The rain had not stopped by morning.
Gray sheets washed the city clean, but not his thoughts. Detective Williams Stones had barely slept. The card sat on his desk now, sealed in a plastic sleeve. Beneath it, a photo of the broken flame symbol. It looked hastily drawn—one fluid motion to create the circle, and a jagged interruption across the flame within. But there was intent in that stroke.
Threats were nothing new. But this one was... studied. Personal.
Whoever left it hadn't just wanted to spook him.
They wanted him to know they were watching.
He sat in the precinct's observation room now, lights low, chair tilted back as he watched the screen.
Two hours earlier, they'd hauled in the husband—Trenton James.
Mid-forties. Corporate travel. Fit. Too clean. And too calm for a man whose wife had just been found charred and faceless in the backseat of her own car.
Across the glass, Trenton sipped from the paper cup without shaking.
"You said you were in Toronto?" Detective Monroe asked, flipping pages in the file. She was younger than Stones by at least ten years, but sharp. "Flight records confirm you left Friday morning. Evelyn was last seen Saturday. Your return was Monday evening. That's a solid alibi."
Trenton nodded once. "Correct."
"But you didn't call her once over the weekend. Not even a text?"
"I was at a summit. Phones weren't allowed during the key sessions."
Monroe raised a brow. "Twelve sessions over three days. And you didn't step out once?"
"I trusted my wife," he said. "Didn't know I'd have to regret that."
It was smooth. Too smooth.
Stones watched the man's posture—the way he answered questions before they were fully formed. Not defensive. Not angry.
Trained.
He stepped into the room.
"Mr. Trent," he said, voice steady, "I've got just one question. You want to help us, right?"
"Of course," Trenton replied, nodding politely.
"Then explain this." Stones pulled the plastic evidence bag from his coat and let it fall onto the table.
The wedding ring.
Half-melted. Still bearing the inscription.
Trenton's eyes twitched—just once.
"I gave her that ring on our tenth anniversary," he said slowly.
"'Until ashes,'" Stones repeated. "That normal for you two? Romantic fire metaphors?"
Trenton didn't respond.
Monroe leaned in. "Sir, we found that ring beside a charred body in your wife's car. You're saying you weren't in town. Yet the forensics team is already looking into cell tower pings that suggest otherwise."
Now he blinked.
Stones tilted his head. "You ever hear of a group using a symbol like this?" He slid a printed copy of the card across the table.
Trenton's hands stayed in his lap.
"No," he said flatly.
Stones watched him for a long moment.
Then he turned to Monroe. "Let him go."
"What?" she blinked.
"We've got nothing yet that sticks. He's not gonna break now."
Trenton's jaw shifted slightly, but he said nothing.
As Stones walked out, he knew two things: Trenton was hiding something. And someone was helping him do it.
Back in his office, Stones pored through Evelyn Trent's financials. No debts. No secret credit cards. No unexpected withdrawals.
Then he saw it.
A payment made three days before she vanished: $3,000 to something labeled "R.O.S. Consulting."
No phone number. No address. Just a routing number that led nowhere fast.
He flagged it.
That same day, he had tech support pull security footage from a street camera a block away from the Trents' home. The neighbor's house had no working doorbell cam—but the street corner did.
At 3:47 AM on Sunday, a black SUV crept into frame.
Lights off.
Parked two houses down.
Ten minutes later, it left.
No plates. No faces.
But that was enough.
He brought the image to Lieutenant Harrow's office.
"This case is boiling fast," he said. "Husband's lying. There's a hidden consulting firm in her records. Now someone in a ghost vehicle shows up the night she vanishes."
Harrow tapped the photo. "You think this is just a domestic gone sideways?"
"No," Stones replied. "I think it was staged to look that way. And whoever did it has muscle. They knew where to dump the car. Knew how to torch it clean. Left just enough for ID—and just enough for fear."
He dropped the envelope with the card on Harrow's desk.
"They left me this."
Harrow frowned. "You just getting this now?"
"I didn't report it."
"You're damn well reporting it now."
That evening, Stones visited R.O.S. Consulting.
Or at least, he tried to.
The address pulled up a storage facility on the edge of town. Chain-link fence. One dusty light overhead. Every unit locked and numbered. No signage. No office.
He flashed his badge at the night clerk. "Ever heard of R.O.S.?"
The man scratched his beard. "Can't say I have."
Stones walked the rows of units anyway.
At Unit 309, something caught his eye.
The lock had fresh scarring—like it had recently been changed. He pressed his ear against the metal.
Faint humming.
He popped the bolt cutter from his trunk and got to work.
Inside, the unit wasn't filled with storage.
It was an office.
No windows. Folding desk. Files. A laptop still warm.
On the far wall, a map of the city with pins.
Dozens of them.
And circled in red: Elmridge Lane.
He didn't get time to react.
Because behind him, the metal clattered—loud.
Someone was there.
A shadow moved fast. Heavy boots. Stones spun, hand on his piece—
Too late.
Pain cracked across the back of his skull, and the world vanished into black.
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