written by Shan R.K

Dale Harrington, wore his smug the way the Circle members wore Italian thread. His family’s name was stitched into a bulletproof suit they shouldn’t have been capable of affording. A navy button from that line turned up by a corpse. Gregory Harrington signed the Lemour’e bill.

Carl rushed back to the DA’s office, and went straight to Dale. “Gregory Harrington is your nephew.”

A half-beat freeze held Dale in limbo. Even if he was shocked, he didn’t let Carl see anything apart from his nonchalant shrug.
“Everyone’s got family somewhere, I would like to think I do too.”

“His suit dropped a button at a murder scene.” The smirk slipped and Carl watched in fascination how the old man lost his arrogance.

“So? What are you implying? He’s a killer?”

“Funny,” Carl said. “That’s what guilty people sound like. What are you hiding Dale?”

Dale sighed, rubbing his forehead, “He was at Reuben’s with Holly. Her boyfriend caught them.”
Ugly. But not a motive for murder yet. But the script stank and Carl knew, two men involved with the same woman always ended in bloodshed.

Liston Hills glittered under the dim lantern of Carl Curtis’s balcony. He sat on the overpriced aluminum chaise lounger playing with the drawstring. He turned the black-and-yellow drawstring in his hands. He felt the hidden ridge like a small piece of paper. It was sewn between the threads. A number stitched inside.

Upon his better judgment to temper with evidence, he called it but no answer.

It was barely morning when the sound of the DA’s phone broke through his sleep induced state.

“Carl Curtis hello?”

“Hello, Mr Curtis. I’m returning your call?”

“Yeah. Ah, I found your drawstring yesterday over at Reuben’s pub.”

“Sir? You mean the one tied to my Master’s cat?”

“The black cat?”

“Yes Mr Curtis. The drawstring belongs to Master Kent’s cat, it doesn’t come off unless untied by a human. The knot is a constrictor knot sir, my master is very well versed in these things.”

“When last did you see the cat?”

“Three nights ago, sir. He was definitely wearing the string. I believe the cat should be around my master sir.”

“Unless your master is detective Barnes, I’m afraid you are mistaken, the cat can not be with your Master. Can I ask your Masters name?.”

“Dexter Kent sir. He is the head of the Kent family.”

“When last have you seen your master?”

“Two weeks ago, he was supposed to make an arrival to check on his siblings sir four days ago. I contacted him but he was unavailable. So I called his cousin sir. She is currently looking for him.”

“Who is his cousin?”

“Detective Barnes sir.” Well isn’t that a lovely surprise.

Carl arrived at the bar exactly forty five minutes after his call with Henny Henderson. The door was left ajar, as if calling him in. Carl didn’t need to be asked twice. Holly’s bare back faced him, blouse half off, kissing a man in a charcoal suit and vintage hat.

“Are you not open as yet?” Carl said.

The man lifted his hat, as the frown on his face caught the light – Sam Westerly.

If Sam was the hat in the shadows, whose story was he trying on? And who did he plan to blame for the blood? Dexter Kent’s name cut through Carl’s head like a blade as he jumped into his rental and left for court.

The Court room throbbed with money and press as Holly looked small and coached. Carl didn’t need her pity face or schooled expression to sell her innocence. He needed facts.

Barnes took the stand. Her timeline bent around a cat she “kept for four days.” There was a bathroom vent with fresh screws. There was transfer blood on Holly’s clothes. Sam swore he wasn’t the man in the suit. Dale admitted he’d been with Holly at ten and Carl Curtis sat quietly waiting for his turn.

The jury leaned to neither direction. Carl slipped the drawstring from his pocket as the words of the caretaker repeated in his head… The cat would be by his master. Except the cat wasn’t, the cat was by his masters cousin and the masters cousin was always near the bar. So was the cat.

Carl rose. “Your Honor, the State requests a brief recess. Ten minutes. Material evidence and safety.”

Judge Ford’s stare could nail a man to marble. “Do not waste my courtrooms time.”

Carl was already moving. Barnes caught his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Something you should’ve.” He shoved through the doors into sun. “Your cat keeps its own calendar. And I’m done letting this town write mine, follow me.”

They reached Reuben’s in under five minutes—Carl ahead, Barnes on his back, the caretaker somehow a silent comma behind them. The cat slipped from the old man’s arm and trotted through the side door like he’d paid a lease. It was obvious he knew where he was going.

Inside, the bar wore its polite lie of rosemary oil, stacked stools, and clean floors. It showed no signs of a murder. It also showed no trace of what they now sought. The cat didn’t look left or right. He took the narrow hall, brushed the mop sink, and nosed the scuffed door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Carl pushed through.

They made it to a back cold room. Kegs filled a good portion of the area. A humming fridge stood on the one side which was odd considering the temperature. The cat padded past a tower of crates. It stopped at a wall panel. The panel had a seam that shouldn’t have been there. He sat. Stared at Carl. Flicked his tail once as if to say, well?

Carl rapped his knuckles along the seam and heard the hollow beyond.

“Help.” The sound was male, weak male. He must’ve said that word for days.

Barnes holstered, wedged fingers beside his, and they levered a disguised door free of its magnetic catches. Cold air kissed their faces. The smell of damp and iron came up from a short flight of steps.

The cat went first.

They followed.

Ten feet down, concrete turned to packed earth. A single bulb swung on a cord like an old barn. In its thin cone of light sat a figure roped to a chair. His wrists were raw, marked by hemp, ankles cinched to a steel rung, a gag knot dug into his jaw. Even blood-dimmed, he looked like a man the town would rather whisper about than face.

“Master Kent, what on earth.” Henny chastised as he rushed closer to the man.

Dexter Kent.

Barnes’s gun flashed up out of reflex. Then she swore, soft, and dropped it to a low ready. “Well. That explains the hat. What the actual fuck cuz? I’ve been looking for you for four days.”

Carl was already moving. He cut the gag. Dexter coughed, spat a bit, and lifted his head. Dexter Kent’s eyes, were a storm-grey and light brown, unflinching and angry. Carl didn’t blame the man.

“Hold still,” Carl said, working the wrist rope. The knot looked familiar—double constrictor, fast finish, the same signature in the cat’s collar. But who would mimic Dexter Kent’s cats drawstring stitch?

Dexter watched him like he was evaluating a contract. “You took your time, I was beginning to think you wouldn’t find me.”

“Traffic,” Carl said.

Barnes angled to cover the room, voice low but edged. “How did you know he’d be here, Curtis?”

Carl didn’t look up. He found the spine of the knot, turned, and felt it surrender. “When Henny called at dawn he said the drawstring doesn’t come off unless a human unties it.” “And this one—” he nodded at the rope, “—is a double constrictor knot.”

“Only two types of people could open that drawstring without the cat doing some serious damage. It could be the owner who tied it. It could also be someone it was familiar with, such as you, the caretaker, or Dexter Kent’s siblings.”

Barnes frowned. “Meaning?”

“The caretaker swore he didn’t remove the knot. Cat went home three nights ago with the knot intact,” Carl said, freeing Dexter’s other wrist. “So whoever untied it wasn’t protecting a pet; they were planting a message. If the cat keeps his own calendar, you follow it to the person who didn’t get to go home. Where the cat lurks, so does its home. So Dexter loosened the cats drawstring, so we’d know he was here.”

Dexter flexed his fingers as blood returned. The caretaker stepped in, gentle, steadying him by the jaw the way men handle expensive porcelain and kings. The cat wove between Dexter’s ankles and sat sentry.

Barnes’s eyes cut to Carl. “So who would do that to Dexter?”

He sliced the ankle hemp. The rope fell. Dexter stood—slow, wobble, correction—and in two breaths was upright enough to be dangerous again.

“Detective,” Dexter said, voice gravel, civility wrapped around it like silk, “if that gun is for me, you’ll need a larger one. Let’s get to the court, I believe I had a story to tell.”

Her mouth kicked. “I don’t aim at family.” A beat. “Usually.”

Carl offered a shoulder. Dexter ignored it, then took it anyway for exactly two steps. Pride has physics.

“Up,” Barnes said. “Before whoever staged this decides to put on an encore.”

They climbed. Back through the door, the crates, the hum. The panel clicked shut on the hidden air. On the bar floor, the world had the gall to look unchanged.

At the threshold, Barnes stopped him with a palm. “Say it again,” she said. “The part about certain people could open the drawstring.’”

Carl met her stare. “A constrictor knott will piss off a cat, if it’s untied incorrectly. The caretaker knows that hence why he was convinced the cat had his drawstring on his neck. The siblings I’m sure wouldn’t bother. That leaves the tier—or someone he taught.” He tapped the cut rope stashed in his pocket. “And he didn’t learn on a sailboat.”

Barnes’s gaze went flat as glass. “He learned on people.”

Dexter’s grey eyes warmed a fraction. “You are both very quick,” he said. “This town is quicker. and we have a victim to save.”

“Then let’s move faster,” Carl said, pushing the door for daylight. “We’re not done.”

The courthouse was a furnace when they walked back in. The gallery sat straighter, whispers snapping like wires. The Circle watched with the cool patience of predators.

And then the doors opened wider.

Dexter Kent.

Alive, bruises fading under the lights. He stood with the kind of posture that makes a jury think of money and inevitability. The caretaker shadowed him. The black cat in his arms blinked once at the judge like even it had a right to speak.

Judge Ford’s gavel cracked. “This court will come to order.” His voice trembled just enough to admit the surprise.

Mason Gray leapt to his feet. “Your Honor, the defense calls a witness. Mr. Dexter Kent.”

Gasps. Shuffling. The jury leaned so far forward they looked ready to fall out of the box.

Dexter swore in with that slow calm men in his family wore like a second skin. Then he sat, straightened his cuff, and turned his steel-grey gaze on the court.

“Mr. Kent,” Gray began, “can you tell the jury why you were found bound in the basement of Reuben’s Pub?”

Dexter’s voice rolled low, deliberate. “Because Barnabus Hunt put me there. He kidnapped me for the artifact you found listed in the State verse Petersen case. An artifact I passed to Petersen for safekeeping.”

A thunderclap rippled through the room. Reporters scribbled like their hands were on fire.

“Barnabus Hunt kidnapped you?” Gray said, savoring the words.

“Yes. He wanted leverage. He wanted what wasn’t his.” Dexter’s eyes slid to Holly, then back to the jury. “But I wasn’t the one who killed him.”

“Who did?”

Dexter’s mouth curved the faintest degree. “Sam Westerly. He wanted the artifact. He wanted Holly. He killed Hunt to get both. Then left me in the basement to rot.”

Holly’s hands flew to her mouth. Sam sprang to his feet. “That’s a lie!” he shouted, voice cracking. Deputies seized his arms as Judge Ford’s gavel battered wood.

“Order!” the judge roared. “Order in this court!”

Dexter didn’t even flinch. “You’ll find my rope knots match the drawstring you discovered. You’ll find Hunt’s fingerprints on the basement door and mine inside. You’ll find Mr. Westerly’s lies already crumbling under their own weight. Do the arithmetic.”

It was arithmetic the jury didn’t need long to solve.

An hour later, their verdict rang like iron.

Holly Secres: Not Guilty.
Sam Westerly: Guilty.

The gavel came down for the last time. Holly sobbed, shaking in her lawyer’s arms. Sam cursed until the deputies dragged him out. The Circle shifted like pieces on a chessboard, already recalculating their power.

Dexter Kent stood, nodded once to the judge, and strode down the aisle. Outside, a black sedan idled, chrome flashing under the sun. The caretaker opened the door. The cat leapt inside first, claiming leather as if it were a throne. Dexter followed, jacket sharp, cheekbones sharper.

“Mr. Curtis,” he said before sliding in. “I owe you a favor.”

Carl smirked. “Don’t wait by the phone. I may not be around to collect.”

Dexter’s grey eyes glinted, unreadable. “Maybe. But there are always phones.”

The door shut. The car slid into traffic, purring like money.

On the courthouse steps, Detective Barnes folded her arms. “Well. That circus is over.”

Carl loosened his tie, looking out at a town that wore its secrets like silk. “Not over. Just act one.”

She arched a brow. “Meaning?”

He smiled without warmth. “Meaning I’ll be sticking around a little longer.”

Barnes’s laugh was short, sharp. “Liston Hills will love that. to eat you alive.”

Carl glanced down the street where Dexter’s car had vanished. “Then it better watch its appetite.”

The fountain splashed. The press shouted. The Circle shifted their shadows.

And Carl Curtis walked back inside, ready for the next script.

Hi Guys I had some issues with my blog, but it’s all sorted out now. I will be posting the next short story later on today, and also announcing the Satan Sniper’s MC books release date later on today.

For those who haven’t read Kylie Bray, I suggest you get a copy as Kylie Bray’s new book will be a great indepth look at her time in Liston Hills. Also please not many of my older books are getting re-edits and new covers. Don’t be alarmed and feel like you are missing anything. If you have a proof of purchase and want another Ebook version, just send me your Proof of purchase. I will send you a free updated version. No need to buy another copy.