The rain fell harder, drumming on the cobblestones like impatient fingers.
Lila and I continued walking in silence after the newsboy's shout about the Prime Minister. The words lingered in the air between us — another powerful man dead, another convenient collapse, another story that would likely be shortened and buried by morning. I didn't mention it again. Neither did she. The weight of the family-of-five crime scene and the Maddox brothers still pressed on us like wet wool.
We turned into a narrow alley behind the docks where the associate was supposed to be. The rain had turned the ground into a slick mixture of mud and oil. Our boots made wet sucking sounds with every step. The alley smelled of rotting fish, tar, and the sharp bite of coal smoke from a nearby chimney.
The man we were looking for was waiting under a sagging wooden awning, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette that glowed faintly in the grey light. His name was Tommy "Knuckles" Byrne — a former fence and occasional driver for the Maddox brothers. He was thin, nervous, with a face that looked like it had been punched too many times. His eyes darted left and right as we approached.
"You Crowe?" he asked, voice low and raspy. He didn't look at Lila.
I nodded. "You said you might have information."
Tommy took a long drag on his cigarette, his fingers trembling slightly. Rain dripped from the edge of the awning onto his shoulders. "I don't know nothing for sure. But Harlan and Rhys… they were flush two days before that family got done. New coats, new boots, talking big about 'one last job and then we disappear.' Said someone important was paying. Real important. Not local. Someone who could make problems go away."
He glanced over his shoulder, then back at me. "That's all I'm saying. I don't know the name. I don't want to know the name. These people… they don't just kill you. They make you wish you were never born."
Lila stepped closer, her voice calm and clear despite the rain. "Did they mention anything else? A meeting place? A time? Anything that could help us find who paid them?"
Tommy shook his head quickly. "Nothing. They were scared. Excited, but scared. Like they knew they were playing with fire." He dropped the cigarette into a puddle where it hissed and died. "That's all. Now leave me alone. I got nothing else."
He turned and disappeared down the alley, shoulders hunched against the rain. We stood there for a moment, listening to his footsteps fade.
"Someone important," I repeated quietly. "Not local."
Lila nodded. "That narrows it. But not enough."
We walked back toward the main road in silence. The rain had soaked through my coat completely. My boots squelched with every step. The doubt that had been growing for days felt heavier now, like an extra weight in my chest. Every lead pointed somewhere, but never clearly enough. Every witness spoke in half-truths and fear.
As we reached the wider street, a newsboy ran past us, shouting the afternoon headlines through the downpour.
"Detective Chasing Ghosts! Crowe Obsessed with Imaginary Red-Haired Killer!"
I stopped dead in the street. The rain pounded on my shoulders. Lila turned to me, concern flashing across her face.
The newsboy waved a damp copy of the evening paper. On the front page, in bold letters, was a short piece — clearly written under pressure but vicious all the same:
"Detective Chasing Ghosts: Sources say Inspector Elias Crowe has become fixated on a phantom 'red-haired angel' while real killers walk free. Colleagues worry the once-promising detective is losing his grip on reality…"
The article was short. Brutal. My name was mentioned multiple times. It called me "the detective chasing ghosts." It hinted that my obsession was damaging the real investigation into the family killings.
I stood there in the rain, the paper in my hand growing heavier as the ink ran. People passing by glanced at me, some with pity, some with amusement. A woman pulled her child closer as she walked past. An old man muttered something under his breath.
This was my first taste of public mockery.
Lila gently took the paper from my hand and folded it. "They're trying to discredit you," she said softly. "Because you're getting too close."
I didn't answer. The rain ran down my face, mixing with the cold sweat on my skin. For the first time, I felt truly exposed — not just as a detective, but as a man who might actually be losing his mind.
We continued walking. The rain never stopped.
And somewhere in the grey distance, the silence around the red-haired man grew louder than ever.