What's inside...
New York City | 1991
The sirens didn’t faze him anymore. They screamed like broken angels down 2nd Avenue, chasing ghosts he stopped believing in years ago. Trevor Morrow leaned against the cold brick of the bodega, cigarette clinging to his lower lip, half-burned and bitter. Rain glazed the pavement, turning the city’s filth into a mirror—and he hated what it showed him.
Blood. Vodka. Regret.
It had been three years since he walked away from the NYPD, but the stink of it still followed him. He could smell it in the alleyways, hear it in the silence between footsteps. It clung to him like a second skin—and right now, it was screaming again.
His pager buzzed. Just one word.
“Mitchell.”
Trevor’s chest hollowed out. That name—sharp, sacred, and soaked in history—should’ve been buried. Should’ve stayed buried.
Mitchell was dead.
And the NYPD was calling him a suspect.
