing its way up, and it was starting to feel stranger than any case I’d ever cracked.




Chapter 15: Whispers of the Badge
Before settling in for the evening’s stakeout, I pulled the Suburban into the lot of the Salem Police Department, a low-slung brick box hunkered off the main street, its weathered sign peeling under the overcast sky. I scanned the parking lot for Billy’s beat-up cruiser or that heavy, swaggering stride of his, nothing, just a couple of patrol cars and a rusted pickup taking up space. A flicker of relief hit me; no Billy meant one less variable to juggle for now. I stepped out, the air cool and damp, and pushed through the glass doors into the lobby. The place reeked of burnt coffee and cheap cleaner, a faint buzz of radio chatter leaking from behind the counter. An officer, Barnum, according to the name tag pinned to his chest, glanced up from a messy pile of forms, his gray mustache bristling as he gave me a once-over.
“Good afternoon, sir,” I said, keeping my voice polite but steady, hands relaxed at my sides. “Can I talk to someone about Officer Johnson?”
Barnum’s eyes sharpened, and he leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the desk. “That’s Sergeant Johnson to you, pal. Who wants to know, and what’s your angle?” His tone was rough, defensive, like I’d kicked over a hornets’ nest just by asking.
“Marcus Lake,” I answered, holding his gaze. “Private investigator, in town for a bit. Crossed paths with him the other day, wanted to get a feel for him, that’s all. Professional curiosity.”
He snorted, a dry, skeptical sound, and eased back in his chair with a groan of springs. “Billy’s a hardass, but he’s good police. Keeps this place tight. You fishing for trouble? We don’t cotton to outsiders sniffing around our guys.”
“No trouble,” I said, lifting a hand to dial him down. “Just putting a name to a face. He around today?”
Barnum scratched at his jaw, flicking his eyes to a clipboard on the counter. “Off ‘til Monday. Probably at home, hollering at that kid of his, little guy’s scared of his own damn shadow.” He let out a low chuckle, humorless, then fixed me with a hard look. “You want official business, file a form. That’s all you’re getting from me.”
“Appreciate it, Officer Barnum,” I said, tipping my head. “Good enough for me.” I turned to leave, his gruff “Take care” following me out like an afterthought. I’d made it halfway to the door when I caught movement in the corner of my eye, Barnum reaching for the desk phone, his meaty hand punching numbers fast. I slowed my step, ears straining as his voice dropped low, barely audible over the lobby’s hum. “Hey, Billy, it’s Barnum. Some PI named Lake just came by, asking about you. Yeah, nosy type. Thought you should know.” He paused, listening, then grunted. “Right. Watch yourself.”
I kept moving, pushing out into the parking lot like I hadn’t heard a thing, the weight of Barnum’s call settling on my shoulders. Billy was off, home with Michael, maybe, but now he’d be on edge, eyes peeled for me. That sliver of reassurance I’d felt evaporated; he wasn’t near Ellen now, but a heads-up from Barnum meant he’d be twitchy, harder to tail clean. I slid into the Suburban, the engine rumbling to life as I glanced at the clock, still time before 6:00. Barnum’s offhand comment about Michael, scared of his own shadow, lined up with Lindsey’s take, and Ellen’s bruises pulsed in my mind, a mystery with Billy’s name hovering too close. I’d stick to the plan: camera on Ellen, a pass by Billy’s place, phone ready for the ping. Barnum’s warning changed the game, but I’d play it anyway, the truth wasn’t hiding much longer.
The drive back through Salem gave me a moment to breathe, the gray sky pressing down like a lid on the town. Barnum’s loyalty to Billy wasn’t a surprise, cops protected their own, especially in a place this size, but that phone call meant I’d rattled something. Billy’d be watching his back now, maybe even his front, and that could either flush him out or make him dig in deeper. Either way, I’d be ready. I turned the Suburban toward downtown, the clock ticking closer to my meet-up with Lindsey, her sharp eyes and quick mind a lifeline I needed before the night swallowed me whole.

Chapter 16: Pie and Shadows
The clock on the Suburban’s dash read 5:15 PM as I pulled into the lot of the Blue Moon Diner, a retro joint smack in the middle of downtown Salem. Its neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a pink-and-blue glow over the cracked asphalt, and the smell of frying onions hit me as I stepped out. Lindsey had picked the spot for coffee, and I figured it was as good a place as any to bounce some of this mess off her, enough to get her take, not so much I’d tip the whole hand. The day’s weight, Ellen’s bruises, Billy’s twin connection, Barnum’s phone call, sat heavy, but Lindsey’s sharp mind might spot something I’d missed. I locked the car and headed inside, the bell above the door jangling as I stepped into the hum of clinking plates and low chatter.
Lindsey was already there, tucked into a red vinyl booth near the window, her denim jacket slung over the backrest and a mug of coffee steaming in front of her. She looked up from her phone as I slid in across from her, her green eyes lighting up with that easy grin. “Hey, you made it,” she said, pushing a stray strand of blonde from her braid. “Thought you might’ve gotten lost chasing some shady lead.”
“Not yet,” I said, matching her smile as I settled in. “Just dodging the usual small-town charm. You order yet?”
“Just coffee,” she said, nodding at her mug. “Figured I’d wait for you. The pie here’s killer, apple or cherry, your call.” A waitress swung by, and I ordered a black coffee and a slice of cherry pie, Lindsey adding apple to the mix. As the waitress shuffled off, Lindsey leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So, what’s this hunch you texted about? You’ve got that look, like you’re halfway down a rabbit hole.”
I took a breath, picking my words. “It’s about Ellen, Kate’s mom. She’s been having these… episodes. Bruises showing up out of nowhere, no memory of how. She’s spooked, and Kate’s got me digging into it.” I paused as the coffee arrived, the waitress setting it down with a clatter. “I’ve been spending time with her, trying to pin it down. Even set up a camera at her place tonight to catch whatever’s happening.”
Lindsey’s brow furrowed, her fingers tightening around her mug. “That’s creepy as hell. You think someone’s hurting her? Like, breaking in?”
“Maybe,” I said, sipping the coffee, bitter and hot, just how I liked it. “She swears it’s not Nelson, he’s been solid, and I believe her. But the timing’s weird. A couple of nights ago, she felt this wave of fear, woke up with a boot mark on her stomach. I’m starting to wonder if it’s tied to something else, someone else.” I left Billy’s name out, the twin twist still too raw to spill. “You’ve been around Salem longer, what’s your read on the locals? Anyone stand out as trouble?”
She leaned back, pie arriving as she thought it over, the waitress sliding plates between us. “Salem’s pretty tame, honestly. Most folks are just living their lives. The only one who’s ever rubbed me wrong is Billy Johnson, you met him at the game. He’s got a temper, and it’s not just with Michael. I’ve seen him snap at parents, refs, even other cops. But hurting Ellen? That’s a leap. He’s a jerk, not a stalker.”
I forked a bite of cherry pie, the tartness cutting through the sugar. “Yeah, he’s a piece of work. Pulled me over the other day, gave me the full small-town shakedown. What about Michael, how’s he hold up after Billy’s blowups?”
Lindsey’s expression softened, a flicker of worry crossing her face. “He’s quiet anyway, but after Billy goes off, like at the game, he shuts down hard. Barely talks, keeps his head down in class. I’ve tried checking in, but he just clams up. It’s like he’s carrying something heavy, you know?” She paused, pie untouched. Lindsey tilted her head, her green eyes narrowing slightly as she studied me over the rim of her coffee mug. “You think Billy’s part of this somehow?”
“Not sure,” I said, the lie slipping out smooth as I kept my real suspicions, Billy as Ellen’s twin, the wild telepathy hunch, tucked tight against my chest. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, and pushed a little deeper. “What about Michael? You ever notice any signs of physical abuse on him? Bruises, scratches, anything?”
She set her mug down, shaking her head with a faint frown. “Not at all. I’ve looked, Marcus, plenty of times. With a dad like Billy, always on the edge of shouting, you’d expect it, right? Verbal abuse that close usually spills over into something physical. But I’ve never seen a mark on him, not a scrape, not a bruise, nothing. He’s quiet, withdrawn, but his skin’s clean.” She paused, twirling her fork in the apple pie crumbs. “It’s almost weird how not banged up he is, considering.”
I nodded, filing that away, Michael unmarked, Ellen bruised, the disconnect nagging louder now. “Just fishing at this point,” I said, leaning back with a casual shrug to keep her at ease. “Ellen’s bruises don’t match a break-in, no forced entry, nothing missing, no sense to it. I’m chasing shadows ‘til something sticks.” I left Billy’s name hanging unspoken, the twin link and that midnight timing still mine to wrestle with alone. Lindsey didn’t need the full weight, not yet, but her take on Michael sharpened the edges of the puzzle, even if it didn’t fit clean.
“It’s almost… random. But I’ll figure it out,” I reassured her. I didn’t mention the adoption file, the twin link, or my plan to scope Billy’s house tonight, too much, too soon. Lindsey didn’t need the full load, not yet. She nodded, digging into her apple pie. “Well, if anyone can crack it, it’s you. Just don’t get too lost in that rabbit hole, coffee’s on me if you keep me posted.” Her grin returned, lighter now, and I let it pull me out of the murk for a moment. We finished the pie over small talk, her students, my foggy Astoria nights, but my mind was already ticking toward 6:00, the camera’s red eye, and Billy’s shadowed house a few blocks from Ellen’s. Whatever was hitting her, I’d see it tonight, and Lindsey’s take on Michael only sharpened the edges of the puzzle.
As we wrapped up, the waitress cleared our plates, and Lindsey slid a few bills across the table, true to her word. “Keep me in the loop, okay?” she said, standing and tugging her jacket on. “I’ve got a soft spot for Ellen, and Michael, too. Whatever’s going on, it’s not right.”
“Will do,” I said, rising with a nod. “Thanks for the pie, and the company.” She flashed that grin again, then headed out, the bell jangling behind her. I lingered a moment, sipping the last of my coffee, letting the warmth settle my nerves. Lindsey’s words echoed, no mark on him, and the image of Ellen’s boot-shaped bruise flared bright. The clock hit 5:45 as I stepped back into the cooling dusk, the Suburban waiting like an old friend. Time to move, to watch, to catch the truth as it broke.

Chapter 17: Night’s Unseen Threads
As 6:00 PM ticked closer, I fired up the Suburban and eased out of downtown Salem, the last threads of daylight bleeding into a bruised purple sky. The town slipped past in a quiet blur, brick storefronts shuttering for the night, Victorian porches glowing with early lamplight, the air thick with the damp promise of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. I steered toward Billy Johnson’s neighborhood, a grid of modest bungalows crouching under sagging power lines, the streets narrowing as if guarding their secrets. My phone sat heavy in my pocket, synced to Ellen’s camera, its app a silent sentinel ready to ping at the first flicker of motion. The weight of the day, Ellen’s unexplained bruises, Billy’s twin shadow, Michael’s unscarred silence, pressed against my ribs, but the wheel felt steady in my hands, the engine’s low growl a tether to the job ahead: park close, watch sharp, and catch whatever broke loose in the dark.
I eased the Suburban to a stop two blocks from Billy Johnson’s gray bungalow, parking under the drooping branches of an old maple to blend into the evening shadows. I stepped out, the air cool and heavy with the scent of wet grass, and moved silently through the neighborhood, my boots soft against the cracked pavement. My eyes roamed, cataloging details, the sagging porch of a blue clapboard house where an old man smoked, the flicker of a TV through a curtained window, a dog’s muffled bark from a chain-link yard, mental snapshots of a quiet street winding down for the night. I scoped out vantage points: a low hedge with a clear sightline to Billy’s front door, a rusted pickup that could shield a crouch, a cluster of overgrown lilacs if I needed to shift angles. Full darkness would cloak me better for peering through windows, but for now, I’d keep my distance. Billy’s backyard, sloping down to a creek lined with scraggly pines and cottonwoods, offered decent cover, nature’s blind if I needed it.
I slipped between a weathered fence and a dented dumpster on the side of a house across the street and one down from Billy’s, the gap just wide enough for my frame. The spot gave me a diagonal view of Billy’s front door and porch light, faint but steady through the dusk. I checked my watch, 6:04 PM, and pulled out my phone, the camera app flickering to life with a live feed from Ellen’s place. The grainy image steadied: her great room sprawled out, the kitchen island in sharp focus, Ellen perched on a stool. She waved at the lens, a small, calm gesture laced with anticipation, her cardigan slipping off one shoulder as she sipped tea from a chipped mug and flipped a page in a paperback. The normalcy of it, tea, a book, soft lighting, jarred against the boot-shaped bruise I knew hid beneath her clothes, and I settled in, the dumpster’s cold metal at my back, ready to watch both ends of this fraying thread.
Two hours crept by, the neighborhood sinking deeper into night as I crouched behind the dumpster, the chill of the metal seeping through my jacket. My legs ached from holding still, but I kept my eyes locked on Billy’s bungalow, the porch light a dull beacon in the dark. At 8:17 PM, the front door swung open, and Billy stepped out, his bulk silhouetted against the glow. I tensed, watching as Billy ambled to his sedan, popped the trunk, and hauled out a case of beer, cans glinting faintly, along with a brown paper bag that sagged with the telltale heft of a liquor bottle, probably whiskey or vodka. First movement, I thought, a spark of adrenaline cutting through the stiffness. And with hard liquor, no less, this could be the night it all sharpens into focus.
He shifted slightly, adjusting his view as Billy trudged back inside, the door slamming shut behind him. I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for, exactly, Billy peeling out in the sedan, heading for Ellen’s place to do… what? Break in, lash out? Or staying put, cracking open that bottle and turning belligerent, his temper flaring hot enough to spark something with Michael? Either way, the air felt charged, like the first crackle before a storm. The beer and liquor tilted the odds toward chaos, and chaos might just peel back the layers on Ellen’s bruises, whether Billy crossed town or unleashed hell at home. I checked my phone, Ellen’s feed still showed her in the kitchen, now washing her mug, the clock above her ticking past 8:00. The night stretched out, ripe with the promise of answers, and I settled in deeper, ready for whatever broke first.
By 9:00 PM, the feed from Ellen’s camera flickered with a new scene, she was winding down for the night, her movements slow and deliberate in the grainy frame. Earlier, we’d hashed out a plan: she’d sleep on the sofa in the great room, not her bedroom, so the camera’s wide lens could capture her fully as she rested. It’d also keep the main space in view, the front door dead center, its deadbolt glinting faintly, and the open stretch of hardwood that led toward the kitchen. If someone slipped in through the back door, they’d have no choice but to cross the camera’s line of sight to reach her, their shadow caught in the act. She tugged a quilt over herself now, settling onto the cushions with a pillow propped under her head, her face calm but her eyes darting once toward the lens, a silent nod that she was ready, trusting me to watch from the shadows just blocks away.
From my perch behind the dumpster, Billy Johnson’s house glowed faintly against the night, the TV’s restless flicker spilling through his front window and painting jagged patches of light across the patchy lawn. Each pulse of the screen offered a fleeting glimpse through his drawn curtains, silhouettes shifting, vague shapes of furniture, the hulking outline of Billy himself lumbering past now and then. I kept low, the cold biting at my knuckles, watching the dance of shadows for any hint of what brewed inside. Around 10:00 PM, the air split with raised voices, sharp and jagged, leaking through the thin walls. I strained to catch the words, Billy’s booming growl, maybe Michael’s smaller voice, but they blurred into a furious hum, too muffled to decipher. Time to close the gap.
I slid along the neighbor’s fence, easing back from the dumpster and out of the house’s direct line of sight, my boots whispering against the damp grass. Cutting through the adjacent backyard, I navigated a clutter of forgotten toys and a sagging clothesline, looping around until I could crouch behind a row of scruffy bushes directly across from Billy’s front door. The TV’s glow pulsed steady, a beacon in the dark, and I waited, breath shallow, until the screen went black, a brief, perfect void. I bolted, darting across the street in a low hunch, the pavement cold underfoot, and ducked behind the thick hedge flanking Billy’s yard. Thorns snagged at my jacket, but I pushed through, angling toward the wooded strip at the back of his property, the creek’s tree cover promising a better hide as I edged closer to the storm brewing inside.

Chapter 18: Beneath the Deck
From my new perch in the wooded strip behind Billy Johnson’s house, the creek gurgling softly at my back, I had a clean line of sight through the sliding glass door that opened onto his backyard. The tall wooden fence ringing the property, splintered and weathered, seemed to lull Billy into a lazy confidence, as if no one would bother peering past it. A single floodlight jutted from the house, meant to bathe the yard in harsh light, but its bulb had burned out long ago, leaving the space cloaked in forgiving shadows. The deck, raised about three feet off the ground with a lattice skirt, stretched out from the door, a perfect blind. I crept forward, the damp earth muting my steps, and slipped beneath it, the weathered planks overhead shielding me as I edged closer. From here, the glass door framed the living room like a stage, voices and movement sharpening into focus, the night handing me sound and sight I couldn’t catch from the street.
I slipped my phone from my pocket, the screen’s faint glow cutting through the dark beneath Billy’s deck, and tapped the camera app to check on Ellen. The feed flickered to life, there she was, still fast asleep on her sofa, the quilt pulled tight around her, chest rising and falling in the dim lamplight. No motion, no alerts; with Billy in my sights just yards away, I felt a flicker of confidence she’d stay safe tonight. But Michael, Michael was another story. Muffled through the glass door, Billy’s voice roared, a jagged bellow that sliced the quiet, laced with slurred fury, too much beer, too much liquor. Under it, a softer sound twisted my gut: Michael’s whimpering, small and desperate, a kid drowning in his father’s storm.
I edged closer, belly-crawling along the deck’s underside until I pressed against the lattice, the cold wood grazing my cheek. The sliding door framed them now, Billy, a hulking shadow swaying in the living room, and Michael, shrinking back, his small frame taut with fear. Billy’s shouting sharpened into focus: “You think you can just sit there? Useless!” Michael’s voice broke through, a sudden, raw “NO!” as Billy lurched out of his recliner, lunging at the boy with a drunkard’s clumsy speed. Michael stumbled backward, seeking escape, only to crash into the half-wall dividing the kitchen bar from the living room, the thud of his shoulder against drywall reverberating out to me. I tensed, muscles coiling, as Billy loomed over him, his meaty hand rising, open, then curling into a fist. A loud thump punched through the night, sharp and final, echoing across the deck as Michael crumpled to the floor, a small heap against the wall.
My breath caught, every nerve firing. I was torn, split right down the middle. Do I bust in now, kick through that glass door, and yank Michael out of the line of fire, stopping this beating before it buries him? Or do I hold back, let Billy cross a line harsh enough to nail him, something undeniable, something that’d stick with the cops, get Michael pulled from this hellhouse for good? Interrupt too soon, and Billy might slither free, just a loudmouth with a slap on the wrist; wait too long, and Michael pays the price. The kid’s slump, the silence after that thump, it clawed at me, but I gripped the lattice, forcing myself to watch, to weigh the cost as the night teetered on a razor’s edge.
Just then, my phone flared to life in my hand, the screen blazing like a signal flare in the dark beneath Billy’s deck. The camera app jolted awake with a motion alert, and there was Ellen, sprawled on her great room floor in a crumpled heap, the quilt tangled around her legs. My pulse spiked, confusion slamming into me. What the hell was happening? Before I could process it, a sharp cry tore through the glass door, Michael, his voice cracking with pain. I snapped my eyes back to Billy’s living room in time to see Billy rear back and drive his boot straight into Michael’s stomach, the kid still slumped against the half-wall, defenseless.
At that exact moment, the phone screen showed Ellen’s body jerk, she curled into a fetal ball, mirroring Michael’s collapse, her arms clutching her midsection. Then, as Billy’s boot swung again, landing a second brutal kick to Michael’s gut, Ellen’s form moved, her body slid several feet across her hardwood floor, propelled by some invisible force, her eyes squeezed shut, face twisted in agony. It was uncanny, impossible, her movements synced perfectly with Michael’s, each blow to him rippling through her, miles apart but bound by the same pain. I gripped the phone, my knuckles white, the pieces crashing together in a way that defied everything I knew, the night unraveling into something far darker than a simple assault.
Ellen was down but breathing on her floor, miles away, safe enough for now, the camera feed still flickering on my phone. That was all I needed. I surged to my feet, the deck’s edge scraping my shoulder as I bolted for Billy’s sliding glass door, adrenaline torching through me. In his booze-soaked stupor, he hadn’t bothered locking it, sloppy, lucky for me. My thumb jabbed 911 as I moved, the operator’s crisp “Emergency services” cutting through just as I gripped the handle. “Assault in progress, 1427 Oak Street,” I barked, voice low and tight. “Kid’s hurt, get here fast.” I didn’t wait for a reply, shoving the phone into my pocket as I yanked the door open with a shout, “Hey!”, the noise splitting the air to throw Billy off.
He spun, bleary-eyed and swaying, his boot still hovering from that last kick. The surprise bought me a split second, and I pounced, barreling into him full-force, shoulder slamming his chest. We crashed to the carpet, beer cans scattering, the liquor bottle toppling with a dull thud. Michael whimpered from the floor nearby, curled tight, as Billy flailed under me, his meaty fists swinging wild. “Get off me, you bastard!” he slurred, but I pinned his arms, knee driving into his gut to keep him down. He bucked, strong even drunk, but I twisted his wrist hard, wrenching a howl out of him, enough to sap his fight.
“Stay down, Billy,” I growled, panting, my grip iron as I held him sprawled against the coffee table’s edge. The room stank of sweat and spilled whiskey, the TV flickering mute in the corner. Michael’s soft sobs anchored me, keeping me steady as Billy cursed and thrashed. Sirens wailed in the distance, faint at first, then sharper, closing in. Headlights flashed through the curtains, tires squealing as two patrol cars screeched into the driveway. The front door burst open, boots pounding, and Officer Barnum stormed in, his gray mustache bristling, followed by a younger cop with a drawn taser.
“Lake?” Barnum snapped, eyes darting from me to Billy to Michael’s crumpled form. “What the hell’s this?”
“Caught him kicking the kid,” I said, easing off as the younger cop hauled Billy up, cuffing his wrists with a metallic click. “Check the boy, he’s hurt bad.” Barnum knelt by Michael, muttering something soft as the kid flinched, while Billy spat curses, his face red and twisted. I stepped back, chest heaving, and pulled my phone, Ellen’s feed showed her stirring now, groaning as she clutched her stomach, the sync with Michael’s pain undeniable. The cops took over, Barnum barking orders, and I slipped out the back, the night air cold against my sweat as I headed for the Suburban. Billy was down, Michael was safe, for now, and whatever tied him to Ellen was about to crack wide open.

Chapter 19: Tangled Bonds Revealed
The scene at Billy’s house settled into a tense hum as the cops took over, Barnum barking orders, the younger officer wrestling a still-belligerent Billy into cuffs, Michael’s soft whimpers fading under the weight of it all. I stepped back, catching my breath, the adrenaline still buzzing in my veins. But a cold realization hit me: Michael didn’t have a mark on him, not a bruise, not a scratch, despite those brutal kicks I’d witnessed. Lindsey had said it too, no signs of physical abuse, ever. It’d be my word against Billy’s in a courtroom, and Michael, curled up and silent, didn’t look ready to speak for himself. My fists clenched; the truth was slipping through the cracks, and I wasn’t sure I had enough to hold it.
I caught Barnum’s eye as he straightened from checking Michael, his mustache twitching with irritation. “I’ll swing by the station later to give a full statement,” I said, voice steady despite the churn in my gut. “Gotta check on someone first, won’t be long.” He grunted, waving me off, “Make it quick, Lake”, and I slipped out the back, the night air slapping my face as I jogged to the Suburban. Ellen was my priority now; whatever had synced her pain with Michael’s, I’d seen it play out live, and she deserved the whole damn story.
I gunned it across town, the streets a blur of sodium lights and shadow, pulling into Ellen’s driveway just past 10:30. The sage-green Victorian loomed quiet, her porch light a faint halo. I grabbed my phone, the camera feed showed her sitting up on the sofa now, rubbing her stomach, confusion etched into her pale face. I knocked, and she opened the door slow, her sweatshirt rumpled, eyes wide with questions. “Marcus? What’s going on? I, I fell again, felt like I got hit…”
“Inside,” I said, guiding her back to the sofa with a gentle hand on her arm. She sank down, and I pulled a chair close, setting my phone between us. “Ellen, I’ve got something to show you, and a lot to explain. Just… bear with me.” I opened the app, rewound the footage to 9:50, and hit play. The screen showed her sleeping, then jerking awake, clutching her stomach as she rolled off the couch, her body sliding across the floor in sync with those unseen blows. She gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
“What is this?” she whispered, voice trembling.
I took a deep breath, leaning forward. “It’s tied to tonight, and to you, in a way I didn’t see coming ‘til today. That pain you felt? It happened the exact moment a kid, Michael, six years old, took two kicks to the stomach from his dad, Billy Johnson. I was there, saw it live. Your bruises, your falls, they’ve been matching his beatings, blow for blow, even though he’s miles away.”
She blinked, shaking her head. “Billy Johnson? The cop? Why would, what’s he got to do with me?”
“Everything,” I said, voice low. “Ellen, you were adopted, right? Born ’67, Salt Lake City?” She nodded, slow, unsure where this was going. “I called in a favor, got your records. You weren’t alone, you had a twin brother, William Johnson. Your mom, Mary, killed your dad, Keith, that March, shot him to stop his abuse. A fire broke out that night; you both got burned, scarred. She went to prison, and you two got split up. You were adopted fast. William, Billy, stayed in foster care, grew up hard, became the guy I tackled tonight.”
Her eyes widened, hands trembling in her lap. “A twin? Billy’s my… brother?” She pressed a palm to her forehead, reeling. “But the bruises, how?”
“I don’t know how,” I admitted, “but it’s real. Michael’s his son, your nephew. Every time Billy hurts him, you feel it, take the marks. Tonight, he kicked Michael, and you went down at the same second. Look, ” I replayed the clip, pointing as her body jolted with each unseen strike. “No one’s breaking in. It’s… some kind of link, between you and Michael, through Billy maybe. Twins, family, something’s tying you together.”
She stared at the screen, tears welling, then at me. “My brother’s doing this? Hurting his own kid, and I’m, what, feeling it for him?” Her voice broke. “Why doesn’t Michael have the bruises?”
“That’s the kicker,” I said, rubbing my jaw. “He doesn’t. Not a mark on him, I checked. It’s like he’s pushing it onto you, somehow, without knowing. I stopped Billy tonight, got the cops there, but without Michael showing damage, it’s my word against his. He’s in custody for now, but I need more to keep him locked up, get Michael safe.”
Ellen swallowed hard, wiping her eyes. “What do we do, Marcus?”
“We start with you,” I said, firm. “You’re proof, those bruises, the timing. I’ll get this video to the station, tie it to my statement. Then we figure out this connection, why it’s you, how it works. But first, you’re not alone anymore. You’ve got a brother out there, messed up as he is, and a nephew who needs you now.” She nodded, shaky but resolute, and I squeezed her hand. The adoption, the twins, her link to Billy, it was all out now, and the fight to untangle it was just beginning.
I stood, giving her a moment to process as I paced to the window, peering out at the quiet street. “I’m heading to the station now,” I told her, turning back. “Get some rest if you can, I’ll call you once I’ve got this logged. We’ll figure out the next step tomorrow.” She nodded again, clutching the quilt like a lifeline, and I left her there, the weight of her trust pressing on me as I stepped back into the night. The Suburban roared to life, and I pointed it toward the station, the camera footage burning a hole in my pocket. Billy was down, but the real battle, proving this impossible bond, was just heating up.