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MidReal Story
Chapter One Sarah Death has a way of lingering. A way of taking up residence, and refusing to leave. It’s only natural, I suppose. The longer you’re dead, the more of yourself you leave behind. Pieces of your soul, scattered across the earth like breadcrumbs after a feast. I’ve always felt it, ever since I was a kid. The weight of so many ghosts watching over me, waiting for me to join them. Of course, I’m not dead yet. But sometimes, I think my soul is. The door to my office bursts open, and I turn my attention away from the landscape outside my window. “Detective Crawford,” my captain barks. His thin lips are pursed into a frown, and his eyes are bloodshot. “Get in my office. Now.” I nod, grabbing my notepad and shoving it into the pocket of my blazer. I’m just about to push myself up from my chair when there’s a knock at the door. “It’s open,” I say. The man who steps inside is tall and broad-shouldered, with gunmetal gray eyes and dark hair that’s been neatly slicked back. He’s wearing a tailored black suit that looks like it costs more than my car. Or my apartment. Or probably the entire city block that our precinct calls home. In other words, he looks like a mobster. And in this city, where corruption runs rampant and the line between cop and criminal has long since been blurred, that makes him a suspect. “Detective Sarah Crawford?” He flashes a badge, but it’s so quick that I don’t have time to read it. “I’m Agent Mark Rivers. I’m with the FBI.” I stand up and offer him my hand. He takes it and gives it a firm shake. He looks at me for a moment, as if sizing me up. And then he says, “I need to speak with you about a case you’re working on.” He doesn’t ask if I have time. He doesn’t ask if I want to help. He doesn’t ask anything at all. He just tells me what he needs from me, and assumes that I’ll give it to him. And he’s right. Of course, he’s right. Because I will always give everything I have to catch the killer. I follow him out of my office and down the hall to an elevator at the far end of the building. We step inside the metal box, and Mark punches the button for the top floor. I turn my attention to the city beyond the glass windows as we rise higher and higher into the sky. The sun is dipping below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the buildings below us. The air is thick with smog – the pollution that blankets the city like a second skin – and it stings my eyes. I can see why so many people want to leave this place behind. To start fresh somewhere else, where you don’t have to sell your soul just to make ends meet. But I also know that you can never truly escape this city. Not completely. Not really. No matter where you go, or how far you run… it will always be with you. The elevator comes to a stop with a soft chime. The doors slide open, and Mark and I step out onto an empty floor. “Where is everyone?” I ask, looking around. Mark ignores me as he walks down an empty hallway. He doesn’t even glance back to see if I’m following him. Like he knows that I am. img-1708940611
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Chapter One
Sarah
Death has a way of lingering.
A way of taking up residence, and refusing to leave.
It’s only natural, I suppose.
The longer you’re dead, the more of yourself you leave behind. Pieces of your soul, scattered across the earth like breadcrumbs after a feast.
I’ve always felt it, ever since I was a kid. The weight of so many ghosts watching over me, waiting for me to join them.
Of course, I’m not dead yet.
But sometimes, I think my soul is.
The door to my office bursts open, and I turn my attention away from the landscape outside my window.
“Detective Crawford,” my captain barks. His thin lips are pursed into a frown, and his eyes are bloodshot. “Get in my office. Now.”
I nod, grabbing my notepad and shoving it into the pocket of my blazer. I’m just about to push myself up from my chair when there’s a knock at the door.
“It’s open,” I say.
The man who steps inside is tall and broad-shouldered, with gunmetal gray eyes and dark hair that’s been neatly slicked back.
He’s wearing a tailored black suit that looks like it costs more than my car. Or my apartment. Or probably the entire city block that our precinct calls home.
In other words, he looks like a mobster.
And in this city, where corruption runs rampant and the line between cop and criminal has long since been blurred, that makes him a suspect.
“Detective Sarah Crawford?” He flashes a badge, but it’s so quick that I don’t have time to read it. “I’m Agent Mark Rivers. I’m with the FBI.”
I stand up and offer him my hand. He takes it and gives it a firm shake.
He looks at me for a moment, as if sizing me up. And then he says, “I need to speak with you about a case you’re working on.”
He doesn’t ask if I have time.
He doesn’t ask if I want to help.
He doesn’t ask anything at all.
He just tells me what he needs from me, and assumes that I’ll give it to him.
And he’s right. Of course, he’s right.
Because I will always give everything I have to catch the killer.
I follow him out of my office and down the hall to an elevator at the far end of the building.
We step inside the metal box, and Mark punches the button for the top floor.
I turn my attention to the city beyond the glass windows as we rise higher and higher into the sky. The sun is dipping below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the buildings below us. The air is thick with smog – the pollution that blankets the city like a second skin – and it stings my eyes.
I can see why so many people want to leave this place behind. To start fresh somewhere else, where you don’t have to sell your soul just to make ends meet. But I also know that you can never truly escape this city. Not completely. Not really.
No matter where you go, or how far you run… it will always be with you.
The elevator comes to a stop with a soft chime. The doors slide open, and Mark and I step out onto an empty floor.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, looking around.
Mark ignores me as he walks down an empty hallway. He doesn’t even glance back to see if I’m following him. Like he knows that I am.
img-1708940611
And like he knows that I’ll keep following him until I get the answers I’m looking for.
He stops in front of a set of double doors, and opens them.
I step inside.
And that’s when I see him.
Sitting behind a desk that’s bigger than my entire apartment is the police commissioner. He’s wearing a sharply pressed suit that’s about three sizes too big, and he’s staring down at a manilla folder with a frown.
“Detective Crawford,” he says, his voice booming through the silent room. “It’s good to see you.”
I nod curtly, and take a seat in the chair that Mark pulls out for me.
The commissioner takes off his glasses, and stares at me for a long moment. And then he says, “I’ve just received word that you’ve apprehended the suspect in the recent string of murders in District 12. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” I say. “We caught him this morning.”
“And did he give you any information on who was pulling the strings?”
I glance at Mark, and then back to the commissioner. “No. He didn’t say a word.”
The commissioner nods, as if he expected as much. “Well done, Detective Crawford,” he says. “We were all very impressed with your work on this case.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say.
The commissioner leans forward in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. “That being said… I have another assignment for you.”
“Another assignment?”
“Yes,” he says. “We’re putting together a task force to investigate some of the criminal elements in District 13. And I’d like you to lead it.”
I blink. “Me?”
