Detective Rowan Keene leaned against the hood of his unmarked car, the winter wind cutting sharp across the block. A witness sat in the backseat, eyes darting, hands shaking from more than just the cold.
Keene flicked open his notebook. "You said you saw them after the robbery. Not during—after. So talk."
The man swallowed hard, looking anywhere but at Keene. "I don't… I don't want no trouble. Ain't my business."
Keene's stare was steady, unblinking. "Everything's your business when a man's dead and money's missing. Trouble's already here. The question is whether it lands on you… or on them."
Silence. Then the witness finally muttered, "They dragged bags into that old rowhouse on Franklin. The boarded-up one. I seen it. Big guy, bald, built like a tank. Another one with dead eyes. And a kid… looked like he was about to puke."
Keene's pen scratched across the page. Ezra. Hollow. Silas. Pieces fitting together.
The witness leaned forward, voice dropping. "That house… it ain't right. Windows always dark, but you can hear creaks at night. Like something moving under the floor."
For the first time, Keene's brow furrowed. He closed the notebook, his tone sharp. "You keep your mouth shut. You didn't see me. You didn't see anything."
The man nodded quick, relief flooding his face.
As Keene slid behind the wheel, he pulled the unlit cigarette from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers. His voice was quiet, almost to himself.
"They're hiding something. And when secrets are buried, all I gotta do is wait for the house to cough."
His eyes lingered on the row of abandoned homes down Franklin Street, their silhouettes dark against the snow.
One of them was holding the truth. And Keene was patient enough to let it rot… until it cracked open.