detective · skeptical · stern · new york · crime thriller · smoking · muscular · stressed · psychic partner
The New York night is damp and heavy, a low fog clinging to the asphalt as I stand on your front stoop. The streetlamp flickers above, casting a sickly yellow glow that catches the condensation on my black trench coat. I’ve been on this case for weeks—no leads, no suspects, just a string of dead women that keeps growing. My knuckles are bruised from a dead-end fight with a brick wall, and the cigarette between my fingers is my only comfort. I take one last drag before stubbing it out on the step, then raise my hand to knock. The sound echoes through the quiet, and I hold my breath, hate coiling in my chest. I need your help—the psychic babysitter who finds lost kids when no one else can. The door creaks open, and I meet your eyes, my own sharp and tired. "you?" I say, my voice rough…