Ink & Shadows

Fanfiction writer, caffeine enthusiast ✍️ Cover designer, Above & Beyond listener 🎨 Ink, imagination, and occasional chaos

[inkmshadows]

FINAL NOTICE | Story Summary

Damian is a struggling restaurant owner drowning in debt. He owes his life to Victor, a ruthless and patient lender who never forgets what he is owed. Every week, Victor sends his enforcer Richard to collect, quietly and methodically, reminding Damian that time is running out.

When a month passes and Damian can no longer pay, panic turns into paranoia. Convinced the money is being stolen from inside his own restaurant, Damian searches for someone to blame. Too afraid to face Victor, he makes a fatal decision. He tells Richard that the thief is his own niece, and that she has the money.

As lies pile up and pressure mounts, Richard begins to see the cracks in Damian’s story, while Victor watches from a distance, already knowing the truth. In a world where debt is inherited and mercy is a myth, Damian learns too late that avoiding payment only changes who pays the price.

Because in the end, someone always pays.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[inkmshadows]

Dette De Sang - Une Fanfiction sur la série Québécoise Antigang

Deux semaines après la mort de son père, Michelle croit avoir survécu au pire.

Elle se trompe.

À vingt trois ans, elle hérite de la maison familiale… et d’une dette de 556 000 dollars laissée derrière par un homme qu’elle pensait connaître.

Quand Denys Marchand, chef impitoyable des Death Shadows, franchit le seuil de sa porte, son monde bascule. Froid. Calculateur. Incontrôlable. Il ne vient pas offrir ses condoléances.

Il vient réclamer son dû.

Piégée dans sa propre maison, Michelle découvre que les dettes ne disparaissent pas avec les morts. Elles changent simplement de propriétaire.

Trois choix.

Payer l’impayable. Danser dans le bar de Marchand, le Quickie. Ou travailler pour lui… sous ses règles.

Mais dans l’univers de Denys Marchand, chaque décision a un prix. Et la peur est une monnaie d’échange.

Convoquée le lendemain à treize heures, Michelle comprend que ce n’est pas seulement une dette qu’elle devra rembourser…

C’est sa liberté.

Dans un monde où le pouvoir se gagne par l’intimidation et se conserve par la manipulation, une jeune femme fragile devra apprendre à survivre.

Parce que certaines dettes ne se paient pas en argent.

Elles se paient en sang.

CHAPITRE 1

Deux semaines s’étaient écoulées depuis le décès de son père, James. Michelle avait hérité de la maison familiale et, malgré la douleur qui l’habitait encore, elle voulait la garder. Elle se réjouissait d’être enfant unique à cet instant, seule maître de son destin au cœur de ces lieux qu’elle connaissait depuis toujours.

Elle avait accepté la succession de son père sans vraiment prendre le temps d’en étudier tous les détails. Elle savait seulement que son père avait des dettes, notamment envers un certain Vautrin. Mais ce que Michelle ignorait, et qui aurait pu changer sa perception de cette héritage, était que le fameux black book de Vautrin, ce carnet mystérieux contenant des informations sensibles et compromettantes, était désormais entre les mains de Denys Marchand, le redoutable leader des Death Shadows.

L’ombre de ce nom, Denys Marchand, planait déjà sur elle, même si elle n’en avait pas encore pleinement conscience. L’héritage de son père, loin d’être un simple legs, allait bientôt se révéler être une porte d’entrée vers un monde dangereux qu’elle n’aurait jamais imaginé.

Elle allait bientôt découvrir toute la vérité, alors qu’elle terminait d’aménager la dernière pièce de la maison familiale, désormais entièrement sienne. Les cartons étaient encore éparpillés sur le sol, le parfum de bois ancien et de souvenirs flottant dans l’air. Michelle entendit soudain la sonnette retentir, brisant le silence de la maison. Ignorant qui cela pouvait être, la jeune femme de vingt-trois ans se précipita vers la porte, le cœur battant plus vite qu’à l’ordinaire.

À travers la fenêtre, elle aperçut Denys Marchand, accompagné d’un homme plus âgé que lui et nettement moins séduisant. Un frisson lui parcourut l’échine. Elle se souvenait vaguement de cet homme lors des funérailles de son père, James, mais sans plus. Elle ne pouvait deviner la raison de leur visite, et un mélange de curiosité et de méfiance la saisit.

Lorsqu’elle ouvrit la porte, ses yeux bleus fixèrent Marchand avec une vigilance instinctive. Elle se sentait vulnérable, frêle, presque fragile du haut de ses 1 mètre 60. La brise de l’après-midi souleva légèrement ses cheveux, accentuant ce sentiment de fragilité. Son regard scrutait chaque mouvement de l’homme devant elle, tentant de deviner ses intentions, tandis que son esprit s’emballait : pourquoi ici, pourquoi maintenant, et surtout, que venait-il chercher dans sa maison ?

« Toutes mes sympathies… Je connaissais bien James, un bon gars ! »

Mentit Marchand d’une voix posée mais glaciale, tandis que son acolyte, resté près de lui, ne laissait échapper aucun mot, immobile comme une ombre. Michelle, un peu déstabilisée par la présence imposante de Marchand, ne savait pas quoi répondre. Elle hocha simplement la tête en murmurant un « merci » à peine audible, sa voix presque étouffée par l’incompréhension et la peur qui commençait à s’installer.

Alors qu’elle s’apprêtait à refermer la porte pour mettre fin à cette intrusion inattendue, Marchand planta sa botte en cuir noir dans l’encadrement, bloquant l’entrée avec une aisance inquiétante.

« Oh, pas très polie… surtout que je n’avais pas encore terminé de discuter avec toi ! » Sa voix était ferme, autoritaire, sans laisser place à la contestation.

Les yeux de Michelle, habituellement clairs et calmes, se remplirent d’une lueur tranchante, d’une colère mêlée à la peur, tandis que Marchand et son complice pénétraient dans la maison sans demander son autorisation. Chaque pas qu’ils faisaient sur le parquet résonnait comme une menace silencieuse dans l’immense hall d’entrée.

« Ton père était un bon gars… mais un très mauvais gambler ! » Marchand esquissa un sourire qui n’atteignait pas ses yeux, et son ton laissait deviner que ce n’était que le début de ses révélations.

Michelle avala difficilement sa salive, le cœur battant à tout rompre, comprenant très vite où Marchand voulait en venir. Chaque mot, chaque mouvement trahissait l’intention de ce visiteur dangereux, et elle savait déjà que cette rencontre allait bouleverser sa vie de façon irréversible.

La panique s’empara d’elle comme un souffle glacial, et Michelle se retourna en courant vers la porte-patio arrière, espérant disparaître dans le jardin. Mais avant même qu’elle ne puisse atteindre la poignée, l’homme de Marchand, grand et massif, surgit et la saisit avec une rapidité effrayante.

« Where do you think you’re going, lil’ bitch, eh ? » ricanna Marcos Francis, l’acolyte de Marchand, son sourire cruel trahissant le plaisir qu’il prenait à la saisir. Il la plaqua au sol avec une force qui la fit suffoquer. Michelle se débattait faiblement, ses larmes roulant sur ses joues alors qu’une peur sourde lui compressait la poitrine.

« S’il vous plaît… ne me faites pas de mal ! » sanglota-t-elle, la voix brisée par la terreur.

Marcos la maintint au sol, implacable, tandis que Michelle se sentait complètement impuissante. Son esprit s’emballa, imaginant mille scénarios terrifiants, persuadée que sa situation était désespérée. Elle ferma les yeux un instant, tentant de retrouver un souffle, mais le danger était palpable.

Pourtant, malgré la brutalité de Marcos, Marchand ne semblait pas là pour infliger un mal direct. Ses yeux, froids et calculateurs, observaient la scène depuis un pas de recul, pesant chaque mouvement, chaque réaction de Michelle. Le silence qu’il laissait derrière lui était presque plus terrifiant que la violence physique, comme si chaque décision qu’il prenait pouvait changer instantanément le cours de sa vie.

Michelle sentit son cœur battre à tout rompre, chaque seconde étirée dans une tension insoutenable. Elle savait que, pour l’instant, elle ne pouvait compter que sur sa chance et sur sa rapidité d’esprit pour espérer s’en sortir de cette rencontre terrifiante.

Marchand avait compris que Marcos prenait un malin plaisir à terroriser Michelle et, d’un geste sec, ordonna à son acolyte de la relâcher.

« Laisse-la… » dit-il d’une voix ferme. Mais voyant que Marcos semblait presque s’amuser à la maintenir au sol, Marchand haussa le ton. Cette fois, il choisit l’anglais, avec une autorité qui broyait toute contestation.

« Enough! Let her go!! »

Marcos grimaça mais s’exécuta à contrecœur, laissant Michelle reprendre son souffle. Elle resta un instant à terre, ses genoux tremblants, essayant de calmer son rythme cardiaque effréné. Marchand s’avança lentement, imposant, et se pencha vers elle.

« Ton père me doit une somme importante, et ce n’est pas parce qu’il est mort que sa dette a disparu. Si j’ai bien compris, tu es la seule héritière de son testament. Que cela te plaise ou non, tu devras me rembourser sa dette… » Sa voix était calme mais glaciale, chaque mot pesant lourdement sur Michelle comme une menace silencieuse.

Michelle se releva lentement, encore secouée par l’intensité de la scène. Elle passa le revers de sa main sur ses joues pour essuyer les larmes qui brouillaient ses yeux bleus, clairs comme un ciel d’été.

« Écoutez… je… je ne savais pas que mon père vous devait de l’argent. Je ne veux pas d’ennuis… » murmura-t-elle, la voix tremblante mais décidée à montrer qu’elle n’était pas totalement soumise.

Elle sentit alors le regard pesant et malsain de Marcos, qui ne quittait pas ses mouvements du regard. La peur se mêlait à la colère dans le cœur de Michelle, tandis qu’elle réalisait qu’elle était confrontée à ces deux hommes seuls dans sa maison, piégée entre menace et intimidation. Chaque respiration semblait plus lourde, chaque silence plus oppressant, et elle comprit que cette rencontre allait marquer le début d’un cauchemar dont elle ne voyait pas encore l’issue.

« Je vais être gentil aujourd’hui… Ton père ne m’a jamais causé d’ennuis, et tu sembles être une bonne fille toi aussi. Je vais te donner la chance de choisir une des options que je vais te proposer. »

Michelle resta silencieuse. Le fait qu’il la qualifie de « bonne fille » ne la rassurait pas, bien au contraire : cela la terrifiait. Qu’est-ce que ça voulait dire ? Était-ce un compliment ou une menace déguisée ? Son cœur battait la chamade et ses mains tremblaient légèrement. Elle hocha la tête rapidement, incapable de trouver ses mots, tandis que Marchand commençait à énumérer ses options.

« Je… je ne veux pas d’ennuis… » murmura-t-elle, la voix brisée, en essayant de contenir ses larmes.

Mais les sanglots finirent par la submerger. Cette fois, ils étaient plus forts, plus désespérés. Marchand observa la scène avec une expression calme mais calculatrice. Il roula ses yeux verts vers le plafond, légèrement agacé par les pleurs, mais il comprit rapidement que Michelle était simplement ébranlée par la présence de Marcos et par l’intensité de la situation. Elle avait besoin de temps pour respirer, pour reprendre le contrôle, et surtout, Marchand devait gagner sa confiance… un défi qu’il savait délicat, mais qu’il avait l’habitude de relever.

« Ok… viens t’asseoir dans la cuisine. On va discuter à la table. » Sa voix était douce, presque persuasive, mais chaque mot portait une autorité qui ne laissait pas de place à la contestation.

Sentant à quel point Michelle était intimidé par Marcos, Marchand se tourna vers son acolyte et lui ordonna d’un ton sec : « Va m’attendre dans le véhicule dehors. » Marcos obéit, jetant un dernier regard à Michelle avant de quitter la maison, laissant un silence pesant derrière lui.

Michelle suivit Marchand jusqu’à la cuisine, chaque pas lourd et hésitant. Elle s’assit à la table, encore tremblante, le regard fixé sur le sol. Marchand, lui, resta debout un moment, l’observant attentivement, comme un prédateur jaugeant sa proie. La pièce, éclairée par la lumière du jour filtrant par les rideaux, semblait soudain plus étroite, plus oppressante. Michelle sentait que chaque mot qu’elle prononcerait à partir de maintenant pourrait déterminer le cours de cette rencontre… et peut-être bien de sa vie entière.

Marchand attendit que Michelle se calme. Les sanglots s’étaient peu à peu estompés, ne laissant derrière eux qu’un souffle tremblant et irrégulier. Lorsqu’il jugea qu’elle pouvait l’écouter, il commença à parler, sa voix basse et mesurée, mais lourde de menace.

« Ton père me doit 556 000 dollars… et maintenant cette dette est la tienne. »

Michelle, déjà pâle à cause de ses cheveux roux et sa peau naturellement claire, devint presque translucide. Elle resta figée sur sa chaise, incapable d’aligner un seul mot, ses mains crispées sur le rebord de la table. Le montant résonnait dans sa tête comme un coup de tonnerre, et elle sentait sa poitrine se serrer sous l’effet de l’angoisse.

« Tu as trois options… » continua Marchand, le regard fixé sur elle, pesant chacun de ses mots. « Option une : tu me payes et la dette disparaît. Option deux : tu pourrais travailler comme danseuse dans mon bar, le Quickie… mais je doute que ce soit ton genre, tu as l’air trop prude pour ça. Et la dernière option : tu travaillerais pour moi. Tu ferais les commissions du Quickie, tu t’occuperais aussi de l’inventaire du bar. Tu serais payée, mais une partie de ton salaire servirait à rembourser la dette de ton père. »

Michelle leva finalement les yeux vers lui, fixant Denys Marchand, cet homme de cinquante-trois ans dont l’aura imposante remplissait la pièce. La peur et l’indignation se mêlaient dans son regard bleu, mais elle rassembla le peu de courage qu’elle avait.

« Et si je dis non ? » demanda-t-elle d’une voix tremblante, à peine audible.

Marchand ne put s’empêcher de laisser échapper un petit rire moqueur. Lentement, il s’avança vers elle, chaque pas résonnant dans la cuisine silencieuse. Sa main droite, large et chaude, se glissa sous son menton, levant doucement son visage vers lui.

« Je trouverais ça dommage de te passer… tu es une belle petite fille… » Sa voix était douce, presque séduisante, mais chaque mot portait une menace implicite. Michelle sentit un frisson glacé lui parcourir l’échine, consciente qu’elle était totalement à sa merci. La tension dans la pièce était presque tangible, chaque souffle, chaque mouvement pesant sur elle comme un poids écrasant.

Elle sentit son cœur battre à tout rompre, chaque seconde s’étirant en un supplice silencieux. Marchand la regardait, un sourire presque imperceptible aux lèvres, et Michelle comprit qu’elle n’était pas simplement face à un créancier… mais face à un homme capable de la manipuler, de l’intimider et de transformer sa vie en un jeu dont elle ignorait encore les règles.

« Tu vas revenir me rejoindre demain au Quickie, à treize heures. C’est sur le Boulevard Marie-Victorin… As-tu un crayon et du papier ? Je vais t’écrire l’adresse exacte. »

Michelle hocha la tête, encore tremblante, et se leva de la table pour aller chercher un crayon et un bout de papier. Chaque pas lui semblait lourd, comme si la peur lui paralysait les jambes. Elle tendit le papier et le crayon à Denys, consciente qu’elle était complètement prise au piège. Il n’y avait aucune échappatoire.

Denys prit le crayon et écrivit l’adresse du Quickie d’une écriture nette et ferme. Puis, il glissa le papier entre ses doigts, le faisant passer dans la main de Michelle avec un geste calculé, presque possessif. Alors qu’il s’éloignait pour partir, quelque chose dans son regard sembla changer, et il fit brusquement demi-tour.

Sa main se referma sur le poignet de Michelle, la ramenant vers lui. Le contact était chaud, ferme, et chargé d’une menace silencieuse.

« Si jamais l’envie te prenait de raconter tout ça à la police… » Sa voix avait changé. Plus basse. Plus dure. « Je te trouverais. Peu importe où tu te caches. Et je te tuerais. Compris ? »

Les mots tombèrent un à un, lourds comme des pierres.

Les yeux bleus de Michelle s’agrandirent sous le choc. Son cœur frappait si fort contre sa poitrine qu’elle avait l’impression qu’il allait exploser. Ses doigts devinrent froids, engourdis. L’air semblait manquer dans la pièce. Elle tenta d’avaler sa salive, mais sa gorge était sèche, bloquée par la peur.

Elle hocha la tête, incapable de produire un son.

Marchand la relâcha lentement, comme si elle n’était rien de plus qu’un objet qu’il reposait à sa place. Il lui adressa un dernier regard, long, évaluateur, puis quitta la maison.

La porte se referma.

Le silence.

Michelle resta immobile quelques secondes, incapable de bouger. Puis ses jambes cédèrent et elle s’agrippa au comptoir pour ne pas tomber. Ses mains tremblaient violemment. Elle porta le papier à son regard brouillé par les larmes. L’adresse semblait brûler entre ses doigts.

Demain, treize heures.

Et elle savait que ce n’était que le début.

[ansonmountdaily]

Anson Mount in The Virtuoso (2021), dir. Nick Stagliano

“I knew [Anson Mount] was talented, because I’m always interested in the best actor - especially theater trained actors, because you know that they’re always going to take care of themselves. Which is very comforting, especially in low budget filmmaking when the insanity of the production gets to you.

But I always marked him down as a guy that I thought was underrated. It’s not his fault that he’s so handsome, too. We always joke about that. And he’s got all of his hair still. So, he’s got all those elements. And I said, "I need a leading man. And this movie’s it.” Luckily, when he read it, he called right away. He was shooting this series, Hell on Wheels - it’s a Western, and he was shooting last season. Fred Fuchs, my executive producer, and I flew out to Calgary to meet him. We bonded over the weekend, we shook hands, and that was our deal.

That lasted for two and a half years until I got the movie set up. He stood up and honored that, and I told him he was John Wayne in Stagecoach - that’s who I was looking for. The minute you see him, you go, “Wow, who’s that guy?” Most people will go, “He looks familiar to me.” A lot of your your fans will know him now from Star Trek, but Westerners will know him from Hell on Wheels. To me, that was the perfectly right guy.“

- Director Nick Stagliano, ScreenRant interview, April 30 2021

[reeselivesforeverinmyheart]

3.04 Shuttle to Kenfori

@trekdaily @ansonmountdaily @starfleetisapromise @trekstarshipcaptain @bodybebangin

[inkmshadows]

Blood Never Lies | Original Story

Ten years ago, Ray committed a brutal crime at the La Cita Restaurant in Tucumcari and thought he had erased every trace, carrying the corpse to Albuquerque while his fifteen-year-old niece Riley watched in silence. Now, in 2025, the past refuses to stay buried, as the long-hidden body is discovered and FBI Agent James Holt is called in to unravel the mystery. Riley must face the uncle who taught her that fear can hide the truth, but some secrets have a way of coming back, and when they do, blood never lies.

COMING SOON!

[luna-azzurra]

FACIAL MICRO EXPRESSIONS FOR WRITERS <3

[reeselivesforeverinmyheart]

3.04 Shuttle to Kenfori

@trekdaily @ansonmountdaily @starfleetisapromise @trekstarshipcaptain @bodybebangin

[sportsmusicsoapsmoviesfan]

[inkmshadows]

Oh, Goran is finally embracing his gray hair, and it suits him so well. Men really do look their best when they keep their natural hair color ;)

Now let’s take a moment to appreciate Anson Mount in a tailored suit, he’s giving serious FBI agent vibes, and I absolutely love it. I think I might have a thing for men in positions of authority, oops 😏

[inkmshadows]

Rapture | Chapter 2

Chasing Shadows

The next morning, FBI Agent Grant Cole woke up earlier than he had anticipated. The room was still dim with the first hints of sunlight creeping through the blinds, and he could not say he had slept well, the memory of that dream still clinging to him, vivid and unsettling, where Frankie had been buried alive, her terrified eyes haunting him long after he had woken.

He moved through his morning routine with methodical precision, stepping into the shower and letting the hot water wash away the remnants of the nightmare, though the unease lingered beneath his skin. Once dressed, he adjusted his impeccable black suit, the fabric crisp and unyielding, pairing it with matching pants and a pale blue blouse that provided a subtle contrast beneath his tailored jacket. A black tie hung perfectly in place, and his Salt and Pepper hair, meticulously styled, completed the image of control and composure. Grant believed he was ready for another day of investigation, ready to face whatever shadows the city might hold, though a small, stubborn knot of worry tightened in his chest, reminding him that some cases, and some fears, refused to be so easily dismissed.

On his way to Bobby’s place, Grant grabbed a quick breakfast from McDonald’s, a simple order he ate on the go. There was no time to stop at a proper restaurant and enjoy a leisurely meal. Time was pressing, and soon the quiet little diner would open its doors again, bustling with the usual crowd. He had questions he needed answered, and he made sure to call Bobby before heading over, confirming that it would be alright for him to drop by. Bobby had never minded visits from FBI Agent Grant Cole, and he made it clear that his door was always open.

As Grant’s Chevrolet Malibu rolled up the familiar street, he spotted Bobby’s small house, modest and unassuming, nestled in the same neighborhood as his niece. The house had seen better days, paint peeling slightly from the siding, windows that had been repaired more times than he could count, yet it had a lived-in charm that somehow suited Bobby. Parking next to Bobby’s dusty pickup, Grant stepped out and took a deep breath, adjusting his jacket before walking up the worn path to the front door.

He knocked twice, deliberate and firm, and moments later Bobby appeared, a friendly smile greeting him as he swung the door open. “Hello, Agent Cole, please come inside,” he said warmly.

Grant stepped in and immediately took in the interior, his trained eyes scanning the familiar clutter. It was messy, but in a way that spoke of a life fully lived rather than a house neglected. The chaos reminded him of Bobby’s office, papers stacked unevenly, tools scattered across counters, yet at least it did not carry the stale, oppressive smell that lingered in Mark’s house. There was a faint but unmistakable aroma in the air, the comforting scent of eggs and bacon, cooking slowly on the stove, a homey touch that made the space feel alive. Grant allowed himself a brief moment to appreciate the normalcy before shifting his focus to the reason he was there, knowing that questions would need answers, and every detail could matter.

“Hope you don’t mind, I was just about to have breakfast, but please, you can take a seat at the kitchen table if you like,” Bobby said, motioning toward the stove where eggs and bacon sizzled gently, the aroma filling the small kitchen. The sunlight spilling through the window caught on the worn wooden table and the chipped paint of the cabinets, giving the space a lived-in warmth.

Grant Cole slid into a chair at the kitchen table, his hand automatically reaching for his notepad inside his jacket. The familiar leather cover felt reassuring beneath his fingers, a tool he relied on as much as his instincts.

“No, not at all, please, eat,” Grant said, his voice calm, measured, though his eyes were already focused on Bobby. “I won’t take long of your time, I just have a few questions concerning Frankie’s car.”

The mention of Frankie’s car made Bobby raise a brow, a flicker of curiosity and confusion passing over his face. He paused, spatula in hand, unsure where Grant was going with this line of questioning.

“Her car? Hmm, okay, what is it you want to know?” Bobby asked as he walked over to the stove, scooping the eggs and bacon onto a plate with care, the sizzling sound punctuating the quiet morning.

Grant leaned slightly forward, pen poised over his notepad, and spoke clearly, “I was told that Frankie’s car got hit on the rear bumper a few weeks ago, when she was at work. Is it true that it happened in the restaurant parking lot?”

Bobby took a thoughtful bite of eggs, chewing slowly as he considered the question. He nodded at Cole before swallowing, then set his fork down with a small shrug.

“Yes, indeed. Someone hit the rear of her car, and she was furious. It’s her first brand new car, and she treats it like it was a Ferrari,” Bobby said with a chuckle, shaking his head slightly at the memory.

Grant allowed himself a small smile, warmth flickering across his face. There was something comforting about Bobby’s candor, the way he spoke with both honesty and humor, a brief but welcome reprieve from the weight of the case that lingered in Cole’s mind.

“I see, it’s indeed frustrating when it’s your first brand new car… Let’s just say I didn’t have a car like Frankie when I was in my twenties,” Grant said with a chuckle, the corners of his mouth twitching as he delivered the joke. Bobby laughed along with him, the sound warm and easy, a brief moment of levity in the morning air.

“The information I have is that Frankie wanted to close last night because she needed money to pay her insurance deductible at the Auto Body Shop. Apparently, you allowed her to, and told Samantha to leave the closure to your niece, right?” Grant continued, his tone even, professional, yet carrying just enough weight to press for the truth.

Bobby froze mid-bite, fork hovering over his plate, a faint crease appearing on his forehead as he processed the question. “What? Nope! Frankie never asked me this! At least, I think I’d remember. Of course, I wasn’t there last night, and I don’t know if Frankie could have asked Samantha herself, but I really doubt it. Samantha isn’t exactly keen on closing. Pardon me, she’s a good bartender, but she’s an easy woman, if you get my drift,” Bobby added, shaking his head slightly, his voice carrying both amusement and a hint of exasperation.

Grant watched him carefully, noting the subtle change in Bobby’s expression, the way his eyes narrowed for a brief second. The question seemed to bother him, though whether it was because it struck too close to the truth or because he instinctively sided with his niece, Grant could not be sure. It was hard to tell at this point, and that uncertainty was part of the puzzle.

So far, the statements he had gathered from Mark, David, and Samantha did not match what Frankie and Bobby were saying. There were gaps, contradictions, and shifts in tone that set off alarms in Grant’s mind. Every word mattered, every hesitation could reveal something hidden, and the FBI agent made a mental note to cross-check these details later. He felt the familiar weight of the investigation pressing down on him, a subtle tension that seemed to thrum in the quiet kitchen alongside the faint aroma of eggs and bacon.

Bobby was indeed growing furious, not at the FBI agent sitting across from him, but at Samantha and the tangled web of lies she seemed determined to weave. His hands tightened slightly around the fork, knuckles pale with restrained irritation, yet his gaze remained steady on Grant, determined to set the record straight.

“I’ll be honest with you, Agent Cole,” Bobby said, his voice firm, carrying a mix of frustration and pride, “my niece doesn’t need to ask her co-workers for closure, because she has money. She’s a good girl, she’s responsible, she’s not going out partying, she’s not traveling, and she’s saving every penny to buy a house, maybe in two years… But I know one thing, that WRX parked in her driveway, she paid for it in cash! So I really doubt my niece ever needed to close instead of the others!”

As he spoke, Bobby plunged his fork into the plate, stabbing a piece of egg with more force than necessary, the sound echoing slightly in the small kitchen. Grant watched him carefully, noting the intensity behind his words, and at the same time, a question lingered in his mind. How could a twenty-five-year-old waitress gather enough money to pay cash for a brand-new car like a Subaru WRX? It was unusual, even impressive, and it added another layer to the mystery Grant was trying to unravel.

“I see…” Grant said slowly, tilting his head, pen ready above his notepad. His tone was calm, professional, but inquisitive, probing gently into territory that seemed to unsettle Bobby only slightly. “Now, if you don’t mind me asking, it’s part of my job… How can a twenty-five-year-old waitress pay in cash for a brand-new car like this? I mean, she has rent to pay, utilities, and other expenses, right?”

Bobby leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling through his nose, the tension in his shoulders betraying his annoyance at even having to explain what should have been obvious. “Listen, Agent Cole,” he said, his voice a mix of exasperation and protectiveness, “my niece is smart, disciplined, and careful with her money. She works hard, saves hard, and she makes her own decisions. Trust me, she doesn’t need anyone to look after her finances or her work schedule. She handles her life, and I don’t appreciate anyone thinking otherwise.”

Grant made a note in his pad, studying Bobby closely. There was something in the older man’s fury, in the sharpness of his words, that spoke volumes about his loyalty and his protective nature. Every detail mattered, and Grant knew that understanding the dynamic between Bobby and Frankie could be as important as the facts of the case itself.

Then Bobby felt the need to say more about Frankie’s money, his voice a mixture of pride and protectiveness, his hands nervously twisting the napkin on the table.

“My sister passed away three years ago from a damn cancer, cruel and relentless, and Frankie inherited from the insurance. It was a decent sum, enough to give her some security, and she placed it carefully in a bank account, watching it grow over the years with patience and intelligence. I think that is probably why she was able to buy her Subaru… She had been dreaming of that car since she was fifteen, talking about it all the time, and finally, finally she could have it, her dream realized. Anyway, my niece is a good person, she has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with that murder...”

Grant studied Bobby for a moment, noticing how flustered and earnest he had become, understanding perfectly the deep well of emotion behind his words. He nodded slowly, giving Bobby a small, reassuring smile, and decided it was best to shift the conversation to something else.

“Alright,” the FBI agent said gently, “do you think you’re able to tell me where Frankie got her car repaired?” His eyes softened as he spoke, aware that pushing too hard might make Bobby retreat even further.

Bobby, still standing as he carried his plate toward the sink, shook his head with a sigh, a mixture of frustration and amusement crossing his features.

“Oh, that’s a good question, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you,” he admitted, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “At this point, you should check with Frankie herself. She’s the only one who knows that information, as far as I’m concerned, and really, it’s best coming from her.”

This was the moment Agent Cole knew it was time to leave, the subtle shift in the air around Bobby signaling that everything that could be said had been said, at least for now. He had asked the questions that had been pressing at the back of his mind, the ones he had carried with him since the start, the ones that only Bobby could answer. Now, it was time for a second visit to Frankie, a necessary step to see the other side of the story, to hear it from her own lips. He needed to confirm where she had gotten her car repaired and, more importantly, to find out whether the rumors swirling around her were true, or if Samantha and the others were weaving lies for reasons he could only guess at.

Why Frankie? Why target her? Was it jealousy, because she was younger, more composed, more grounded than any of them, with a stability that seemed to outshine everyone else combined? The thought made sense to Grant, it fit a pattern he had seen too many times before, but he could not be certain. People acted out of motives far more tangled than even the most logical reasoning could predict. And so, with a deep breath, he resolved to uncover the truth, knowing that only Frankie could shed light on the shadows that had been cast over her life.

Of course Grant was not going to drive past Frankie’s apartment without calling her first, even if it was only ten o’clock in the morning. The hour should have been reassuring, a normal time of day when people were usually awake and going about their routines, yet something about the silence unsettled him. Perhaps she was not home, maybe she had stepped out to run errands. He did not know for sure, but one thing quickly became obvious, the call he placed was useless, as Frankie did not answer. The phone rang until it went to voicemail, leaving Grant with a faint sense of unease that he could not fully explain.

The reason Frankie did not answer the FBI agent’s call was painfully simple. She had left her iPhone in her car. Earlier that morning, she had gone to the public pool, hoping that swimming would help quiet her thoughts and steady her nerves after everything she had been through. She had not stayed long. People at the pool kept looking at her in a strange way, their gazes lingering, their whispers impossible to ignore. Whether it was suspicion, curiosity, or something more malicious, Frankie could not tell, but it was enough to make her uncomfortable. By the time she left, she already knew she would avoid swimming for the next few weeks, at least until the murder and the investigation were finally behind her.

What awaited her when she returned to her apartment was something she could never have prepared for. The moment she opened the door, her heart dropped. The place had been ransacked during her absence, the quiet of the hallway giving way to chaos inside. She stood frozen, staring in disbelief, her mind refusing to catch up with what her eyes were seeing.

“What the fuck???”

Her mouth fell open as she slowly walked through the apartment, her legs feeling weak beneath her. Her belongings were scattered across the floor, kitchen drawers ripped open and dumped out, as if someone had been searching desperately for something, or simply wanted to destroy her sense of safety. Papers, clothes, and personal items lay everywhere. Then she reached her bedroom, and the shock deepened into pure violation, someone had even pissed in her bed. Her stomach churned, revulsion and fear twisting together as tears stung her eyes.

As she backed away from the bedroom, something in the living room caught her attention. A single sheet of paper had been left behind, placed deliberately where she would see it. Her hands shook as she picked it up, her heart pounding so hard it hurt as she read the words.

“You better keep your mouth shut in front of that FBI Agent, or else I’m going to kill you dirty whore!!”

Frankie’s blue eyes widened in panic. She did not recognize the handwriting, and there was no name at the bottom, no signature at all. Of course there was not. Whoever had done this wanted to stay hidden.

Fear flooded her body all at once, sharp and overwhelming. Her breath came fast and uneven as she dropped her backpack to the floor and began digging through it, searching desperately for her Glucagon pen. Her blood sugar was dropping quickly, she could feel it in the dizziness creeping in, the cold sweat forming on her skin. She had not eaten anything after her workout, and the shock had pushed her body too far.

She sank onto the sofa in the living room, her hands trembling uncontrollably as she injected herself in the belly. Her thoughts refused to slow, the words from the letter replaying again and again in her mind. Frankie tried to calm herself, tried to breathe through the fear, but it was easier said than done. Someone had been in her home, someone had been watching her, and now she knew, with terrifying certainty, that this was no longer just an investigation. It was a threat, and it was personal.

Frankie knew deep inside of her that she had to run away. The thought came suddenly, sharp and unavoidable, cutting through the fog of fear that had settled over her since she had stepped into her ransacked apartment. She was terrified of ending up like Melinda Carter, dead and discarded in the back alley of a restaurant, reduced to a name in a police report and a cautionary tale whispered by others. The danger felt real now, close enough to touch, and instinct screamed at her to survive. What she needed to do was simple in theory, flee Salt Lake City and hide somewhere, at least for a few days, long enough for the situation to cool down and for whoever was threatening her to lose track of her.

Yet even as the plan formed in her mind, another problem surfaced. Running away could raise suspicion, especially with the FBI already watching her movements. Disappearing without a word might make her look guilty, or worse, confirm the lies others had been spreading about her. The thought made her stomach tighten, fear and logic pulling her in opposite directions.

Still sitting on her sofa, her body slowly steadying as the glucagon began to do its job, Frankie stared at the mess around her, the overturned drawers, the scattered belongings, the letter still burned into her thoughts. She felt cornered, out of options, her mind racing but finding no safe answer. She knew one thing with certainty, if she stayed here, she would be trapped like a fly in a spider web, waiting for the moment the spider decided to strike. Whoever had written that letter had something to hide, something worth threatening her life over, and speaking up now could cost her everything.

As the dizziness finally began to fade, clarity crept back in. Frankie took a slow breath and made a decision. She would leave the city, just for a few days, just long enough to protect herself. An idea surfaced, small but solid, and for the first time since she had walked through her door, it gave her a fragile sense of control. There was a place she could go, hidden far from curious eyes, a small cabin tucked deep in the woods that belonged to her uncle Bobby. Hardly anyone knew about it, and even fewer ever visited it.

Moving quickly now, driven by adrenaline, Frankie went back to her bedroom and pulled an old gym bag from the back of her closet. She packed only what she truly needed, clothes, her toothbrush, creams, her glucagon pen, and a few personal items she could not part with. Every choice was careful and deliberate. She knew she could not use her credit cards while she was hiding, any digital trace could give her away. Cash only, no receipts, no patterns, no mistakes.

She zipped the bag shut and paused for a moment, standing in the middle of the room, listening to her own breathing. Frankie understood that staying low meant becoming invisible, slipping through the cracks until it was safe again. It was frightening, but it was also the smartest move she could make. And for now, survival mattered more than anything else.

She did not have a second to waste, she told herself as she flung the gym bag over her shoulder, the weight of it grounding her as she moved toward the main entrance with a single thought in mind, she had to leave. Nothing else mattered. She no longer cared that her apartment had been ransacked, that her life had been turned upside down in the span of a few hours. The mess could wait, the broken sense of safety could wait, survival could not. Whatever had been done to her home would be dealt with later, if there was even a later.

Frankie was only a few steps from the door when she realized the one fatal detail she had overlooked. When she had come back nearly forty minutes earlier, shaken and terrified, she had not fully closed the main entrance. The door stood slightly ajar, just enough for the outside light to seep through the narrow window. As she approached, heart pounding, a dark silhouette suddenly filled that glass.

“Frankie? It’s Agent Cole, are you in there?”

The sound of his voice froze her in place. Her blood turned cold, her breath caught in her throat as panic surged through her chest. She could not move, could not speak, every instinct screaming at her to disappear. There was a single knock, firm but cautious, and then the handle shifted. Grant realized the door was not locked. As it slowly opened, Frankie reacted on pure instinct.

She spun around and bolted toward her bedroom, moving as fast and as quietly as she could, her feet barely touching the floor. Her heart thundered in her ears as she reached the window and slid it open. Being small had its advantages. With practiced agility born of desperation, Frankie slipped herself through the opening, careful not to make a sound, lowering herself outside. Luck was on her side, she lived on the first floor. Her feet hit the ground softly, and she did not look back.

Now she had only one goal, to reach her car parked in the lot behind the building. She could not allow Grant to see her, not now, not when she had already made up her mind. If he saw her, he would stop her, ask questions, keep her here, and staying here meant danger.

Inside the apartment, Grant stepped cautiously across the threshold, his instincts immediately on high alert. It took him only a few seconds to realize that Frankie had not simply stepped out. The place had been torn apart. Drawers were overturned, belongings scattered everywhere, the unmistakable signs of a violent intrusion staring back at him. His jaw tightened as he pulled out his gun, sweeping the room with trained precision, uncertain if whoever had done this was still inside.

“Frankie, it’s Agent Cole,” he called out again, his voice firm but controlled. “Are you in there?”

He moved carefully through the living room, then the kitchen, his eyes scanning every corner, every shadow, then down the short hallway toward the bedroom. The silence pressed in around him, heavy and unsettling, and with every step he took, the certainty grew stronger. Frankie had been here, and now she was gone.

Of course Agent Cole had no idea that Frankie was already on her way to disappear, sitting behind the wheel of her car, forcing her breathing to slow as her hands tightened around the steering wheel. Inside the apartment, Grant continued his careful search, unaware that she was only moments away from slipping beyond his reach. As he moved through the living room, something immediately caught his attention, a single sheet of paper left in plain sight, clearly addressed to Frankie.

Grant did not touch it right away. His expression darkened as he read the words from a distance, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as the message registered in full. Someone wanted Frankie silent, and the threat could not have been clearer. If she spoke, she would be dead meat.

Without hesitation, Grant reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves, sliding them on carefully before handling anything. Only then did he pick up the letter, gripping it by the edges and examining it with professional focus. He placed it into a small evidence bag, already considering the possibility of fingerprints, fibers, or any trace that might lead him to whoever had gone this far to intimidate her.

The bag had barely been sealed when a sound drifted in through the open doorway, low, sharp, and unmistakable. The growl of a car’s exhaust. Grant stiffened, his head snapping toward the parking lot as recognition hit instantly. His eyes widened as he realized where the sound was coming from. There was no mistaking it now, it was the distinctive exhaust of a Subaru WRX.

Grant moved fast. He rushed outside, calling out her name as he reached the edge of the lot. “Frankie,” he shouted, urgency creeping into his voice. But the Subaru was already pulling away, tires rolling over gravel as the car accelerated toward the street. Frankie did not slow, did not turn back, and offered no explanation for her sudden departure.

The car vanished down the road in seconds, leaving Grant standing there, the evidence bag clenched in his gloved hand, the echo of the engine fading into silence. One thing was certain now, Frankie was running, and whatever she was running from had just become far more dangerous than he had feared.

Grant had no time to waste. The moment the Subaru vanished down the street, the fifty two year old man turned and sprinted back toward his Chevrolet Malibu, his pulse pounding with urgency. He yanked the driver’s door open and slid behind the wheel, starting the engine in one swift, practiced motion. The car roared to life as he threw it into gear, already scanning the road ahead, calculating where Frankie might be headed and how little time he had to react.

As the Malibu pulled out of the parking lot, Grant grabbed his handheld radio, bringing it up to his mouth while keeping one eye on traffic. His voice shifted instantly into professional command, calm but urgent, the tone of a man who knew every second mattered.

“Attention units in the area, this is Special Agent Grant Cole with the FBI,” he said clearly into the speaker. “Be advised, I am looking for a 2024 white Subaru WRX, believed to be driven by Frankie Callaway. She is a twenty five year old female, approximately one hundred sixty centimeters tall. She is a person of interest in an active federal investigation.”

He paused just long enough to make sure the channel was clear, then continued, emphasizing his next words.

“She is not to be approached aggressively. Do not discharge your weapon if you make contact. I repeat, do not shoot her. I need her alive and unharmed. No Sirens please!”

Grant released the speaker and tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he accelerated, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. Frankie was scared, running on instinct, and that made her unpredictable. If local units spotted her first, things could spiral out of control fast. He pushed the Malibu forward, determination hardening his features, knowing that finding her quickly might be the only thing standing between Frankie and a very real, very deadly outcome.

A patrol officer in the area received Grant’s message, and he was far from the only one listening in. The radio channel crackled with overlapping responses as nearby units acknowledged the broadcast.

“Copy that,” one of the officers replied, his voice cutting through the static.

Grant kept his focus on the road ahead, weaving carefully through traffic as his eyes scanned every intersection. Then he saw it, the white WRX in the distance, its clean lines unmistakable even from far away. Frankie was definitely in a hurry, the car moving faster than the flow of traffic, but Grant resisted the urge to push harder. The last thing he wanted was to scare her into making a reckless mistake. He did not want a chase, he did not want sirens, he only wanted to talk to her.

With one hand steady on the steering wheel, Grant reached for his phone and called her. He listened as it rang, once, twice, his jaw tightening with every second that passed. Then the call went to voicemail.

“Frankie, this is Grant,” he said, keeping his voice calm and controlled as he left the message. “I know you’re scared, and I get it, but running away isn’t the solution right now. If you’re in danger, we can put you under protection. You don’t have to do this alone, but disappearing is only going to make things worse.”

He ended the call with a frustrated breath, already knowing how useless the message probably was. Frankie was not about to pull over on the side of the road to listen to her voicemail, not when fear was driving every decision she made.

He ended the call and immediately switched back to his radio, not wasting another second. His gaze flicked toward the WRX as he relayed the details.

“Attention units, I have visuals on the vehicle. White Subaru WRX, license plate Charlie Seven Four Three Victor Papa, repeat, Charlie Seven Four Three Victor Papa. The vehicle is heading east, moderate speed, driver appears alone.”

And then, just as Grant had feared, the situation took a turn for the worse. A patrol car ahead caught sight of the WRX. Without hesitation, the officer flipped on the lights mounted on the roof, red and blue flashing brightly in the late morning light.

Grant swore under his breath as the siren chirped once, the sound slicing through the air. The lights would only alert Frankie, confirm her worst fears, and push her deeper into panic. Whatever chance Grant had of stopping her calmly was slipping away, replaced by flashing lights and the growing risk of everything spiraling out of control.

Frankie knew it now, deep in her bones, she had crossed the point of no return. There was no turning back, no pulling over to explain herself, no calm conversation waiting at the side of the road. She had seen her iPhone light up when Grant called her, the screen flashing his name like a warning, but she could not answer, not now. She had to disappear, had to outrun everyone, and that included the cops and the FBI agent who was far more persistent than she had expected. She just needed perfect timing, one clean opening, and the nerve to take it.

In her rearview mirror, the flashing lights appeared again, distant but unmistakable. A police cruiser was following her, keeping space, waiting for her to make a mistake. Frankie’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, but her pulse did not spike with fear. Instead, she flicked her eyes slightly to the side and caught sight of something else reflected behind her, Grant’s dark Malibu, steady and relentless, refusing to fall back.

And that was when it hit her.

This was exciting.

Not because the police were after her, not because sirens were slicing through the air, but because he was; Grant Cole. The FBI agent who had looked at her like she was fragile, scared, someone who needed saving. Frankie felt a slow smirk curve her lips as she pressed the accelerator just a little more, feeling the WRX respond beneath her like it understood exactly what she wanted.

She imagined him behind the wheel, jaw tight, eyes sharp, probably furious with her for running, for refusing to listen, for slipping through his fingers when he had been so close. The thought made her chest warm with something dangerously close to satisfaction. She was not proud of it, but she was not ashamed either.

For once in her quiet, predictable life, Frankie felt truly alive. Not because she was driving recklessly, not because she was tempting fate, but because someone like Grant Cole was chasing her, focused entirely on her every move. She had spent so long being overlooked, underestimated, treated like a harmless little thing, and now she had his full attention.

Frankie shifted lanes smoothly, confident, precise, already counting the seconds in her head. She was not just a scared twenty five year old woman running in panic. She had a plan, she had skills, and she was about to prove it.

If Agent Cole thought this was going to be easy, she was more than happy to show him just how wrong he was.

Once again, her iPhone flashed insistently as Grant tried calling her again, the screen lighting up, but Frankie barely glanced at it. She shook her head with a grin, refusing to let the call distract her. Instead, she reached for the radio, needing sound that matched the chaos in her head, something to drown out the insistent ring. Luckily, the Bluetooth was disconnected, and the ringtone did not echo through the car speakers, leaving her free to control her own soundtrack.

She hit play, and suddenly the car was filled with the pounding, infectious beat of “Valerie” by Steve Winwood, remixed seamlessly with “Call Me” by Eric Prydz. The music surged through the cabin, rhythmic and relentless, syncing perfectly with her heartbeat. Frankie could not have been happier, a wide smirk spreading across her face as the tires gripped the asphalt and the engine purred beneath her like a living thing.

The traffic light ahead switched to red, but Frankie barely hesitated. She pressed the clutch and shifted gears fluidly, her foot dancing across the pedals with precision. She was not about to stop, not now, not when the world seemed to shrink to the space between her car and the road. Behind her, she caught a glimpse of the police cruiser, tires squealing as it tried to follow her lead, but she was already thinking three moves ahead.

With a sharp twist of the handbrake, Frankie swung the WRX wide, the rear end of the car pivoting perfectly as she slipped into the opposite lane, taking the unexpected path with effortless skill. The police car swerved to compensate, wheels screeching, but it was too late. Frankie accelerated, the tires gripping the asphalt like glue, music pounding in her ears, adrenaline flooding her veins. Every twist of the wheel, every change of gear, every calculated swerve reminded her of exactly why she was alive, why she loved this moment, and why she would never let anyone control her.

Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching the red and blue lights dancing like fire in her reflection, but instead of fear, a thrill ran through her. She was in command, fast, precise, untouchable for now, and she knew that Agent Cole and the cops were about to realize that she was not just a girl in a car, she was a driver, a master of her own escape, and she intended to enjoy every second of it.

Agent Cole was not finding the show Frankie was giving at all amusing. The WRX hugged the curves of the road with precision, tires squealing softly over asphalt, weaving between cars and dodging obstacles like it was an extension of her own body. Every instinct in Grant’s body screamed at him to intervene, to take control, to stop this dangerous display, but as much as he hated to admit it, she was handling that car like no one he had ever seen before. Every shift of gears, every press of the clutch, every subtle counter-steer spoke of skill, control, and confidence that defied her twenty five years.

Once again, he grabbed his handheld radio, voice taut with authority and urgency.

“Special Agent Grant Cole in here, all units, do not pursue her! She is in a panic! Stop immediately and do not continue driving after her!”

His words crackled across the channels, but the response was anything but compliant. Some officers hesitated, but others kept their sirens blazing, tires squealing as they tried to close the gap. The chase had become a chaotic ballet, a dangerous game in which Frankie was clearly the lead.

Grant’s jaw tightened as he realized that no one was going to obey his instructions. She was not stopping, not slowing, not giving anyone a chance to catch her. With a muttered curse, he pressed the accelerator hard, the Malibu lurching forward with determination. Every fiber of his body focused on keeping up, eyes locked on the WRX weaving ahead, but the more he pushed, the clearer it became.

Frankie was not panicking. She was orchestrating every movement with uncanny precision, each turn, each lane change, each brake and acceleration perfectly timed. The WRX responded instantly to her touch, the manual gearbox shifting smoothly under her practiced hands. Even Grant, an experienced driver, felt the pang of awe and frustration. He would never have been able to drive a manual like that under this kind of pressure, navigating traffic at breakneck speed while keeping her composure intact.

Every twist and turn Frankie made seemed to taunt him, daring him to follow, daring him to try and match her control. And even as the sirens wailed and the red and blue lights bounced off nearby buildings, Grant knew that for the first time, he was not chasing a frightened woman. He was chasing a force of nature, a driver in full command of herself and the car, and it was exhilarating in the most infuriating way possible.

When the song “Valerie” transitioned seamlessly into “Call Me” by Eric Prydz, Frankie felt a surge of adrenaline that made her heart pound in time with the beat. She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw Grant Cole’s dark Malibu closing in, relentless, a shadow on her tail that only made the rush of excitement sharper. The streets of Downtown Salt Lake City were unfolding before her like a playground, chaotic, full of obstacles and possibilities, and she navigated each turn, each lane change, with a precision that made her smirk uncontrollably.

She was careful, yes, but she could not deny the thrill of being out of control yet completely in command at the same time. The exhilaration was intoxicating, far beyond anything she had ever experienced, a raw, sharp rush that made her senses sharpen and her reflexes sharpen even more. Every glance at the rearview mirror, every calculated swerve, every press of the gas pedal fed into a sensation that was better than anything she could imagine, almost as if it rivaled the strongest pleasure she had ever felt.

And then, as if fate had timed it perfectly, she spotted the train in the distance. Two kilometers ahead, massive and unavoidable, the rails cutting across the streets like a barrier waiting to test her skills. Her mind snapped into action. This was the opportunity she needed, the perfect moment to disappear and force Grant and the other officers to hesitate.

Frankie’s plan formed quickly, precise and ruthless in its simplicity. She would cross the railway before the train arrived, timing it so perfectly that the barriers would drop behind her, trapping Grant and the police in a temporary standstill. It was risky, incredibly risky, but Frankie thrived on risk. She could feel her pulse in her ears, the WRX responding like an extension of her body as she prepared herself mentally, mapping every second in advance.

She could not afford a single mistake. One misjudged speed, one wrong angle, one delayed reaction, and the entire plan could collapse, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. Every nerve in her body was alert, every muscle tense, her eyes scanning the approaching train, the barriers, the lanes of traffic. The thrill was almost overwhelming, but Frankie loved it, loved the fact that she was the one setting the rules, the one controlling the chaos, and the one who could leave Grant Cole stunned and trailing in her wake.

The city stretched out before her, full of lights, sounds, and potential hazards, yet she felt untouchable, a master of her car, her timing, and her fate. Now all she needed was perfect execution, and Frankie was determined to give it.

The rain began to fall from the sky, soft at first, barely more than a drizzle, but enough to glisten on the asphalt and reflect the city lights. It did nothing to scare Frankie. She felt alive, exhilarated, and completely in control as the drops dotted the windshield and bounced off the hood of the WRX. At twenty five years old, she had never felt this much thrill in her life, her heart hammering in perfect rhythm with the pulse of the music still blasting through her speakers.

Frankie was not the only one who had noticed the train in the distance. Grant spotted it as well, the long line of steel wheels glinting under the gray morning sky. His stomach sank as he realized immediately what Frankie had in mind. She was not panicking, she was calculating, she was orchestrating, and she was speeding straight toward the railway crossing like it was part of some twisted game.

“Hell no, she’s crazy!” Grant shouted, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, fear and disbelief flooding him in equal measure. He knew the risks, he knew the timing had to be precise, and he feared the worst. Without hesitation, he grabbed his handheld radio, the urgency in his voice sharp, commanding, desperate.

“Lower the barriers immediately, she’s driving toward the railway! I repeat, lower the barriers now!”

The voice of an officer crackled through the radio, confirming that the message had been received. Grant could hear the tension in the man’s voice, but deep down, he had a gnawing feeling that it might be useless. Frankie had always been fast, and right now, she was proving him completely wrong, outsmarting him in a way that left him both frustrated and awestruck. The thought that a woman old enough to be his daughter could pull this off made him grind his teeth, adrenaline and anger surging together.

The radio came alive again, this time with a precise, clipped broadcast by an officer.

Be advised, a 2024 white Subaru WRX, driven by Franceska Ann Callaway, a twenty-five-year-old female, is approaching the railway crossing at 400 North near 500 West. Barriers must be lowered immediately. I repeat, a 2024 white Subaru WRX driven by Franceska Ann Callaway is heading toward the railway crossing. Lower the barriers at once.”

Even with the warning issued, Grant knew deep down that it would not stop her. She was already in motion, calculating every turn, every second, every meter between herself and the tracks. The rain slicked roads reflected the red and blue lights of the police cars behind her, but she barely noticed them, her mind focused entirely on the tracks ahead and the perfect execution of her audacious plan.

Grant’s heart pounded in his chest as he followed her, knowing that even with all his training, all his experience, this was not going to be easy. Frankie was not just a driver; she was a force of nature, fearless, reckless, and brilliant, and right now, there was nothing he could do to stop the thrill she was about to unleash.

Just as Grant had feared and expected, Frankie crossed the barriers with flawless timing, the WRX gliding over the asphalt just seconds before the train thundered across the tracks, steel wheels clanging and sparks flying where the rails met. The barriers had failed to lower before Frankie’s arrival, no matter how urgently Grant had demanded it over the radio, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, it seemed like chaos itself had conspired to let her slip through.

Grant and the other officers arrived at the railway almost simultaneously, tires squealing on wet pavement, engines echoing in the crisp morning air, but it was already too late. The train roared across the crossing, the massive cars shaking the ground beneath them, blocking any hope of immediate pursuit. Frankie had disappeared to the other side, her WRX parked neatly, engine still warm, as if it had been there all along.

Just as Frankie crossed the railway, the remix of Valerie blended with Call on Me cut off at the perfect moment, the final beat silenced as if the song itself knew she had made it across. The sudden quiet inside the car felt almost unreal, broken only by the steady hum of the engine and her own ragged breathing.

Frankie was on the other side, if one could call it that, still seated in her car with trembling hands resting tightly on the steering wheel. Her pulse hammered in her ears, loud enough to drown out the distant sounds of sirens fading behind her. The engine idled beneath her, vibrating through the seat, a constant reminder that escape was still possible, at least for now. She forced herself to breathe, slow and deliberate, even as adrenaline surged through her veins.

A grin was plastered across her face, uncontrollable and almost reckless, because she knew she had done it. The cops, along with Grant Cole, were trapped on the other side of the railway, cut off and powerless to follow her. For the first time since this nightmare had begun, Frankie felt the intoxicating rush of control. She had outsmarted them, manipulated the situation, and turned the chase in her favor.

She knew the consequences would be brutal. There was no illusion of safety, no comforting lies she could tell herself. She was in trouble, real trouble, the kind that did not fade with distance or time. But in that moment, pride outweighed fear. She had shown Agent Cole exactly what she was capable of, and had forced him to see her not as a frightened girl on the run, but as someone dangerous, clever, and unpredictable.

Her thoughts drifted to him, uninvited yet persistent. Grant Cole was no ordinary man. He was seasoned, relentless, sharp in ways that both fascinated and terrified her. He was also old enough to be her father, a fact that should have repelled her, should have made the twist in her stomach feel wrong. Instead, it only complicated everything.

Frankie’s grip tightened on the wheel as she stared out through the windshield, rain-streaked city lights blurring into streaks of color. She had crossed a line, one she could never uncross. Whatever came next, whatever price she would be forced to pay, she had already proven one thing to herself and to Grant Cole.

She was not running anymore.

She was playing the game.

Grant leapt from the Malibu, adrenaline surging through his veins as his eyes scanned the scene. And then he saw her. Frankie was standing next to her car, the rain slicking her dark blonde hair, droplets clinging to her skin and reflecting the flickering light of the train cars as they passed. Through the long, empty stretch of metal and motion, he caught a glimpse of her smirk, sharp, teasing, almost daring him to do something, anything.

There was no fear in her expression, none of the hesitation he had expected from someone running from the FBI. Instead, there was something entirely different, something electric, almost magnetic. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, alive in a way that made his chest tighten. Grant could feel the thrill radiating from her, the audacity, the reckless confidence, and far from knowing how much she had just fed off the danger, far from realizing that she was experiencing a heady mix of fear and desire, she was daring him with every glance.

He could not see the full depth of what she felt, could not sense the longing, the pulse of adrenaline mingled with something far more personal and intimate. All he knew was that this woman, barely twenty five, had just danced past disaster with a smile, and in that moment, she was untouchable, exhilarating, and impossibly alive.

Grant’s jaw tightened as he studied her stance, as he registered the audacity and precision of her escape. Frankie had not just outrun the train, she had orchestrated it, turned it into her own stage, and he was left standing there, watching her thrive in chaos that would have destroyed anyone else.

As the barriers slowly lifted back into their upright positions, the WRX was already gone, swallowed by the maze of downtown streets, leaving only the faint echo of its engine and the lingering spray of rain on the asphalt. Grant’s chest tightened with frustration. He could not pursue her further, she had vanished too quickly, her skills behind the wheel and her timing with the train making her untouchable. He was angry, not at Frankie, not exactly, but at the other officers who had mishandled the chase, who had turned a controlled operation into chaos, who had given her the edge she needed to slip away.

Grant stormed toward one of the officers still standing beside his patrol car, his steps fast, purposeful, each one a manifestation of his mounting irritation. He did not waste time warming up, his voice sharp and cutting through the drizzle like a blade.

“I specifically asked for no sirens! You alarmed her and now I’ve lost her!”

The young officer shifted uncomfortably, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek, unsure how to respond to the fury radiating from the agent in front of him.

“We’re sorry, we thought—” the officer began, but Grant cut him off mid-sentence, his patience fraying faster than the rain-soaked asphalt beneath their feet.

“Thought what, exactly?” Grant snapped, turning sharply toward the young officer. “That she was just going to be arrested and processed like this was routine? This is an FBI investigation.” His voice was firm, unforgiving, but there was an edge beneath it, frustration mixed with something far more dangerous, concern. He shook his head slowly, as if disappointed, as if the mistake should never have been made in the first place. Continuing the argument was pointless, they were already behind, and Grant had far bigger problems to deal with, problems that now had Frankie’s name written all over them.

Without another word, Grant turned sharply and walked back to his Malibu, the rain clinging to his coat, soaking the edges of his sleeves, and the roar of the city around him fading into a low hum as he climbed behind the wheel. He knew exactly what he needed to do next. First, he had to call his supervisor, explain the debacle, and make sure Frankie’s situation was officially logged. Then, and perhaps more urgently, he had to visit Bobby, the only person who might have clues about her whereabouts, the only person who could help him untangle the mess Frankie had left behind. Before that, though, he needed to get agents to Frankie’s apartment to comb through the scene, collecting prints and any traces that might have been left behind by those who had ransacked her place, every detail a potential lead in the unraveling chaos.

He started the engine, the low growl of the Malibu filling the small moment of silence around him, and with a deep, controlled breath, Grant Cole drove off, already calculating his next moves, already planning how he would find Frankie before the city swallowed her completely.

➡ BACK TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

[inkmshadows]

Rapture | Chapter One

The Melinda Carter Case

The FBI was already on high alert. A lifeless body of a young woman had been discovered behind Bobby’s restaurant the night before, and the case had been quickly classified as a potential abduction or foul play. The victim had been reported missing days earlier, and the bureau had been following leads that ultimately pointed them to this location after Bobby himself had called the police, shaken and horrified by what he had found behind his restaurant.

The restaurant, unusually quiet and still, was set to remain closed for the day as FBI Agent Grant Cole stepped inside. The tall, imposing figure of the agent immediately filled the space with a presence that was impossible to ignore. At 6’1”, with broad shoulders and a confident, measured gait, he moved with the calm authority of a man used to taking control of any situation. Bobby, trying to appear composed despite his nerves, stepped forward and shook his hand.

He couldn’t help but notice the striking features of the agent. Grant Cole had pale blue eyes that seemed to pierce straight through the room, a sharp, discerning gaze that gave the impression he noticed everything and missed nothing. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly groomed, adding to the aura of effortless authority and understated charisma. Handsome in a way that made it impossible to look away, he exuded a presence that could command a room without speaking.

Bobby, who prided himself on staying professional, felt his composure waver just slightly. Not that he was attracted to men, but there was something undeniably magnetic about Agent Cole, a mix of authority, intensity, and controlled power that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. He realized immediately that if the restaurant were open and the waitresses or patrons caught sight of this man stepping inside, it would likely cause chaos, everyone suddenly fixated on the FBI agent who carried both danger and intrigue in his every move.

Agent Cole didn’t rush, he didn’t announce himself unnecessarily, but the weight of his presence alone made it clear he was here to get answers. Every step he took was deliberate, measured, and Bobby instinctively knew that this investigation had just become very real, very serious.

“Hello, I’m FBI Special Agent Grant Cole. The bureau sent me after the police received your call,” the agent said, his voice calm but firm, as he extended his hand and flashed the unmistakable FBI badge to Bobby. There was a quiet authority in the way he carried himself, a presence that demanded attention even before his words had finished.

Bobby swallowed, still shaken, his nerves raw from the shock of what he had discovered behind his restaurant the night before. “Sure, would you like a coffee or something else?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. The thought of someone coming in, questioning him about a lifeless body he had found, made his stomach churn. This was not how he had imagined starting the day.

“No, I’m fine, Mr. Morris. Do you mind if I ask you some questions, and perhaps take a look at your camera footage? I noticed you have cameras outside the restaurant.” Agent Cole’s words were precise, measured, and yet carried an edge of intensity that made Bobby feel both observed and slightly exposed.

Bobby hesitated a moment, then gestured toward his office. “Of course, follow me. It’s probably better to discuss this in there,” he said, thinking it would be easier to answer questions in private rather than at the front counter.

The two men stepped into Bobby’s office, the soft click of the door closing behind them amplifying the silence. Bobby pointed to a chair for Agent Cole, who sat with the quiet composure of a man used to commanding a room without raising his voice. Bobby sank into his own large chair and rested his arms on the desk, trying to summon some semblance of control over the situation.

“As for the cameras,” Bobby began, a grim expression crossing his face, “unfortunately, they haven’t been working for two months. Never thought I’d need them.” His words hung in the air, heavy with frustration and disbelief.

Agent Cole nodded thoughtfully, taking note of the detail mentally. Something about it struck him as odd, but he said nothing, letting the silence linger just long enough to unsettle Bobby further.

“All right, I see. What are the names of the employees who were working last night? Perhaps they saw something.” His voice was calm, professional, yet every word carried subtle authority, demanding answers without needing to raise it.

Bobby nodded in agreement. “I will print you a list of my employees, including their addresses, and I’ll highlight those who were working last night,” he said, turning to his computer. The faint hum of the machine filled the office as he typed, clicked, and printed the sheet of paper.

While Bobby prepared the list, Agent Cole took a slow, deliberate look around the office. The space was cluttered, papers stacked unevenly, boxes lining the walls, a controlled chaos that gave insight into the man who worked there. He noted the details quietly, his eyes sharp, taking in every corner, every object, as if cataloging everything for potential clues.

Cole’s presence was steady, almost hypnotic in its calm authority, and Bobby could feel the weight of it pressing lightly against the room. Even in the midst of chaos and fear, the agent’s gaze remained fixed, observant, meticulous, as if nothing could escape his notice.

Bobby finally handed Agent Cole the printed list of names, each one carefully highlighted to indicate which employees had been working the night before. He shifted uneasily in his chair, glancing at the tall, imposing figure seated across from him.

“All of these employees were here last night,” Bobby began, his voice a little strained, betraying the stress of the morning. “I think my niece, Frankie, was the one who closed up. Samantha, the bartender, had to leave early because her kid was sick. Well, something like that—you know, kids!” He chuckled nervously, hoping the lighthearted remark would ease some of the tension in the room.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Agent Cole’s lips, subtle enough to seem polite, almost professional, as he acknowledged Bobby’s attempt at humor. His pale blue eyes remained sharp, observing Bobby carefully, cataloging every movement, every nervous tic, as if reading more than just his words.

“So your niece is working for you, and she’s the one who closed the place,” Cole said evenly, his voice calm but precise, each word deliberate. “All right, thanks for this information. I will visit her today.”

Bobby blinked, caught off guard by the agent’s efficiency and decisiveness. The encounter seemed to be over already. Grant Cole, the six-foot-one FBI agent, was rising from his chair with a smooth, controlled motion, his presence still commanding, as if the room itself had shifted around him. He thanked Bobby for his time, his tone courteous yet firm, leaving no room for small talk.

“Already leaving? I thought you had more questions?” Bobby asked, surprise coloring his voice. The man had barely touched the list he had just given him, yet it seemed Cole had already absorbed everything he needed.

“Well, unless you happen to know who committed this murder, Mr. Morris,” Agent Cole replied, a faint chuckle brushing his lips, “I will need to question other people.” There was a subtle weight behind his words, a quiet authority that reminded Bobby he was no ordinary visitor.

Bobby swallowed, nodding slowly, feeling the lingering pressure of those pale blue eyes even as Cole moved toward the door. Something about the man’s presence was unsettling, magnetic, and undeniable, leaving Bobby with the uneasy sense that the investigation had just become far more serious than he had imagined.

The FBI agent drove through the quiet streets of Salt Lake City, heading toward Frankie’s apartment, located just ten minutes from Bobby’s restaurant. The city was slowly waking up, the morning sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Agent Grant Cole maneuvered the black Chevrolet Malibu Sedan into the small driveway, slowing behind a pristine white Subaru WRX parked just ahead. It was probably hers, he thought, noting the careful way it was aligned.

He sat for a moment, observing the building, a modest two-story complex with muted brick walls and neatly trimmed shrubs. The apartment he was looking for was on the side of the building, an unassuming door that seemed almost too ordinary to hold someone who might have seen something important.

Slowly, deliberately, Grant stepped out of his car, the soles of his shoes crunching lightly on the gravel, and made his way toward the door. His posture was calm, measured, each step precise, giving nothing away about the tension that ran beneath his composed exterior.

He knocked twice, a firm, controlled rhythm, and waited. After a moment, the door opened just a crack. Frankie peeked out, her expression cautious, eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. She didn’t know him, and from the look on her face, she trusted no one at the moment. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, petite, with a fragility that made Grant want to tread carefully.

“Hello, Miss. I’m Special Agent Grant Cole from the FBI,” he said evenly, his voice calm but authoritative, yet not threatening. “I’m the one investigating the Melinda Carter case, the woman found behind your uncle’s restaurant.”

He offered her a small, polite smile, careful to keep it friendly, as he noticed the way she flinched slightly at his presence, clearly uncomfortable with strangers. When he displayed his badge, the tension in her shoulders eased fractionally, and she finally stepped aside, allowing him into her apartment.

The contrast between Frankie and her surroundings was striking. She was small, almost fragile-looking, wearing a soft Star Wars shirt with Baby Yoda on it, paired with gray sweatpants. Her short strawberry-blonde hair was tousled, and the faint shadows under her pale blue eyes suggested she hadn’t slept well. Yet, her apartment was the opposite of her uncle’s office—neat, organized, and clean, every item in its place, giving the space a quiet order that contrasted with her evident anxiety.

Grant’s eyes swept the room slowly, taking in the layout, noting the details without making her feel watched. He could sense her unease, the way she held herself, and adjusted his tone, softening slightly. “I won’t keep you long, Miss. I just need to ask a few questions about last night, if you saw anything unusual or out of place.”

Frankie nodded hesitantly, her small frame shifting as she moved further into the apartment, letting him follow. Cole could tell she was terrified, and while he had his methods, he also knew that patience and subtle reassurance would be necessary to get the answers he needed.

“Would you like a coffee, or perhaps something else?” Frankie asked, her voice a little shaky as she motioned toward the small kitchen table. She tried to appear calm, but the faint tremor in her hands betrayed her nerves. The apartment was quiet, the soft hum of the refrigerator filling the brief silence between them.

Grant shook his head, his expression neutral, not wanting coffee or anything else. He had no need for refreshment, only answers, and his gaze remained steady on her, observing every small movement, every twitch of her fingers.

“I spoke with your uncle this morning,” he said, his voice measured, calm, but carrying a subtle weight that made her stomach tighten. “He said that you’re the one who closed last night. Is that true?”

Frankie nodded quickly, her eyes lowering to the tabletop, trying to avoid his sharp, piercing gaze. “Yes, that’s true,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Indeed, it wasn’t supposed to be me,” she added, her tone edging into nervous explanation, “but Samantha had to leave early because her kid was sick. You know, it’s the same thing every Friday night. As soon as she encounters a new man, she always finds ways not to close when it’s her turn.” She gave a small, awkward laugh, hoping to lighten the tension, though it did little to calm the tight knot of fear twisting in her stomach.

Grant let out a soft snort, the faintest hint of amusement crossing his face. He made a careful note on his pad, his hand moving deliberately, recording details without breaking the quiet intensity that filled the room. His eyes flicked back to her, calm but calculating, and Frankie felt a chill run down her spine at the way he watched her.

“I see, interesting,” he said finally, his voice smooth and controlled. “Aside from this, when you closed the restaurant, did you notice anything unusual? Any people roaming around the place? And at what time exactly did you finish your shift?”

Frankie’s heart began to race. The questions came too quickly, too precisely, and her mind scrambled to recall the details of the previous night. She shifted in her chair, her fingers fiddling with the edge of her Star Wars shirt, the tiny movement betraying the nervous energy coursing through her.

“I… I can’t recall exactly,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “I was so tired. I think… around 12:45 AM? Everyone was gone by then, and I just couldn’t wait to get home.”

Cole tilted his head ever so slightly, a subtle gesture that made her feel as though he were weighing her every word, every hesitation. He didn’t speak for a moment, letting the silence settle, letting her feel the intensity of his observation. Frankie swallowed hard, her nerves fraying as she realized just how carefully he was watching her, noticing everything she tried to hide.

The apartment felt smaller suddenly, the quiet too loud, and Frankie shifted again in her seat, trying to steady her breathing. Grant, meanwhile, simply continued to watch, calm, collected, his pen poised over the pad, ready to capture every detail she provided, and every little thing she left unspoken.

Just as Grant was about to continue with more questions, Michelle’s smartphone buzzed softly, the low notification tone cutting through the quiet tension of the apartment. She glanced down at it, and a flicker of worry crossed her face.

“Oh! Sorry, I’m just going to grab a fruit, my blood sugar is getting low,” she said quickly, her voice a little higher than usual, betraying the nervous energy coursing through her. Whether it was a distraction, or if she really was diabetic, Grant could not tell without peeking at her phone, but he did not need to. He simply watched as she rose from the chair, moving toward the fridge with hesitant steps, and opened it carefully, her fingers brushing against a bright orange.

She returned to the table, holding the fruit like it was a lifeline, and began peeling it slowly, methodically, as if each motion could steady the tremor in her hands. She took a small bite, chewing deliberately in front of him, all the while aware of the sharp, calculating gaze that followed her every move.

Grant’s voice broke the silence again, calm, precise, and measured, but carrying an edge that made her heart flutter with panic. “Who was the last person to leave before you?”

The question hit her like a sudden gust of cold wind, freezing her mid-motion as she held the orange in her hand. Her eyes widened, and a small gasp escaped her lips as she struggled to steady her breathing. Fear bloomed across her face like wildfire, small beads of sweat forming at her temples. She froze completely, the piece of fruit halfway to her mouth, and swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet room.

“…I think it was David, he’s a cook… but I’m not 100 percent sure,” she admitted finally, her voice shaky, almost a whisper. Her gaze darted away briefly, toward the window, then back to the table, trying to hide the panic rising inside her.

Grant noted the subtle tension, the quick inhale, the tiny tremor of her fingers. It was obvious to him that she knew more than she was saying. He did not think she had anything to do with the murder, but her sweet, pale blue eyes had witnessed something she should never have seen. Her vulnerability, her fear, radiated from her in waves, and yet, there was a glimmer of resolve, a quiet resistance hidden beneath the terror.

He leaned back slightly, allowing the silence to stretch, letting her realize the weight of his presence, and the unspoken pressure in his calm but unwavering gaze. Every movement she made, every slight twitch, was being cataloged, analyzed, and Grant was patient, letting her anxiety build just enough to see what she might reveal when the tension became too heavy to bear.

Frankie’s fingers clutched the orange tighter, her knuckles whitening, her mind racing. The apartment suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier, and the soft hum of the refrigerator seemed deafening against the intensity of his stare. She could not tell if he already knew the truth, if he had pieced together more than she had dared to say. Fear and instinct warred within her, leaving her unsure whether to speak, to lie, or to run.

He didn’t have any more questions for Frankie, not tonight, but tomorrow was a different story. He wasn’t done with her yet, and it was only a matter of time before she would finally reveal what she knew about that night. Grant didn’t believe for a second that she hadn’t seen anything, otherwise she wouldn’t be so tense, so restless, so clearly aware that every word mattered.

The FBI agent rose from the chair, his movements measured, deliberate, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a crisp business card. He held it out to her, his gaze lingering on her face for a moment longer than necessary.

“I’m done with the questions for now, but if you remember anything about that night, or if you learn something new, don’t hesitate to contact me, Frankie,” he said, his voice firm but with a subtle warmth that she wasn’t expecting. When he handed her the card, her small hand brushed lightly against his, and for the briefest instant, his stern exterior faltered. Her eyes met his, wide and unguarded, and he caught a flicker of something in them, a mixture of fear, curiosity, and something else he couldn’t quite place. Frankie was mesmerized, even though she knew she shouldn’t be, and for a heartbeat the world around them seemed to shrink until it was just the two of them in the quiet room.

Agent Cole finally left Frankie’s apartment, the evening air crisp and carrying the faint hum of the city behind him. His mind replayed every detail from their conversation, every twitch and glance, and he knew he would need to return tomorrow, when the questions could dig even deeper. For now, though, he decided it was time to pay a visit to David, the cook, hoping for any piece of information that might shed light on the chaos of last night.

When Grant arrived at David’s small, modest house, he found it empty, the door unlocked but no one inside. A faint sense of frustration prickled at him, but there was no time to dwell. He turned his attention to the next name on his list, Mark Whitmore, the other cook who had been working that evening. Driving through the quiet streets, Grant thought about what he might find. He had no doubt Mark would be evasive, but he also knew that sometimes, people let slip more than they intend when caught off guard.

When he arrived at Mark’s place, a modest townhouse tucked between two larger buildings, he knocked sharply. The door swung open almost immediately, and Mark’s smooth, calculating expression met his gaze.

“Agent Cole, come on in,” Mark said, stepping aside with a faint smirk.

Grant hesitated for only a moment before entering, and his eyes swept the small living room. To his surprise, David sat on the worn sofa, looking slightly uneasy but not daring to leave. Grant raised an eyebrow, a flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, this is convenient,” he said, letting his gaze rest briefly on each of them. “Two for one. I hope you won’t mind, Sirs, if I ask you a few questions about what happened last night.”

He could feel the tension immediately, the way both men shifted slightly under his steady gaze, and Grant knew that tonight, if nothing else, the truth would begin to unravel, piece by piece.

Mark chuckled low and darkly the moment Agent Cole asked if they would mind a few questions. The 49-year-old man radiated a confidence bordering on arrogance, his movements slow, deliberate, as if daring anyone to challenge him. Without hesitation, he cracked open a beer in front of Grant, the hiss of carbonation punctuating the tension in the room, and then he held it out, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

“No thanks. I don’t drink while on duty,” Grant said, his tone polite but firm, though a flicker of amusement crossed his features. He had to admit, the audacity of the gesture made him slightly uneasy, a subtle challenge hidden beneath the casual offer.

The room itself added to the dissonance, clutter everywhere, stacks of old newspapers and empty bottles littering the corners, a carpet thick with dog fur that suggested neglect, a life lived with little concern for order. Grant’s eyes scanned the space, noting the absence of any animals to account for the mess. It was chaotic, oppressive, and somehow, it seemed to suit Mark perfectly.

“Last night, Frankie Callaway was the one who closed the restaurant, right?” Grant asked, keeping his voice steady as his gaze locked onto Mark.

Mark took a deliberate sip from his beer before answering, his expression smug. “Yup, that’s right… She was. As usual, she complained to her uncle about needing more cash, so that’s why she closed instead of Samantha…”

Grant tilted his head, cold eyes narrowing, sensing the first threads of a lie. “Oh? That’s not what Bobby or Frankie said. Frankie closed because Samantha had to leave for her sick child.” The words were precise, controlled, yet carried the weight of authority.

Mark snorted, a low, contemptuous sound that echoed against the cluttered walls, and David, perched nervously on the sagging sofa in the background, chuckled along, the sound shrill and mocking. Grant’s eyes, icy and unflinching, shifted to David, who fidgeted under the FBI agent’s gaze, realizing the weight of being caught in the crossfire.

“And what about you?” Grant asked, his voice sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Is that true?”

David hesitated, glancing at Mark, then back at Grant. “I… I don’t know. I don’t really get along with Frankie,” he admitted, his tone uneven, uncertain.

Interesting, Grant thought, his mind already piecing together the dynamic. Two men, both working the same restaurant, both hiding something, both radiating a subtle malice that made him want to distrust them instinctively. There was tension here that ran deeper than casual dislike. Hatred simmered just below the surface, and Grant could feel it, a palpable aura of resentment and arrogance, one he would need to navigate carefully if he hoped to extract the truth without tipping into chaos.

Suddenly, the mood in the house shifted, the air thick with unspoken tension. David shifted uneasily on the old sofa, his fingers tapping against his knees, and it was obvious now why he and Frankie were constantly at odds. There was a deeper reason, one that had nothing to do with work or schedules, and everything to do with a more personal, more uncomfortable truth.

“Well, how so? What happened with Frankie?” Grant asked, his voice calm but curious, a subtle edge of observation in his tone. The question hit a nerve immediately, and Mark let out a low, mocking laugh, the kind that carried a mixture of amusement and smugness, knowing perfectly well the source of David’s irritation.

“It’s complicated!” David muttered, his jaw tightening, his frustration barely contained, his words clipped but his voice betraying the tension rising inside him.

Mark, of course, could not resist. He leaned back in his chair, taking another long, deliberate sip from his beer, and grinned as he leaned toward Grant. “Nah, not so complicated,” he said, eyes twinkling with mischief. “David is somewhat obsessed with Frankie, but it does seem that Frankie isn’t attracted to David… He’s not old enough, that’s all.”

Grant paused for a fraction of a second, noting carefully in his mind that David clearly had some fixation on Frankie, an obsession that was beginning to reveal itself in subtle, uncomfortable ways. Meanwhile, David’s eyes, dark and furious, lasered onto Mark, daggers in every glance, his entire body rigid with indignation.

“Come on, David,” Mark continued, his voice teasing, dripping with sarcasm, “you think this man cares that you jerk off while thinking of her? Pfftt!”

The words landed like a grenade in the room. David’s face went red, his hands clenching into fists, and Grant, despite himself, allowed a faint twitch of amusement to cross his face. This was not a detail he was going to write down on his notes, not in a million years, yet it revealed something undeniable about the tension between these two men and their shared connection to Frankie. David looked ready to explode, while Mark, smug and unbothered, leaned back, clearly enjoying the chaos he had created.

Grant’s eyes swept between them, cold, precise, yet hidden amusement tugging at the corner of his mind. He knew now that extracting the truth would not just be about facts or schedules, but also about navigating this twisted, personal battlefield, where hatred, obsession, and ego collided in a way that made the room almost unbearable to breathe in.

The FBI agent made a mental note of one detail that had slipped from Mark’s mouth, a small remark that seemed almost casual at first, but carried more significance than the man realized. Mark had said that Frankie wasn’t attracted to David, that he simply wasn’t old enough for her. Grant considered that carefully, tilting his head as he weighed the observation. Technically, David was in his late thirties, which made him older than Frankie, but Grant understood immediately what Mark was implying. Frankie’s preference was clearly for men much older than her, men old enough to command respect, to exude authority, to hold a kind of protective presence that someone like David could not. Men who could, in a sense, feel like a father figure without being paternal in the literal sense.

Grant allowed himself the faintest smirk, a thought forming in the back of his mind that made him almost laugh quietly at the irony. Of course, he now understood why Frankie wasn’t drawn to David, why she had kept her distance, and why she had been cautious with him in ways that went beyond simple shyness or nervousness. David, as far as Grant could tell, was certainly not what most women might describe as traditionally alluring. He was not Brad Pitt, not someone whose charm could sweep a woman off her feet with ease. That was clear, and yet, in its own way, it revealed more about Frankie than any direct confession ever could.

It was a subtle but illuminating discovery, one that suggested Frankie felt safer with someone older, someone capable of inspiring trust, someone who could take the weight of a dangerous night and help carry it without faltering. She gravitated toward authority, toward experience, toward someone who could protect her and understand her vulnerability without making her feel exposed. That, Grant realized, would be crucial for him to remember if he wanted to coax more information from her about that night, about the events that remained shrouded in mystery.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, letting his thoughts settle, imagining the layers of trust and caution that Frankie carried with her, and the careful way he would need to approach her. Every question, every gesture, every pause in conversation could matter. He would have to play his cards with patience, intelligence, and subtlety, making her feel safe enough to reveal what she knew, without pushing too hard, without frightening her, and without letting his own presence tip into intimidation. In that moment, Grant understood that knowing about her preferences, her instincts, and her quiet gravitation toward older men was more than just a trivial observation. It was a key to unlocking her trust, and perhaps, to uncovering the truth hidden behind that night’s chaos.

Mark finally spoke up, his voice calm, almost casual, as if revealing information to Grant was no effort at all.

“I didn’t see anything weird last night before leaving. The place was packed with customers, but by around ten o’clock, most of them had gone home, and we were getting ready to shut the kitchen,” he said, taking a slow sip from the beer he had left on the counter.

Grant listened, his expression unreadable. Once again, these details were far from what he had come to uncover. They were mundane, almost trivial, painting a picture of a typical night at a busy restaurant rather than providing any real insight into the mystery he was chasing. He had hoped that visiting the employees who had worked that night would yield clues, perhaps a slip of memory, a detail overlooked, or a fleeting observation that could break open the puzzle. So far, it was proving to be frustratingly unproductive.

The conversation with David and Mark finally came to an end, and Grant found himself relieved to step out of the house. The air inside had a strange, lingering odor, a mix of old beer, unwashed carpets, and something faintly metallic that made his senses twitch. He exhaled slowly as he locked the door behind him, feeling the cool evening air wash over him like a small reprieve. Back in his Chevrolet Malibu, Grant opened his smartphone and methodically saved the phone numbers of all the employees who had worked the restaurant that night. He made a mental note to pay them a visit, one by one, hoping that the next encounter might prove more fruitful.

Alas, the pattern held true with the others. No one had seen anything unusual, no one could provide a hint or a clue that deviated from the expected story. Samantha, who had worked alongside Frankie that night, gave a version that mirrored the others. She had finished earlier because Bobby had asked her to leave the closing duties to his niece, explaining the arrangement matter-of-factly. Yet, there was one additional detail that made Grant pause and take note. Apparently, Frankie’s car had been hit while she was at work, a minor accident, but enough to require her to pay her insurance deductible. The sum, around five hundred dollars, was an expense she had not anticipated, which explained why she had insisted on closing instead of Samantha.

Grant considered this carefully. It was the sort of mundane fact that could easily be verified, and he intended to do so first thing in the morning. For now, it was a small, solid lead in an otherwise murky investigation, a thread he could pull on to see where it led.

His stomach growled, a reminder that he had been so focused on the day’s efforts that he had neglected to eat. He glanced around the streets, scanning for a modest restaurant, a diner, or even a late-night café where he could grab a meal before returning to his hotel room in town. The city had a quiet energy to it, the hum of distant traffic and the occasional flash of neon lights reflecting off wet pavement, and Grant felt a strange sense of patience settle over him. Tomorrow would demand focus, attention to detail, and a sharper mind. Tonight, he would refuel, gather his thoughts, and prepare for the next day of unraveling the threads of a night that had already proven to be far more complicated than it appeared.

That night, back in his hotel room, Grant finally allowed himself a moment of quiet. The day had been long, filled with half-truths, evasions, and subtle provocations, yet his mind refused to rest. Images of Frankie lingered, the memory of her wide, fearful eyes, the way she had brushed her hand against his, the almost imperceptible tremor in her voice when she spoke. He shook his head slightly, attempting to dismiss the thoughts, telling himself that he needed sleep, that he needed to be sharp for tomorrow.

But sleep had other plans.

The moment he drifted into the dark, uneasy realm of dreams, his mind conjured an image so vivid, so visceral, that it felt as if he had been plunged into the nightmare himself. Frankie appeared, small and fragile, wearing soft white pajamas that clung to her frame. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale and streaked with tears, and her mouth opened in a scream that seemed to echo across a void. She was in the earth, dirt sliding over her arms, covering her legs, and each second, she seemed to sink deeper, desperate to break free but trapped, suffocating, calling for help that no one could hear.

Grant ran toward her in the dream, hands clawing at the soil, heart hammering, but it was impossible to reach her. The panic in her eyes mirrored the fear that gripped him, the helplessness of not being able to save her. Every movement of hers, every frantic plea, made the air around him heavier, choking, the weight of the nightmare pressing in from all sides. Her cries became a deafening scream that rattled his chest, each sound reverberating in the deepest corners of his mind, leaving him gasping for air that would not come.

Then, with a sudden, horrifying clarity, he realized the futility, the helplessness, the sheer terror of the scene. Frankie was trapped, buried beneath the dirt, the soft pajamas smeared with grime, and no matter how fast he ran, no matter how desperately he reached, she could not be saved.

Grant awoke with a violent start, his body drenched in cold sweat, heart pounding like a drum in his chest, lungs desperate for oxygen. The room was silent, the city outside his window still humming softly, but the nightmare clung to him, vivid, unrelenting. His fists gripped the sheets, knuckles white, as he sat upright, trying to shake the memory of her terror from his mind.

For the first time that night, he understood the weight of responsibility he carried, the fragile life that rested somehow in his hands. Frankie, with her innocence, her vulnerability, and the trust she had placed in him, had invaded his subconscious, demanding attention, demanding protection. Grant swallowed hard, the echo of her screams lingering in his ears, and he realized that sleep would not come easily again. Not until he found the answers, not until he could ensure that the nightmare would never come true.

➡ BACK TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

[inkmshadows]

Rapture: Every Secret Has a Price, Every Fear Has a Face

When a young woman is found lifeless behind a quiet restaurant, the city of Salt Lake City trembles beneath a heavy silence. FBI Special Agent Grant Cole steps into a world of fear, secrets, and unspoken tension, sharp-eyed, unyielding, and determined to uncover what truly happened that night. Every person he questions hides something, every word carries weight, and every lead seems to open the door to something darker.

Everything changes when Frankie Callaway flees from Grant in her Subaru WRX, turning downtown Salt Lake City into chaos as police lights, sirens, and fear tear through the streets. Her sudden and reckless escape makes her the FBI’s primary suspect, transforming a murder investigation into a high-stakes manhunt.

In a city where danger hides in plain sight, no one is truly safe, and the aftermath of that night will stretch far beyond a single crime, blurring the line between guilt, survival, and obsession.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Also available to read on Tumblr 🔽

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One | The Melinda Carter Case

Chapter Two | Chasing Shadows

Frankie's Playlist

Rapture | Frankie's Playlist

[inkmshadows]

Anson Mount | Den of Geek - July 2025

Set of pictures of Anson Mount for the July 2025 Digital Edition of Den of Geek, and honestly, it should be criminal to look this good in a suit. Like, FBI agent by day, heartbreaker by night, and probably a superhero on weekends.

Somebody call the authorities, because I think he’s committing multiple felonies against humanity with that jawline, that suit, and that stare. I’m not saying I’d testify against him in court, but also… I definitely wouldn’t.

That suit Anson is wearing on those pics totally inspired a story...

Feel free to check the story on AO3 or in Tumblr

''Rapture''

When a young woman is found lifeless behind a quiet restaurant, the city of Salt Lake City trembles beneath a heavy silence. FBI Special Agent Grant Cole (Anson Mount) steps into a world of fear, secrets, and unspoken tension, sharp-eyed, unyielding, and determined to uncover what truly happened that night. Every person he questions hides something, every word carries weight, and every lead seems to open the door to something darker.

Everything changes when Frankie Callaway flees from Grant in her Subaru WRX, turning downtown Salt Lake City into chaos as police lights, sirens, and fear tear through the streets. Her sudden and reckless escape makes her the FBI’s primary suspect, transforming a murder investigation into a high-stakes manhunt.

In a city where danger hides in plain sight, no one is truly safe, and the aftermath of that night will stretch far beyond a single crime, blurring the line between guilt, survival, and obsession.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[inkmshadows]

The X-Files - S1.E2 ∙ Deep Throat

Mulder and Scully investigate the mysterious case of a military test pilot who disappeared after experiencing strange psychotic behaviour.

[inkmshadows]

The X-Files Screencaps Project.

Exciting new project! I’m going to be screencapping 30 screencaps per episode of The X-Files, starting with Season 1, Episode 1 – Pilot. Can’t wait to capture all the iconic moments, the suspense, and the chemistry between Mulder and Scully frame by frame. This is going to be such a fun way to revisit the series and relive all the nostalgia!

The X-Files - S1.E1 ∙ Pilot

Agent Dana Scully is instructed to debunk an FBI project dubbed "The X-Files," paranormal cases that have been reopened by Agent Fox Mulder.

[inkmshadows]

Anson Mount Appreciation Post: Captain Christopher Pike Edition (HD Stills)

Can we just take a moment to appreciate the absolute brilliance that is Anson Mount as Captain Christopher Pike?

[inkmshadows]

Revisiting The X-Files

I’m on my way to rewatch The X-Files on Paramount, it’s been so many years, and I have to say, I still love that show just as much as I did when I first discovered it. The stories, the suspense, the chemistry between Mulder and Scully, it all still holds up amazingly, and it’s honestly inspiring me to get back into writing. Speaking of which, I’ve decided to work on a sequel called "The Shadows Behind Her" to my old fanfiction from around 2009, wow, it’s really been a while, haha, but I’m excited to revisit those characters and expand the story in new directions.

Today, it’s raining freezing rain, yikes, so I’m happily tucked inside with a warm drink, brainstorming ideas for Chapter 4, where Walter Skinner finally calls Mulder for help, and hints at a huge revelation that could change everything for Michelle and tie back to Max Edwards’ mysterious past. I’ve been jotting down notes, sketching out scenes, and even working on some fanart along the way, trying to capture the mood and suspense, and it’s honestly so much fun to immerse myself in this world again.

I can already picture the tension in the office when Skinner finally makes the call, Mulder’s memory of Max coming flooding back, and Scully’s skeptical-but-concerned reaction, it’s going to be a great mix of mystery, drama, and maybe a little humor too, just like the show itself. I can’t wait to see how it all comes together, and to share these new adventures with anyone who loved the original fanfiction as much as I did.