CHAPTER THREE: The Name That Was Supposed to Be Dead
At the station, Evan sat wrapped in a thermal blanket.
His cuffs were on—because procedure still matters—but they were loose.
Rook lay at his feet, head pressed against Evan’s knee like a promise.
Mark watched the dog carefully.
Rook didn’t do this with victims.
Not with fellow officers.
Not even with Mark.
“What’s your name?” Mark asked, voice softer than policy required.
The man swallowed. “Evan.”
Then, after a pause that felt like stepping off a cliff:
