So why was Franklyn Brooks so fucking special? Maybe I’d ask him if he was here tonight.

  Exiting the Jeep, I took a quick look around to make sure no one was watching. No one was. The street was empty and cloaked in darkness, with no light even spewing from any of the buildings, most of them being derelict.

  Satisfied I was alone, I ducked under the police tape and made my way down the alley as light rain began to fall. I stopped at the spot where Brooks’ body had been first, the smell of bleach still lingering.

  “Brooks?” I called quietly. “You here, you son of a bitch?”

  I waited, turning to look in all directions, but there was no sign of the man who had tried to kill me.

  But Danny was there.

  He announced his presence by making debris float around the alley. Then he appeared from around the side of the dumpster where his body had been disposed off.

  “They… took me away,” Danny said, his voice sounding distant, like it was filtering through layers of reality, not quite part of this world. It had a hollow, echoing quality, as if he was speaking from the end of a long, dark tunnel. His words were tinged with a sadness that seemed to resonate from another plane, a place where the lines between life and death blurred. The voice was unmistakably that of a child, yet it carried a weight and depth that no living child’s voice ever could. It was eerie and otherworldly, a ghostly whisper that seemed to hang in the air long after he had finished speaking. “Where… did they… take me?” His flickering face was a mask of confusion and deep-seated fear.

  “I know, Danny,” I said gently as I cautiously approached him. “They had to.”

  “I want to go home,” he said as detritus spun round his ghostly form. “I want my mummy and daddy.”

  “Can you tell me our full name, Danny?” I asked him. “Do you remember?”

  “I want to go home,” he repeated, as if he’d never heard me. “So scared… want to… want to go home!”

  His voice rose in pitch and his form took on a darker tone as his face reflected a sudden rage that seemed to have overtaken him. The detritus swirling around him picked up speed, turning into a whirlwind of trash and debris. It was as if his emotional turmoil was manifesting physically, the objects around him responding to his heightened state of distress.

  Suddenly, bits of garbage began to fly toward me, propelled by Danny’s rage. A crumpled soda can whizzed past my head, followed by a flurry of old newspapers and scraps of plastic. I instinctively ducked, holding up my arms to shield myself from the onslaught.

  “Danny, stop!” I shouted over the howling wind of flying debris. “I’m trying to help you!”

  But the child’s spirit seemed beyond reason, lost in a tempest of fear and anger. The air around us was charged with his energy, the refuse of the alley dancing in a chaotic ballet around his flickering form.

  This was what rage and fear did to spirits. It made them dangerous and out of control, their frustration over their circumstances making them lash out. I’d encountered this sort of behavior twice before, once in prison and once when I got out, so I wasn’t exactly an expert when it came to dealing with it. Far as I could tell, you just had to let the shades burn themselves out and hope they calmed down, which thankfully, Danny did.

  “You need to work with me here, Danny,” I said firmly as he stood with his small fists balled by his sides, his head dipped slightly as his darkened eyes stared at me, as if preparing for another rage-fuelled episode. “I want to help you get out of this alley, help you move on somewhere better. But I can’t do that unless you talk to me. Can you tell me your full name, Danny? Can you tell me where you lived?”

  Danny’s face seemed to relax as he raised his head slightly, the detritus floating around him slowing in its orbit. “I⁠—”

  That’s all he said before his eyes widened in fear, his gaze now aimed somewhere behind me. The exact same reaction he’d had when he noticed Franklyn Brooks sneaking up, only this time his fear was more pronounced.

  Before I could even spin around to look, I felt a sudden, icy coldness enveloping my torso, like the grip of winter itself. I gasped, the air knocked out of me, as I felt what seemed like spectral hands plunging into my ribs. The pain was immediate and intense, unlike anything I’d ever felt—a searing, bone-deep agony that seemed to freeze and burn at the same time.

  I stumbled forward, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I tried to escape the grasp of whatever was behind me. But the spectral hands held firm, their icy grip paralyzing and unyielding.

  Twisting around desperately, I soon saw the source of my pain—Franklyn Brooks. Or rather, his ghost, standing there with a malevolent sneer. His eyes burned with a hatred that was almost palpable, and his hands, still buried in my chest, were like vices of pure malevolence.

  “Brooks!” I managed to choke out, struggling against the pain. “Get… the fuck… off me!”

  As soon as I said it, Brooks removed his hands from inside me and backed off. Though not because he wanted to, it seemed, but because he could no longer maintain the energy it took to do what he was doing to me. Nonetheless, he kept up his sinister sneer, pleased that he was able to cause me pain.

  “You killed the wrong guy, Elias,” he said, his voice a gravelly echo from the grave. “I know things, and I’m only getting stronger.”

  “Who… who the fuck asked you to kill me?” I blurted out, the iciness still clinging to my insides like a malevolent frost.

  Brooks’ sneer turned into a grin. “It really doesn’t matter now, does it? Because I’m going to kill you, Elias.”

  “Why? Because I killed you? You attacked me first!”

  “I’m still going to kill you, simply because I can.” His face darkened. “And you won’t be the only one.”

  “Ghosts can’t kill people,” I said, my words uncertain as I said them. The truth was, I didn’t know if ghosts could kill or not. I was still new to all this. Maybe they could and I just didn’t know about it yet. Brooks had just plunged his icy hands into me. How long before he could do more than that?

  Brooks’ laughter echoed through the alley like the sound of broken glass scraping against concrete. “You think you know the rules, Elias? There are no rules here. Not for me. Not anymore.”

  I tried to step back, to put some distance between us, but his spectral presence pressed forward. “What do you want?” I asked him.

  “I want power, Elias. I want the power I longed for when I was alive, but could never seem to get. Now it’s within my grasp, and I’m not letting it go.”

  “You’re dead, Brooks. Whatever grudge you’re holding, it’s over. You can’t change what happened.”

  Brooks’ face twisted into a mask of rage. “It’s not over until I say it’s over!” He lunged forward, his spectral form seeming to grow more solid, more menacing.

  I braced myself for another attack, but then Danny’s ghost appeared between us, his small, translucent form a stark contrast to Brooks’ dark energy.

  “Stop it!” Danny’s voice was a plea, a desperate cry that seemed to momentarily startle Brooks.

  Brooks’ gaze shifted between me and Danny, his expression now one of confusion and anger.

  “You can’t do this, Brooks,” I said, my voice steadier now. “You can’t just unleash your rage on the world. On me.”

  Brooks’ sneer returned, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Watch me, Elias,” he said, before his form dissipated into the shadows, and so did Danny’s a second later.

  “Danny?” I said, waiting for him to appear again. But he was gone. “Goddamnit.”

  For a moment, I leaned on my knees, my insides still feeling like they had been scraped out with ice and left hollow. How the hell did Brooks do what he did? He’d been a ghost for like five fucking minutes. Is that what he meant when he said he knew things? Was he into some occult shit before he died, and that’s why his abilities were so advanced? Seems like half this fucking town is into occult shit these days, even two-bit assassins like Franklyn Brooks.

  One thing was for sure. I had to get myself some protection.

  And I had to find out how to kill what was already dead.

  Chapter

  Nine

  Criestview Correctional Facility was situated on the outskirts of Shadowhaven, isolated from the city’s bustling streets and crowded neighborhoods. Surrounded by barren, windswept plains—and beyond that, miles of thick forest and mountain ranges—the prison stood as a solitary structure against the stark landscape, its imposing walls casting long shadows.

  The facility was sprawling, encompassing several acres of land, with multiple buildings enclosed within its high, razor-wire-topped perimeter walls. The main complex was a hulking edifice of concrete and steel, its architecture utilitarian and foreboding. Additional structures included administrative offices, solitary confinement blocks, and various support buildings, all designed in the same stark, intimidating style.

  Despite its modern security measures and facilities, Crestview Correctional had a dark reputation that went beyond its physical appearance. Known for its harsh conditions, strict discipline, and a population that included some of Shadowhaven’s most notorious criminals, the prison was a place of last resort, where hope and redemption seemed out of reach.

  Rumors and stories circulated about Crestview—tales of corruption among the guards, unexplained disappearances of inmates, and brutal gang rivalries within its walls, all of which I had first hand knowledge of. It was said that once you were sent to Crestview, the outside world all but forgot about you, and the chances of leaving were slim. For many in Shadowhaven, just the mention of Crestview Correctional Facility was enough to evoke a sense of dread.

  I was one of the lucky ones, managing the impossible by leaving the place. But the man I was going to see today would never escape from Crestview. He was going to die within its stark walls, and he knew it.

  The heavy clank of the main gates echoed in my ears as they sealed shut, engulfing me in a wave of oppressive memories. Each visit resurrected that old, gnawing fear—the fear that once inside, I might never leave again. The halls of the prison were lined with cold, unyielding concrete, the air thick with a sense of desolation that seemed to seep into my bones.

  Walking toward the visitor room, I passed by uniformed guards who eyed me with indifference, their faces hard and unreadable. The sound of my footsteps echoed in the sterile corridors, and overhead, harsh fluorescent lights hummed, casting a pallid glow over everything.

  As I approached the visitor room, the reality of the place hit me afresh—the rows of chairs facing the thick perspex screens, each one a barrier to the world outside, a reminder of the chasm between those inside and those who were free. Not too long ago, I was on the other side of that screen, exchanging words with my sister, the only person who ever came to see me. Certainly not my ex-wife, who had fled to Seattle after the death of our son. And certainly none of my ‘friends’ from the force, who, even if they wanted to, wouldn’t have dared visit for fear of reprisal from Mercer.

  I found Tommy Malone already sat down behind the glass, his figure still cutting an authoritative presence, despite his circumstances. Tommy was in his early sixties, olive-skinned, with brown eyes and a shaven head. As I took my place on the other side of the screen, he leaned forward, his face coming into sharp focus.

  We picked up the phone receivers simultaneously, the barrier of the screen making our conversation a bizarre blend of intimacy and detachment. Malone’s face, framed by the screen, was a mask of calm, but his eyes, always sharp and calculating, betrayed a keen awareness of everything around him.

  “Tommy,” I said, the familiarity of his name tasting strange in this setting.

  “Elias,” he replied, his voice a gravelly echo in the confined space, “What brings you back to this hellhole?”

  “Just felt like seeing a friendly face.”

  “Friendly? You call this face friendly?”

  “It was the only friendly face I ever saw in here, so…”

  Tommy smiled. “It’s good to see you again, Elias. How’s the outside world treating you?”

  I shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

  He leaned forward. “Come on. Tell your Uncle Tommy what’s up.”

  Shaking my head at him, I said, “You know you sound like a pervert when you say that.”

  His gravelly laughter echoed down the phone. “A pervert? Talk like that’ll get you killed in here.”

  “Lucky I’m on this side of the glass now then.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his face turning serious. “You’re lucky indeed.” He paused. “How you doing with that gift of yours?”

  I looked around and lowered my voice, as if I didn’t want the guards to hear. “I’m still getting to grips with it. One of them hurt me last night.”

  “Hurt you? That’s interesting. What happened?”

  “Interesting is not the word I would use to describe it,” I said. “This guy put his hands in me.”

  “In you?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. In me.”

  “Well,” he said, considering for a moment. “If you were in here and some guy put his hands on you, what would you do?”

  “I’d make sure it never happened again.”

  “Precisely. You got a find a way to make sure that ghost doesn’t hurt you again.”

  “Can you you even hurt one of them?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

  “I’m sure you’re not only the only one with this gift,” he said. “I’m sure others have a found ways to protect themselves.”

  “So what are you saying? I should find others with the same affliction?”

  “You’re still calling it that, huh? Yeah, maybe that might be an option. Find someone who knows more than you do. This is a big city. I’m sure there’s somebody out there who can help you. What about that professor you’re seeing?”

  “Helena has been helpful, but her knowledge only stretches so far.”

  “People come into our lives when we most need them,” Tommy said. “Just like I came into yours, Elias.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll always be grateful.”

  “You can be more than that, Elias. You can honor me by doing good with that gift of yours.”

  “I’m doing my best. I try to help the shades I come across… when the aren’t trying to hurt me.”

  Tommy stared through the glass at me for a long moment, and for the first time, I noticed there was something different about him. His usual sharp, calculating gaze had dulled, replaced by a weariness that seemed to weigh down his features. There was a certain hollowness in his eyes, a fading light that spoke of a man grappling with his own mortality. His skin, once robust and ruddy, had taken on a sallow, almost jaundiced tone, hinting at the disease I knew was ravaging his body.

  In those eyes, I also saw a resignation, an acceptance of the inevitable that wasn’t there before. The fierce defiance that Tommy Malone had always carried, the unyielding spirit that had made him a legend in the criminal underworld of Shadowhaven, was fading. It was as if he was slowly retreating inward, preparing for the final battle he knew he couldn’t win.

  “Listen, Elias,” Tommy began. “I’ve done a lot of bad shit in my life, half of it in here. I’ve ruined lives, taken lives, eradicated entire fucking bloodlines. Pretty soon, I’m gonna answer for all that. This disease I have, it’s advancing every day. I don’t know how long I got left⁠—”

  “Come on, Tommy,” I interrupted. “You’re a fucking legend, and legends don’t go out that easy. You’ll keep fighting.”

  “To my last breath,” he said. “But in the meantime, I want to see the man I saved make a difference out there.” He paused, his eyes boring into me. “You know why I saved you in here, Elias? It wasn’t because you helped me on the outside. It was because I saw something in you, a chance to do some good.” Tommy’s voice, though weakened, carried a weight of earnestness I hadn’t heard before. “I’ve made my bed, Elias, and I’ll lie in it. But you, you’ve got a shot to change things, to make right some of the wrongs in this city. Shadowhaven needs more than just another crook or corrupt cop. It needs someone who’s seen the darkness but chooses to walk in the light.”

  I listened, feeling an unexpected sense of responsibility weigh on me. Tommy Malone, the man whose name was synonymous with Shadowhaven’s underworld, was asking me to be better, to be the difference.

  “You’ve got a chance to clean up the messes guys like me have made,” he continued. “And I think, deep down, that’s what you want. You need to keep up the crusade against Mercer and his cronies. It’s a good fight, Elias. And it’s your fight now.”

  I sat back, absorbing his words. Here was Tommy Malone, a man I’d once feared and respected in equal measure, acknowledging his end and passing the torch in his own way. It was surreal, yet it ignited something in me—a renewed sense of purpose.

  “You always had a knack for seeing things others didn’t, Tommy,” I said finally. “I’ll do what I can. For the city, for the people caught in the crossfire. And maybe, a little bit for you too.”

  Tommy nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “That’s all I can ask for, Elias. Make your mark. Do some good. Do it for your son if he were still here. And listen, I still got plenty of contacts on the outside, as well as resources. I’m arranging things, but soon all of those things will be at your disposal.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Tommy,” I said. “I’m good on my own.”

  “Everyone needs help, Elias. You should know that better than anyone.” He paused, seeming to be in pain, but he brushed it off. “Expect a visit from someone on the outside soon. He’ll help you wage your war against Mercer and the HCA. And in the meantime, you get yourself some protection against that other thing.”

  As our conversation drew to a close, and I stood to leave, I looked back at Tommy Malone. The mafia don, the legend, was now just a man facing his end.

  And in that moment, I understood the weight of legacy, of choices, and the long, hard road to redemption.