The rain on Bittersweet Court didn’t fall; it felt like it was being thrown. Sheets of water hammered the asphalt, dissolving the world into a blur of grey static and strobing red light.
Maya stood by the open door of the patrol car. The engine was still running. The heater blasted hot, dry air against her soaked shins, a sensory contradiction that made her nausea spike.
“Officer?” she whispered, though she knew he couldn’t hear her.
The interior of the cruiser was empty. A half-eaten sandwich sat on the passenger seat. The radio crackled with the low, rhythmic chatter of dispatch, a lifeline to a world that felt a million miles away.
Maya looked down. The beam of her flashlight cut through the dark, illuminating the front tire. It was shredded, the rubber flayed open as if clawed by a beast. But beasts didn’t carry knives.
Near the wheel well, the water running into the gutter wasn’t clear. It was pink.
Maya followed the stream against the current. It led her away from the safety of the streetlights, past the pristine white mailbox of Number 4, and toward the gap between the houses—the easement leading to the Sinks.
She shouldn’t follow it. She knew the script. The girl who follows the blood trail is the girl who screams next.
But this wasn’t a movie. This was Miller. He was twenty-four years old. He had shown her pictures of his golden retriever puppy just yesterday.
Maya moved. She gripped the heavy Maglite like a club, her knuckles white. She stepped off the pavement and onto the sodden mulch of the side yard. The mud sucked at her boots.
“Miller!” she yelled, her voice swallowed instantly by the wind.
A groan answered her. Low. Wet.
It came from the hydrangeas bordering the woods.
Maya rushed forward, tearing through the branches. The flowers, heavy with rain, slapped against her face like cold hands.
He was lying on his side, half-buried in the leaf litter. His uniform was dark with mud and blood. He was clutching his thigh, where a dark, spreading stain had soaked the fabric.
“Officer Miller!” Maya dropped to her knees, ignoring the brambles tearing at her jeans.
Miller’s eyes fluttered open. They were glassy, unfocused. He was in shock.
“Tire,” he gasped, his teeth chattering. “Checked the tire. He was… he was under the car.”
“Don’t talk,” Maya commanded. She shone the light on his leg. It was a deep gash, clean and surgical. The femoral artery? No, the bleeding was steady, not spurting. He would live, if he didn’t freeze to death first.
“He took…” Miller wheezed, reaching for his belt. “My radio. He took my radio.”
Maya looked at his utility belt. The holster for the radio was empty.
A chill that had nothing to do with the rain seized her spine. The killer wasn’t just neutralizing the guard; he was listening to the response.
“I’m calling it in,” Maya said, fumbling for her phone. Her wet fingers slipped on the screen. She dialed 911.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“Officer down,” Maya shouted into the phone. “Bittersweet Court. Officer down. Send everyone.”
The response was overwhelming and terrifyingly efficient.
Within six minutes, the cul-de-sac was a disco of blue lights. Sirens wailed, cutting through the storm. Paramedics swarmed the side yard, loading Miller onto a stretcher. Tactical teams in heavy armor moved in formation, sweeping the tree line with rifles and blinding searchlights.
Maya stood on her porch, wrapped in a foil blanket a paramedic had draped over her. She was shivering uncontrollably.
Dan stood behind her in the doorway, pale and silent. He had wanted to take her inside, but she refused. She needed to see.
A black SUV pulled up to the curb, tires crunching on the glass from the shattered cruiser window. Chief Garrett stepped out. He wasn’t wearing a raincoat. The water soaked his dress uniform instantly, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He walked straight to the sergeant managing the scene. They spoke in low, urgent tones. Garrett gestured to the woods. The sergeant shook his head and pointed to the houses.
Maya watched the argument. She saw Garrett’s jaw tighten. He looked at the darkened windows of the neighbors. Sarah’s house. Chloe’s house. Elena’s house. They were all watching.
Garrett turned and walked toward Maya. His face was grim, the lines around his mouth etched deep.
“Is he alive?” Maya asked before he reached the steps.
“He’s stable,” Garrett said. His voice was tight. “He’ll keep the leg. But he’s out of the fight.”
“He was bait,” Maya said. “The killer slashed the tire to get him out of the car.”
“I know how it works, Maya,” Garrett snapped. He took a breath, steadying himself. “We found the weapon in the woods. A hunting knife. Wiped clean.”
“He’s escalating,” Maya said. “He attacked a cop. That’s… that’s endgame behavior.”
“It’s tactical,” Garrett corrected. “He removed the static sentry.”
He looked around the cul-de-sac. The tactical team was returning from the woods, shaking their heads.
“He’s gone,” Garrett said. “The rain washed away any tracks. He could be in the wetlands, or he could be in a car three towns over by now.”
“So you’re bringing in more men, right?” Maya asked. “You’re putting a car in every driveway.”
Garrett looked at her. His eyes were hard, unyielding.
“No,” he said.
Maya blinked, rain dripping from her eyelashes. “What?”
“We’re pulling back,” Garrett said.
“You’re what?” Maya stepped down from the porch, the foil blanket slipping from her shoulders. “You can’t leave. He’s hunting us.”
“This street is a fishbowl,” Garrett said, gesturing to the open lawns, the glass houses, the circle of light surrounded by infinite dark. “A static patrol car here is just a target. Miller was lucky. Next time, it’s a sniper from the trees or an IED under the chassis. I can’t put my officers in a kill box, Maya.”
“A kill box?” Maya’s voice rose to a shriek. “This is my home! My children are sleeping upstairs!”
“And we are going to protect them,” Garrett said, his voice rising to match hers. “By securing the perimeter. We’re setting up a containment zone at the entrance to The Gables. We’re locking down the access roads. Nothing gets in or out without a search.”
“That’s half a mile away!” Maya shouted. “If he’s already here—if he’s in the woods, or in the empty house—a perimeter at the gate does nothing!”
Garrett stepped closer. He lowered his voice, but the intensity didn’t drop.
“I have to balance the safety of this community with the lives of my men,” he hissed. “Miller is a kid. He has a wife. I won’t feed them into a meat grinder because you decided to play detective and poke a bear.”
“This isn’t my fault,” Maya said, though the guilt was a cold stone in her stomach.
“Isn’t it?” Garrett asked. “You pushed. You dug. And now the ghosts are biting back.”
He turned away. “We’re pulling out in ten. Perimeter units only. Lock your doors, Maya. And if you see him… don’t be a hero. Just scream.”
He walked back to his SUV.
Maya watched in disbelief as the scene began to dismantle. The ambulances left first, lights flashing but sirens silent. Then the tactical teams piled into their armored truck. Finally, the tow truck arrived for Miller’s cruiser, dragging the wounded vehicle away like a carcass.
One by one, the blue lights flickered out.
The darkness rushed back in to fill the void. It felt heavier than before. Denser.
“Maya,” Dan said from the doorway. “Come inside.”
Maya didn’t move. She stood on the wet lawn, watching the taillights of the Chief’s car disappear around the curve.
The street was empty. The rain hissed against the pavement.
The police thought they were being tactical. They thought they were containing a threat. But Maya knew better. She knew stories.
This wasn’t a tactical withdrawal. This was the plot point where the help is cut off. The storm isolates the house. The phone lines go dead. The bridge washes out.
The killer wanted them alone. And Garrett had just given him exactly what he wanted.
She looked across the street.
Sarah was standing in her window, the curtain pulled back. Chloe was on her porch, hugging herself. Elena’s lights were off, but Maya knew she was watching.
They were on their own. The pact was the only law left on Bittersweet Court.
Maya walked back up the steps. She stepped over a muddy boot print left by a paramedic—or maybe by someone else.
She went inside and locked the door. She engaged the deadbolt. She slid the chain into place.
“Did they catch him?” Dan asked. He was holding a baseball bat. It looked ridiculous in his hands.
“No,” Maya said, shedding her wet coat. “And they aren’t coming back.”
She walked into the kitchen and opened the drawer where she kept the emergency supplies. She took out a fresh battery for the heavy flashlight. She took out a roll of duct tape.
“What are we doing?” Dan asked, fear cracking his voice.
“We’re fortifying,” Maya said.
She looked at the glass wall of the sunroom. It was a black mirror, reflecting the fear in her own eyes.
The Guardian was down. The gate was open.
The finale had begun.