written by Shan R.K

The morning after his meeting with Judge Ford should have been about prepping for Jack Peterson’s artifact trial. It should have been about paperwork, and stacking up the kind of evidence that didn’t fold under a billionaire’s thumb.

But Carl Curtis knew himself well. He admitted that the button in his pocket was louder than any court docket right now. The bartender’s frightened eyes also spoke volumes.

By late afternoon he was back at Reuben’s Pub. The crime-scene tape was gone, but the smell of bleach clung to the air. The bar was clean, chairs stacked neatly, the counters polished until they reflected the overhead lights. In towns like Liston Hills, mess was never allowed to linger long—blood or in his case evidence.

Holly sat at the far end. She was hunched over a cup of coffee. The coffee looked like it had been reheated twice already going by the steam coming from the top. She didn’t look up until he slid onto the stool across from her.

“Attorney Curtis.” Her voice was small. Her blonde hair was pulled into a tighter bun today. Makeup did a poor job of hiding the sleepless shadows under her eyes. “Didn’t think I’d see you again this soon.”

“You’re the only one who saw anything last night,” Carl said, setting his notepad down. “That makes you important, whether you like it or not.”

She gave a dry laugh, no humor in it. “Important? That’s not what Barnes called me.”

“Yeah, Barnes has a way with charm.” Carl leaned forward, steady. “Why don’t you tell me again what happened, but this time start with your day. Everything. From the moment you left your house.”

Holly shifted, fingers tightening around the mug. “I came in for my shift at noon. Regular crowd. Some office clerks, construction guys, a couple of housewives who drink martinis after bookclub or yoga classes. Nothing unusual. Then Sam came by.”

“Sam?”

“My boyfriend. Sam Westerly.” The way she said the name was jagged, torn at the edges. “He wanted to talk. I told him I was busy. He didn’t like that.”

Carl waited.

“We fought. Right here, by the taps.” She rubbed her temple, eyes darting toward the floor as if the boards still carried their argument. “He accused me of lying to him about tips, about who I was serving. Said I was flirting with customers. It got loud. Reuben told him to leave. He did, but not quietly. Slammed the door so hard a glass fell off the shelf and Mrs Kensley made a fuss about it.”

Carl scribbled. “And after he left?”

“Reuben went upstairs to his office. I stayed down here, cleaned up. I wanted to avoid going home to more fighting. Thought if I delayed it long enough, I’d cool off.”

Her voice thinned, like a string stretched too tight. “That’s when I heard the noise. The scrape of a chair. Thought it was a drunk sleeping it off. I went to check, and…” She swallowed. “I found him. Reuben. On the floor. Knife in his chest. I…” she paused, “I pulled it out. I don’t know why. Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

Carl studied her, noting every twitch of her fingers, every quiver in her voice. “And Sam? Did he come back?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Would he have reason to hate Reuben?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Sam hated anyone who told him no.”

Carl jotted it down, then flipped to a new page. “Now about Reuben. Full name Barnabus Hunter?”

She nodded.

“Fifty-one. Single. Owned this bar.”

“Yes. He… he was decent to me. Strict, but fair. Paid on time, never made me feel unsafe. Didn’t talk much about his past. I think he liked it that way.”

Carl’s mind churned. A man like Barnabus Hunter was quiet and single. He was the owner of a bar in a billionaire’s playground. He was either hiding from something or profiting from it. Nobody just existed in Liston Hills.

“Any enemies?” Carl asked.

“Everyone liked Reuben. He listened more than he talked. Some of the locals joked he was like a priest, minus the collar.”

Carl wrote Barnabus = priestly? then scratched it out. Nobody lived to fifty-one in a town of secrets without skeletons.

When Holly excused herself to refill her mug, Carl wandered the bar. The place was too perfect now. Every glass sparkled. The counters smelled like lemon polish. But it was the window that caught him.

A pair of glowing yellow eyes stared in from the sill.

The black cat.

The same one Barnes had cradled the night before. It looked perfectly at home here now. Its tail flicked against the glass like it owned the joint.

Carl’s skin prickled. Cats wandered, sure. But this one had timing too accurate to be coincidence.

He stepped outside.

The alley was empty except for Detective Barnes herself. She stood near the dumpsters and scanned the ground. It was as if she was waiting for a body to crawl out.

Carl crossed his arms. “You following me, Barnes?”

She tipped her hat without looking up, auburn hair catching the late light. “Just doing my job. You’re not the only one who likes answers.”

“Funny. I thought your job was finding suspects, not glaring at bartenders.”

Barnes finally straightened, her eyes cutting to the bar window where Holly stood frozen, coffee mug in hand. Barnes’s mouth curled into a smirk, and she tipped her hat again, this time directly at Holly.

Suspicion sharpened her features like a blade.

“Careful who you trust, Curtis,” she said, voice low. “Everyone in this town is better at lying than they are at living.”

The cat meowed, leaping down from the window to twine itself around Barnes’s ankles. She scooped it up with one hand, still smirking at Holly through the glass.

Carl felt the heat of the moment press down on him. Barnes wasn’t just looking at a potential witness. She was planting seeds. Poisoning the well.

When she finally walked off, cat in hand, the air seemed to ease. But Carl’s gut didn’t.

He turned back toward the bar window. Holly was gone.

Carl stood in the alley a while longer. He stared at the spot where Barnes had been. He listened to the faint echo of her words.

Three kinds of people. Billionaires. Workers. Deal-makers.

Where did that leave Holly? A bartender too nervous to keep her story straight? Or a woman caught between categories, drowning in someone else’s secrets?

And Barnabus Hunter—was he truly the unlucky owner of a neighborhood pub? Or was his bar another front in a town full of them?

Carl slipped his hand into his pocket, fingers curling around the button. Navy blue. Fredrick Lemour’e. Expensive. Deliberate.

Somebody had left it for him to find.

He intended to find out why.

Carl was ready to call it a night. Holly’s story had holes, Barnes had smirked enough to make his teeth ache, and the cat was still slinking around like it owned every crime scene in town. He’d gotten what he could, and he wasn’t going to pull water from a dry well.

He slid his notepad into his jacket. He dropped a couple of bills on the counter for the American he hadn’t touched. Then, he headed toward the door. That was when it happened.

Two things.

The first was Holly’s voice.

Her phone buzzed, she picked up, and without missing a beat said, “Yeah, I’m working tonight, can’t get away.”

Carl froze. That easy lie, smooth as silk, made his neck prickle. She hadn’t even hesitated. Whoever was on the other end believed her without question, which meant this wasn’t the first time she’d lied like that. To them. To him.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t call her out. He filed it away. She lies too easily.

The second thing was under his shoe.

A tug, a scrape, then a soft snap as he lifted his foot. He looked down.

A drawstring.

Black and yellow, thick cord, frayed at one end like it had been yanked hard from whatever it belonged to. It didn’t match the uniforms of the local PD, and it sure as hell didn’t belong to Holly’s neat blouse and skirt. Clothing left behind at a crime scene was never an accident.

Carl crouched, rolled the string between his fingers, and pocketed it. Another thread in the fabric. First a button. Now a drawstring. Someone was shedding pieces of themselves across Liston Hills like breadcrumbs.

By the time he reached his rental—a gleaming black sedan with Bureau plates—his phone was already at his ear.

“Fredrick Lemour’e,” came the smooth, clipped voice on the other end.

“It’s Curtis again,” Carl said. “The button.”

“Yes?”

“Bulletproof?”

A pause, then the rep exhaled. “Yes, Mr. Curtis. The Imperial Midnight line isn’t just tailored. It’s armored. Kevlar woven beneath the silk. They’re built for… discretion. Our clients prefer to remain protected without looking like soldiers.”

Carl rubbed his jaw. “And these clients? Last time you gave me numbers. Now I need names.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly. You want me off your back? Then give me what I need.”

Another pause, longer this time, and Carl could almost hear the scales of loyalty tipping. Finally: “The only men in Liston Hills fitted for that particular line are the Kents, Delroys, Stones, and Brays.”

Carl leaned against the car, staring at the empty street glowing under streetlamps. “Four families.”

“Yes.”

“Bulletproof billionaires. Fitting.”

He hung up without thanks.

The names rattled in his head as he slid into the rental and pointed it toward the police station. Kents, Delroys, Stones, Brays. He’d read about them before, somewhere in the Bureau’s background file on Liston Hills sure but also in newspapers, youtube videos, news online station, tabloids. They were a discreet bunch. Old money. Money that smelled like oil, steel, and sweat from men dead two generations ago. The kind of names that got buildings named after them. The kind that never stood in line for anything, not even justice.

The station was spotless, like everything else in Liston Hills. White stone façade, glass doors gleaming, gold-lettered sign above the entry. Inside, the air smelled like disinfectant and polished wood. The uniforms behind the desk looked more like private security than cops—pressed blues, clean-shaven jaws, hands folded neatly behind clipboards.

Carl walked up to the officer he recognized from the night before. He was a younger officer with tired eyes. His jaw said he still believed in right and wrong, even if the town didn’t.

“Officer,” Carl said. “Got a question for you.”

The man stiffened. “Sir?”

Carl leaned on the counter, casual. “These names ring a bell? Kent. Delroy. Stone. Bray.”

The cop’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “They should. They’re founding families, sir.”

Carl arched a brow. “Founding families?”

“Yes, sir. Liston Hills was built in the late eighteen hundreds. Six families pooled their money, bought the land, built the first rail lines, schools, hospitals. They still own half the town, directly or indirectly.”

“Six,” Carl repeated. “Not four.”

“Yes, sir.” The cop’s eyes darted around, like even saying the names was dangerous. “The others are the Orniels and the Hughs.”

Carl let out a low whistle. “So the whole damn deck of cards.”

“Yes, sir. They call them the Circle. Old blood. Everyone else is just… orbit.”

Carl smiled thinly. “Orbit. Cute way of saying servant.”

The cop didn’t reply. His gaze flicked over Carl’s shoulder, then dropped back to his desk, suddenly busy with paperwork that didn’t exist.

Carl turned, half-expecting Barnes, but the lobby was empty. Too empty.

He left the station with the names burning a groove in his notebook. Kents. Delroys. Stones. Brays. Orniels. Hughs. Six families, six empires. If the button belonged to one of them, this wasn’t just about a bartender. And if the drawstring belonged to one of them, it wasn’t about a bar fight.

It was about power.

And power in Liston Hills didn’t spill buttons or strings without a reason.

The courtroom looked more like a cathedral than a place where justice was meant to be served. Polished marble floors, carved oak benches, stained-glass windows that threw fractured light across the judge’s bench. Billionaire money had turned it into a monument — not to law, but to themselves.

Carl Curtis stood at the prosecution table, tie crisp, case file open in front of him. His client, the museum clerk, watched the perpetrator. He sat shackled in cuffs. His suit was wrinkled, and his hair was slicked with nervous sweat. The man looked like a smuggler on paper, but in person he looked more like someone who’d stumbled into the wrong casino and bet against the house.

Carl kept his voice even, steady, professional. He argued the facts, laid out bail terms, stressed that Dawn had roots in the state, that he wasn’t a flight risk. He didn’t mention Dexter Kent. He didn’t mention Delroys, buttons, or drawstrings. Not yet.

Because one thing Carl had already learned in Liston Hills was that you didn’t play all your cards on the first hand.

Across the aisle, the defense lawyer droned on about cultural artifacts, Mesopotamian ownership rights, unfair customs seizures. The judge, Ford, rubbed his temple like the words were an annoyance at best.

When the arguments ended, the gavel struck with finality.

“Bail is granted,” Ford said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’d already eaten his fill of corruption. “Two hundred and fifty thousand. Cash or bond. Court will reconvene in fourteen days.”

The gallery stirred. Reporters’ pens scratched. A few gasps, a few low whistles. Quarter of a million wasn’t pocket change to most people. But Carl knew better. In Liston Hills, it was Tuesday lunch.

And then she stood.

From the back row, a figure rose like the scene had been choreographed. A tall woman, blonde hair swept into one of those Monroe hair dos that belonged in fashion magazines. Her dress was scarlet silk purposely worn to say ‘danger’

The kind of red that turned heads and made instagram followers putty for more. Diamonds winked at her ears, and her heels clicked like every step was an exclamation mark. The sound hit against marble as she came forward.

“I’ll cover it,” she said, voice low, rich, assured.

The clerk blinked, stammered. “Excuse me, miss?”

She produced a checkbook from a slim clutch bag. “Two hundred and fifty thousand. Cashier’s check will be wired by close of business.” She smiled faintly. “Is that sufficient?”

The room buzzed. Even Judge Ford arched a snowy brow before nodding.

Carl scribbled a note, but his eyes didn’t leave her.

Harper Kent. He didn’t know her name yet, but he knew the power in her posture. She wasn’t doing Peterson a favor. She was sending a message.

When the gavel struck again and the courtroom emptied, Carl waited. He caught her in the marble hallway, her perfume crisp, expensive and oh boy, he knew she was in trouble.

“That’s generous,” he said, falling into step beside her. “Dropping a quarter-million without even breaking stride. Most people would call that reckless.”

She turned her head, blue eyes glacial. “Most people aren’t me.”

“And who exactly are you?”

“Harper Kent.” She extended a manicured hand. He didn’t take it.

“Kent.” He repeated it like a test. “Any relation to Dexter Kent?”

Her smile didn’t falter, but the pause between her inhale and exhale was all the answer he needed. “He’s my cousin.”

“And you’re paying bail for Peterson because…?”

“He’s a friend.”

Carl tilted his head. “Funny. Most friends don’t have cousins in bulletproof suits running stolen artifacts across state lines.”

Her lips curved into something sharper than a smile. “You’re new here, Mr. District Attorney. You’ll learn that curiosity in Liston Hills is rarely rewarded.”

“Maybe I like bad odds.”

“Maybe you won’t.” She stopped, heels clicking to silence, then lowered her voice. “You asked about Dexter. He’s… caught up. But I’ll pass along your message.”

Carl held her gaze, unflinching. “Do that. Tell him Curtis is looking for him.”

She laughed softly and dismissively. She walked away. The red silk trailed like smoke. It was the kind that lingered in your lungs after the fire was gone.

He hadn’t even made it to his rental when his phone buzzed. New York number. Fredrick Lemour’e.

“This is Curtis.”

“Mr. Curtis,” the voice said, smooth, precise, tinged with nerves. “We’ve completed our review of the client registry. The button you inquired about, navy blue, Imperial Midnight line was purchased by a Gregory Harrington.”

Carl stilled. The marble pillars of the courthouse felt suddenly colder.

“Harrington,” he repeated.

“Yes. Gregory Harrington. He ordered two suits, custom fit, three months ago.”

Carl’s jaw tightened. “Any relation to Dale Harrington?”

The rep hesitated. “That isn’t information we’re permitted—”

“Don’t bother.” Carl cut him off. “I already know.”

He hung up without a thank you.