Blood on the Badge
My boots slapped the wet cement of Central Station as the morning sun hit the glass doors.
The hallway smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant, a scent I’d ignored for years but now cut like a knife.
“Mum?” I called, my voice echoing off the lockers, the badge still pinned to my chest.
She was slumped in a plastic chair, a cold pack pressed against a shoulder that glistened with tiny shards of glass.
Her glasses lay shattered on the floor, one lens missing, the other a jagged crescent catching the fluorescent light.
“I told you I’d come,” she whispered, teeth clenching around a scream I could feel in my throat.
The sergeant, a broad‑shouldered man in a worn navy jacket, stepped forward, his expression a mix of duty and surprise.
“Detective, you need to see this,” he said, holding up a gold‑rimmed varifocal lens.
It was the exact same frame as my mother’s missing lens, the tiny gold edge glinting as if daring me to question it.
My breath hitched. The glass didn’t belong to the attacker; it came from the victim.
“Where did you find it?” I asked, my hand trembling on the baton of my uniform.
“In the victim’s shoulder,” he replied, the word “victim” sounding like a lie spoken too loudly.
My mind raced, the uniform suddenly feeling heavier than the weight of my badge.
Evidence and Echoes
I shoved the sergeant’s elbow aside, demanding, “I need the full report and the crime scene photos now.”
He opened the drawer of his desk, fumbling for a manila folder, his fingers shaking.
Before he could hand it over, a frantic officer burst through the doorway, clutching a battered cardboard box.
“Detective, we’ve secured the seized items,” he gasped, setting the box on the desk with a thud that made the papers jump.
Inside, a suitcase lay open, its contents spilling like a secret long hidden.
Wedding gifts—crystal vases, porcelain figurines, a tarnished silver picture frame—were stacked next to a thick envelope marked “Insurance.”
My heart pounded as I saw the familiar apple‑pie tins, the ones Daniel always kept in the attic for “special occasions.”
Then, beneath a pile of lace napkins, a baseball bat emerged, its wood darkened with fresh blood that smeared the handle.
“That’s the weapon,” I breathed, eyes locking on the crimson streak.
The sergeant lifted his phone, the screen flashing an incoming call labeled “Homicide – Precinct.”
He stared at the call, his jaw tightening, as I stared at the bat, the blood still glistening like a promise broken.
“Detective, you need to see this,” he said, voice low, as the box of evidence creaked open further.
The sound of the ringtone filled the room, hanging in the air like a gunshot waiting to echo—
Homecoming and the Apple Pie
I turned the key and the porch light flickered on, throwing a harsh circle onto the sidewalk.
Inside, Daniel stood by the kitchen island, a fresh apple pie cooling on a plate, steam curling like a nervous sigh.
His smile was tight, the kind that creaks at the corners.
"I thought I’d bring something sweet," he said, voice low, eyes darting to the table where my mother’s shattered glasses lay like broken promises.
I swallowed the rush of heat that rose in my throat.
"You said you were sorting out the family stuff," I demanded, stepping closer, the scent of cinnamon clashing with the metallic tang I could still taste from the station.
He brushed a hand over the rim of the pie, then slipped a folded slip of paper onto the laminate.
My fingers trembled as I unfolded it—a meeting notice with a lawyer, dated for tomorrow, concerning a life‑insurance policy on my mother, the sum enough to fund a new life.
His eyes flicked away, caught by the window’s glare, but the paper stayed, a silent accusation on the kitchen counter.
The Hidden Camera Revelation
"Explain this," I said, holding the slip up like a weapon, my voice echoing off the tiled floor.
