About

I wrote the following short story for a Crime Fiction course I took my senior year of college. Our goal was to write a mystery short story, and I’m already not great at writing short stories, but the fact that COVID lockdown was in full swing that year certainly didn’t help my writing process either. I ended up creating a serial killer murder mystery set in a dystopian, post-apocalyptic future featuring a P.I. father-daughter duo. I got a B on it, I think? Eh, whatever. I had fun writing it.

I wouldn’t say it’s my best work, but I figured I’d post it here anyway. What’s the harm, right?

Hope you like it.

Blood Like Tar

By Kodi Gonzaga

Rain poured down on the city of Voxinn, the pavement’s dark puddles filled with rippling neon signs and headlights as hovercars sped by. It was approaching that time of night when being out and about was asking for trouble, when the gangs and hooligans came out to play. The rain was rougher on the south side of town; it pounded on the mismatched roofs of Tanner’s Palace and drowned out most of the noise from the street. Inside, however, noise aplenty flitted through the thin walls and woke up neighbors, most of whom were already unhappy by nature; the weeping at bedtime was just icing on the cake. 

The weeping in question was coming from an abuela named Maian de la Cruz, sitting on a rickety wooden chair pulled in from the kitchen. We’d forgotten about client seating when setting up the makeshift office in the living room—the couch was pushed against one wall and too far from the desk to be of any use. Besides, that was where Graham slept most days, and he didn’t want random ass people sitting where he laid his head. Not that the idiot didn’t have a bed. He just didn’t use it.

“Ma’am,” Graham said as gently as he could, which wasn’t all that much, but at least he was trying. “I’m gonna need you to calm down a little.”

“Lo siento, lo siento,” Mama Maian sobbed, dabbing at her face with a tissue. I sighed as quietly as I could and glanced at the clock; she’d been crying for ten minutes. Not a record by any stretch, but irritating. Then again, circumstances made for a compelling argument. “It’s just, she was so young, Señor Ramirez, she didn’t deserve… oh dios mio, lo siento, I…”

She began sobbing again, and I cast a glance at Graham—he shot me a look that I knew well. Be patient and keep quiet, kid, it said. Not everyone is used to daily tragedy.

He was right. I knew he was.

I still wished she’d just get to the facts already.

It took another few minutes, but she did finally compose herself enough to give us the details. Even I had to admit, it warranted a few tears. Little black blood girl, only seven years old, taken from her abusive family to live with her abuela. She’d come into her blood—and the powers that came with it—a few months ago thanks to the abuse in question. They’d been managing fine, keeping her technopathy under wraps, gotten her signed up with the registry and everything. And then, in the middle of the night, someone had snuck in through the back window and slit her throat.

Mama Maian had called the cops, the neighbors, everyone, but no one had seen anything, and most people didn’t care. One more dead black blood was one less powered freak on the streets in most eyes, after all. And Voxinn was on the tamer end of black blood regulation, not counting those black blood aristocracies out west. Here, people treated black bloods the same as they were treated in the Cyber Cities—registered and regulated, drained once a month to make anti-radiation pills to fight the surge of cancers plaguing the world. Ignored their problems and acted shocked and appalled when one committed a heinous crime. Little black blood girl gets her throat slit on the south side? Pity. Better to focus on the super freaks wreaking havoc instead of why they’re wreaking havoc in the first place.

I wrote everything down, just like I was supposed to, and listened as Señora de la Cruz cried about little Elena, about the police’s apathy, about them not finding anything in a month and throwing the case in cold storage. I almost tuned out. And then:

“—but I asked, you see, I asked my nephew who works in the police department, and he said this isn’t the first case like this they’ve seen. He said there might be a killer on the loose, killing black blood children. All over the city, not just here. He said there were dozens just like this, throats slit in their beds. Even in Riverbank. In Willowsby.”

I sat up, stylus stilled in my hand, and glanced at Graham, who was already looking right at me. The glance lasted barely a second before he turned his attention back to Mrs. Maian, but the message was clear: We’re taking this one.

It didn’t surprise me. Graham had been a cop once upon a time before he quit and became a private eye. He and I both knew just how negligent the cops in this city could be towards black bloods, how deep that corruption went. It was half the reason he’d quit five years ago. The other half was me.

“Pen?” Graham said, not looking at me but addressing me all the same. He didn’t even have to say what he wanted me to do—I knew the drill by heart.

I coughed and put on my best imitation of a professional smile, the client’s head turning towards me at the sound. “Alright, Mrs. de la Cruz,” I said, and she blinked, almost like she was surprised to find me there. Most people weren’t expecting a teenage girl in a private eye’s office, after all. “Give me the facts, clear as you can. And your nephew’s name and number, please.”

She glanced at Graham, who nodded reassuringly, and then Maian de la Cruz turned back to me with a scared but determined look in her eyes. I guess she could tell I meant business.

She opened her mouth to speak, and this go-round, she didn’t waste any time.

~*~

Graham got off the phone and walked over to where I was standing, gazing up at Maian de la Cruz’s apartment building from the sidewalk. We were in the Breaks, another poor neighborhood adjacent to Tanner’s Palace. The wind pushed my dark brown bangs into my face, and I flipped them away—I needed to cut them soon. My hair was already cropped short like a boy’s, but it obviously wasn’t short enough if it was getting in my face.

“What’d he say?” I asked, shoving my hands into my leather jacket pockets as my rubber-soled shoes scuffed the pavement. Graham had just finished calling up Señora de la Cruz’s nephew. “Any juicy details?”

“We’re meeting him in a few hours. Says he’s bringing files.”

“Files? Like, copies of the actual police records, files?”

Graham nodded, and I whistled, impressed. This guy must really think he was onto something if he was sharing police reports with a bunch of lowly P.I.s. That, and he had very little faith in the actual police to do their damn job. That one wasn’t a surprise.

We walked up to the door and rang the proper apartment, and Mrs. de la Cruz buzzed us in a moment later. Two minutes and we were at her door, the smell of Mayaloan cooking filling the hallway. She opened the door and ushered us in.

“I made you something to eat,” she said, hurrying back to the kitchen to pull out a plate of empanadas. They looked—and smelled—particularly tasty. My stomach growled. Graham smiled.

“Thank you, Mrs. de la Cruz,” he said. “That’s very considerate, but I don’t tend to eat on the job. Could I go into Elena’s room?”

“Of course!” she replied, moving to help him, but he raised his hand kindly and shook his head, walking there himself. It wasn’t hard to figure out which room was hers, what with the cute little decorated white board that said “Elena’s Room” on it in curly lettering hanging from the door.

“I’ll take one,” I said, and she turned to me and smiled so wide it made my heart ache. I took an empanada and bit into it. Ground beef and spices and fried pastry. Delicious.

“Have as many as you like,” she said, placing the plate down on the kitchen table and hurrying back to the kitchen. She picked up a broom and began sweeping, a sad smile on her face, glancing at me every so often.

I realized what she was expecting. It’s a classic trauma response, latching onto other young people when you lose a child. Something in me soured, and I quickly scarfed down the rest of the empanada on the way to Elena’s room. I was ten years older than Elena, almost an adult but not quite. She wouldn’t find a surrogate child in me. If she knew more about me, she wouldn’t want me anyway.

I walked into Elena’s room and shut the door behind me, watching Graham examine every nook and cranny. The police had long since removed their paraphernalia, not deeming this case worthy of even a month of time. The thought curled my belly in anger, but I pushed it down. Lazy cops were the least of my worries if there really was a psycho out there murdering black blood kids.

“Anything interesting?” I asked, and Graham shook his head. Mama Maian said she hadn’t come into this room since the murder had happened, but a bunch of cops had been in here, and it showed. Scraps of caution tape and fingerprint dust littered the scene. The bedsheets had been taken away for evidence, but the mattress was still stained with blood the color of crude oil. If we were getting the actual police files, we’d be able to see the scene fresh, at least through photos and shoddy police descriptions, but it wouldn’t be the same.

I glanced around the room and ran through the details of the crime in my head. “Perp left the window open,” I said, walking past Graham to the window. There was a fire escape outside of it. “Think he came in this way?”

“Try it,” he said, so I climbed out onto the fire escape. It was rickety and half-rusted, and it screeched loudly under my feet, definitely loud enough to wake someone up in the room right next to it. Graham shook his head, and I shivered in the cool wind.

“Okay, so not the fire escape,” I said, climbing back inside. “Why leave the window open then?”

“In some cultures, you leave a window open after someone dies to make sure their soul can leave the house,” Graham said.

“You think our guy’s superstitious?”

“Possibly. Either that, or he’s the quietest son of a bitch to ever walk on a fire escape.”

I cracked a grin at that. Then it faded. “Wait, then how’d he get in?”

Graham shrugged, examining the top of the wardrobe, his brow furrowed in his reflection. “Must’ve picked the lock,” he said.

“So he’s skilled,” I said. “Slit her throat like he was bleeding a pig. Methodical. But leaving the window open? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Not yet,” Graham said, fingers brushing over the knickknacks and toys scattered on Elena’s dresser. Then he straightened up and moved towards the door. “Let’s talk to the neighbors.”

We left the room and told Mrs. de la Cruz we were headed out—I swiped another two empanadas, knowing she’d notice but not wanting to see her face when she saw. We left the apartment, and I bit into one of them, holding out the other for Graham.

He shook his head and walked down the hallway. “We can’t just take her food,” he said.

“She literally made it for us.”

“You take it. You’re skinny as a stick anyway.”

“So are you!”

He glared, and then he snatched the thing out of my hand and bit into it, his own stomach growling just loud enough for me to hear. I grinned, triumphant, and knocked on the door we’d stopped in front of.

I could hear the sounds of Voxinn Noir News, the black blood news channel, on the holovid inside, as well as heavy footsteps, and then the door opened a few inches, chain still in place, and a man with blonde hair appeared in the gap.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Hi, we’re here on behalf of Mrs. Maian de la Cruz in apartment 5B,” Graham said, swallowing his bite of empanada. “Her granddaughter was murdered. We wanted to ask you a few questions.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “That was a month ago,” he said. “You don’t look like police.”

“We’re private investigators,” I chimed in helpfully. “Mrs. de la Cruz didn’t think the police were taking her granddaughter’s case seriously enough. We’ve been hired to help.”

The man gave me a curious glance before shifting his gaze back to Graham. “What do you want to know?”

“Hear anything strange the night of the murder? Notice anything? The smallest detail could help.”

The man considered it for a moment. “Don’t think so,” he said. “I don’t get out very often.”

“Are you absolutely sure, Mister…?”

“Lancaster. And yeah, I’m sure.” The man scowled at us—the warbled voice of a news anchor leaked out into the hall from his holovid. “You have any more questions?”

“Yes, actually, if you don’t mind…”

I heard the elevator chime nearby and the doors slide open. When I glanced over, I saw an older woman talking the ear off a younger man carrying his groceries. Another glance at Graham, who nodded, and I was on my way over. Graham could handle the blonde recluse.

“Hi!” I said cheerfully, walking over to the pair of them, empanada still in hand. The man looked at me gratefully, and the woman just smiled, like she was glad for another soul to chatter on with. “I’m a private investigator working on Elena de la Cruz’s case for her grandmother. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“You mean that girl that died here a month ago?” the man asked. “I don’t really know anything about it. And, also, I’ve got groceries, so—”

“Oh, Fred,” the older woman said, smacking him, “try and be respectful! It’s the least we can do after the police dropped the case on poor Maian.”

My attention snapped onto her. “You know the police dropped the case?” I asked as grocery man began to inch away towards his apartment.

“Well, of course! Maian came running to me as soon as it happened. “It was really quite shameful. You’d think the police would be able to solve the murder of a little girl, black blood or not, but giving up after a month? Just horrible. Then again, I’ve heard rumors they’re in league with that hate group, you know, Humanity First?”

I did know them. I knew them intimately. They were an anti-black-blood religious group that believed black bloods were God’s punishment upon humanity, demons in human skin whose blood revealed their true nature. Its members had been involved in attacks on black bloods for years. I did my best to keep my face pleasantly surprised and nodded along with what the woman was saying. “You think the police are in league with Humanity First?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it? Now, I don’t know that for sure, so don’t go spreading it around. And you didn’t hear it from me! But even if they aren’t, this certainly seems like something they’d do, doesn’t it? Killing a poor girl in her sleep just because of her blood? I mean, of course she was a danger to the public, what with her powers and all, but at seven years old? Really? The nerve of those people, I can’t believe they’re still allowed to walk the streets!”

I filed the information away for later—if this and the others were Humanity First attacks, then that would explain motive.

Fred the grocery man had already slipped into his apartment, but the older woman was still there, smiling at me expectantly. I glanced back at Graham just as the blond man shut the door, and Graham jerked his head—time to go.

“Well, thank you,” I said to the old woman. “What’s your name again?”

“Evelyn Shaw,” she said. “What’s yours?”

“Pen,” I said. “Pen Solomon.”

I passed her to get to the elevator, and Graham did as well, the two of us hitting the button and stepping inside as the doors opened almost immediately. We waited until we were halfway down to the lobby before speaking.

“What’d you find out?” I asked.

“Not much,” he admitted. “The guy was pretty cagey, but I don’t think he knew anything useful. We’ll see what he told the cops when we get the files. You?”

“Well, the other guy didn’t seem to give two shits, but Mrs. Evelyn Shaw was very talkative.” I shrugged. “She thinks the cops are in league with Humanity First and that’s why they dropped the case.”

“Really?” Graham raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“I think it’d explain motive but not means. Humanity First is ostentatious.” My mind rattled back five years ago without meaning to, the feeling of bruised ribs and the smell of grime filling my senses. I shook my head. “They like putting on a show.”

It was silent for a bit. The elevator doors dinged open into the lobby. “You okay?” Graham asked.

“Fine.” A lie. “Let’s go meet the nephew.”

~*~

Turned out, the nephew had quite a lot to say. His name was Pablo Balmaceda; he’d been a beat cop for about a year and was known in his precinct for being a bleeding heart which had insofar brought him the opposite of a promotion. Cops are funny that way. They’re like the city itself—good intentions aren’t tolerated. Of course, Pablo was trying his best, but I gave him a few years at best before his bleeding heart turned to stone. Or at least got buried so deep it only reared its head in dire situations. That’s how it was for me.

But for now, his bleeding heart had brought us evidence of a serial killer, and I could appreciate him for that. He slid the physical files across a café table (e-files were easy to trace, and we didn’t want anyone getting wise to Pablo’s lawbreaking), wearing plainclothes and a concerned expression, and he cast me a curious glance. “She your daughter or something?” he asked Graham.

“She’s his co-worker,” I replied. Pablo turned and glanced me up and down again; Graham and I looked somewhat alike, both dark-haired and dark-eyed, but my skin was browner, my eyes half-almond-shaped. His eyes were round and his skin was pale. And he was tall, about 6’2”. I was 5’3” on a good day. I wasn’t biologically his, but he’d taken me in five years ago, and he’d done a better job of parenting me than my actual father. Not that bio-dad had set a particularly high bar to begin with.

“Thank you for the files, Pablo,” Graham said. “You really think there’s a serial killer on the loose?”

“I’m almost positive,” he said. “Might be a string of hate crimes, but the signature is too similar across the board.”

“Hate might still be the motive,” I chimed in. “What do you think about it being Humanity First?”

Pablo considered it then shook his head. “They like making a show of things,” he said. “This is done quietly. The families are able to wrap it up without a lot of news coverage. If a group like that wanted to make a habit of killing black blood kids, they’d attack a school or something. Not do it like this.”

I nodded approvingly.

“Anything else you’d like to share? Any details not obvious from the files?” Graham asked.

Pablo shook his head. “Just be careful,” he said. “The police are keeping these connections quiet. I’m not sure why.”

“You’re risking a lot, bringing these files to us,” Graham said.

“Well, nothing was getting done where I’m at, and I don’t know about you, but I’d like to see some justice served.”

Graham nodded, smiling, and then we all stood up and shook hands. Pablo Balmaceda left, the bell above the door ringing in response, and Graham looked at the files in his hands.

“Welp,” he said, peeling off half and giving them to me. “Homework.”

“Great.”

~*~

The files were helpful, at least. We were able to confirm a lot about the murders. Every single one had happened within the last six months to a black blood child between the ages of five and twelve, throat slit by a standard chef’s kitchen knife while lying in their bed, at least one window left open somewhere in the room. They were spread out all over the city, all different socio-economic classes, all different ethnicities, nothing connecting them except their black blood and the method of their murder. It was likely this was a hate crime of some kind, probably done by a rogue member of Humanity First or one of the many other anti-black-blood groups out there, and if the cops really were in league with one of those groups, that’d explain their insistence on keeping the connections between these murders quiet.

Still, something about that theory felt off to me. Sure, the cops were corrupt bastards, but would they really try and cover up a string of murders for a known hate group? It seemed unlikely, but then again, people with black blood and psychic powers were roaming the streets every day. Who knew what was likely to happen anymore.  

We decided to visit the first victim’s house after spending a day or two pouring over the files, the north wall of Graham’s unused bedroom full of tacked up photos, sticky notes, and kitchen twine. We left it behind and traveled to Willowsby, one of the richer neighborhoods in Voxinn, and knocked on the Strauss family door. According to the files, the Strausses had moved to Voxinn after being ousted from power in Loristian – one of those black blood aristocracy towns on the west coast. By the time their enemies were through with them, they had barely enough money to cross the country and set up shop in Voxinn. But the thing is, black blood aristocrats have this weird tradition of nearly beating their children to death at the age of five to see if they’ll get black blood, and when that got out, hoo boy. The press had a field day. And then, not even a week later, Eli Strauss was killed in his bed by some asshole with a kitchen knife. Even if Eli would probably have grown up to be a stuck-up powered jerk like the rest of his family, he didn’t deserve to die at five years old.

Graham knocked on the door again—this was a fairly low-tech house, probably because the Strausses couldn’t afford any better—and eventually, a butler opened it, giving us condescending looks as if we were beneath the dirt on his shoes.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Hi, we’re here to ask Mr. and Mrs. Strauss a few questions,” Graham said, flashing his badge. “My name is Graham Ramirez, I’m a private investigator. This is my assistant, Pen.”

I gave him a smile that was probably more of a grimace, my hands comfortable in my pockets. The butler sniffed and squinted at Graham’s badge.

“Lord and Lady Strauss,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Their titles are Lord and Lady, not Mr. and Mrs.”

“Oh. My apologies.”

“What exactly are you investigating?” the man asked, leaning back up, seemingly satisfied with Graham’s credentials.

“Eli Strauss was murdered in a similar fashion to someone we’ve been hired to investigate. We just wanted to see if you good people would be of any help with our current case.”

“Was this someone a child?”

“Yes. Elena de la Cruz, seven years old.”

The butler’s façade twitched a little. “I’ll see if the Lord and Lady have anything to say on the matter. You two can wait out here, if you don’t mind.”

I did mind, personally, but the butler didn’t give us time to answer before he shut the door in our faces. I raised an eyebrow and glanced at Graham. “Lord and Lady?”

“Just let it go, Pen.”

A few moments later, the butler returned and let us into the foyer, where Lord and Lady Strauss were waiting. Graham smiled at them, slipping easily into what I liked to call his “customer service” face. I didn’t have a customer service face, at least not yet, so I just did my best not to scowl.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” Graham said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Graham Ramirez, and this is Pen Solomon.” He shook hands with both people, but I kept my hands in my pockets.

“Lord Reginald Strauss,” the man said. “This is Natalie, my wife. You’ve already met Charles.” He gestured towards the butler. “You’re here to ask us about Eli?”

“Yes. Well, we’re here on business for a different case, but Eli’s death was very similar to the one we’re investigating. We were hoping you’d let us search the house, answer some questions.”

“Do you think the person who killed Eli killed this little girl?” Natalie Strauss asked.

“It’s certainly possible.”

“I still can’t believe they haven’t caught the killer yet,” Reginald said. “It’s like the police aren’t even trying.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, “they don’t really care about black bloods in this town, no matter which neighborhood they live in.”

Reginald and Natalie stared at me like I’d just slapped one of them in the face. I opened my mouth to say something else—not really sure what—but Graham cut me off.

“Excuse her,” he said. “She’s… still in training.”

I glared at him.

“Anyway.” Graham sighed and rubbed his face. “If I could just ask you two a few questions. My assistant will investigate the house—you can have Charles watch her if that makes you more comfortable.”

“Yes, I think we will,” Reginald said, and I tried not to be offended at his tone. “Why don’t we continue this in the sitting room…”

The Strausses and Graham peeled off, and Charles the butler led me upstairs to Eli’s room, which, since the criminal case wasn’t technically over, had been stripped bare of basically anything useful. Great, another dead end. I had a feeling Graham had asked me to look around mostly to get me out of the way. Rude.

But something was nagging me. This whole situation, almost every situation in every case, had been a locked box sort of problem. No way in, no way out, unless you were already inside the house, and though those theories hadn’t been ruled out by the police, they had been ruled out by us. The windows were closed, and I remembered from the case file that only one of them had been open, the one closer to the bed. I walked over to it and examined the lock—a simple latch, nothing that couldn’t be opened from the outside. Except there’d been no evidence of it being jimmied open, and the fire escape was on the other window. No way to stand outside and jimmy it open unless you could fly, something impossible even by black blood standards. If that’s even how the perp got in.

But what if…

“Hey, Charles?” I asked. “Is there a back door? One not facing the street?”

“Yes,” Charles said, “in the kitchens. Why?”

“How’s the lock on it?”

“As decent as we could make it with our… limited funds.”

“Can you show me?”

Charles took me back downstairs to the kitchens where two staff members in aprons were preparing food. They gave us some strange looks. I walked outside and told Charles to lock the door from the inside.

“You want me to lock you out?” he asked.

“Trust me,” is all I replied.

He did as he was asked, and then I kneeled down next to the lock and put my hand on it. Then I closed my eyes and concentrated.

Let’s see, I thought, reaching out with my mind. I could feel the lock, the chamber, the pins. How easy are you to pick?

Picking a lock with telekinesis is hard. It requires precision and focus and a whole lot of skill. But I’d been picking locks with my powers since I got them at nine, after running away from the home that gave me them. I’d learned the skill to survive, to steal food from low-tech houses and grocery stores, to sneak into places I shouldn’t be and find a warm place to sleep for the night. I could do this, definitely.

And if I could, then so could someone else.

I pressed all the pins into position and turned the chamber, and the lock clicked, and I opened the door. Charles stared at me from the other side.

“You’re a black blood.” It wasn’t a question.

“Come on,” I replied.

I imagined the house at night, say three or four am, and snuck about as silently as I could, up the stairs to Eli’s room. There were plenty of rugs on the floor to dampen the sounds of squeaky floorboards, and no one in this house locked their bedroom doors—why would they need to? The killer could’ve checked every room until they found Eli’s and then slit the kid’s throat. But why only Eli then? Why not kill the parents too, if this was done out of hate for black bloods?

Because it wasn’t done out of hate, I realized, slipping into Eli’s room and standing over his bare bed. There was still a bloodstain on the mattress, black as an oil spill. I stared at the window the killer had left open, thinking about what Graham had said. In some cultures, you leave a window open after someone dies to make sure their soul can leave the house.

 “It’s a ritual,” I said, something sliding into place. The knife, the window, the children. Either these were some kind of set of religious killings, or someone was being very consistent. Either way… “Everything is a ritual.”

“What do you mean?” Charles asked. I jumped, having forgotten he was there, and turned to him. He stared at me, eyes wide.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly, still grasping for the strings in my head. “But I know one thing for sure.”

“And what’s that?”

“These killings are being done by another black blood.”

~*~

I told Graham my findings on the way out the door, but he didn’t seem to believe me.

“How can you be sure?” he asked. “Anyone can pick a lock and sneak around. What makes you think it’s a black blood?”

“It can’t be a hate crime. Otherwise, everyone in the house would be dead, not just the kid. And…” I sighed, pushing my hair back in frustration. Graham unlocked the hover car, and we started to climb in. “And every crime in those files? Locked box mystery. Window always opened from the inside, no signs of forced entry. It takes a long time to pick a physical lock without telekinesis. And if our killer was trained in espionage—”

“Pen, what are you suggesting?” Graham gave me an exasperated look and shut the door.

“I think…” I cringed. “I think our killer is a trained black blood. Maybe military. Like from Everdale.” In the city of Everdale, every black blood was forced into military service, trained to use their powers to fight and kill for the rest of their life. Currently, said black bloods were under the thumb of Everdale’s government, but everyone agreed that wouldn’t be the case for long. “And everything this person does? It’s like a ritual. So either it’s some kind of religious mess, or they’ve been trained to be consistent. Or both.” Even I thought it sounded kind of stupid out loud.

Graham sighed and shook his head, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Pen,” he said, “that’s a wild theory.”

“I’ve got a feeling, alright?”

“A rogue Everdale black blood? How would they have even gotten out?”

“Maybe…” I snapped my fingers. “Maybe they kicked them out. For being too unstable. And so they come to Voxinn, and they… start… killing kids of their own kind.” My idea was starting to fall apart in my mouth. “Listen, you at least have to believe that it’s not a hate group.”

“Oh, I believe that,” Graham said. “I just don’t think it’s a black blood. Someone trained, maybe. But a black blood killing other black bloods?”

“It’s not that outlandish,” I grumbled, glaring at my shoes. I realized my car door was still open and shut it, loudly. “We all handle our trauma differently, you know.”

It was quiet for a moment. “I would’ve thought you’d want it to be Humanity First,” Graham said. He still hadn’t started the car. “Make it easier.”

“I don’t want anything to do with them if I can help it,” I said.

“But—”

“Just start the car, alright? Let’s go home.”

Graham gave me another look that I pointedly ignored, staring out the window towards the sidewalk. He pressed the ignition button and the hovercar started, lifting a few inches into the air, and Graham steered it away from the Strauss household and back towards home.

Neither of us noticed the plainclothes officer in a hovercar of his own across the street, radioing in everything he’d seen.

~*~

It was about ten pm when there was a knock on the door of our apartment. Graham looked up from the file he was studying and quickly stuffed it into the drawer of his desk, nodding at me to open the door. I sighed and put down the tea I’d been preparing and walked to the door.

Through the frosted window, I could see the silhouettes of two men waiting outside the door. I unlocked the deadbolt but kept the chain in place and opened the door a crack.

As soon as the hinges creaked, one of the men threw his whole weight against the door, and the chain broke off the wall. I stumbled backwards with a shout as the two men burst inside, guns at the ready. I saw a flash of something against their chests—badges. Cops. They were cops.

“Nobody move!” the skinnier one shouted. He pointed the gun right at my chest and grinned, shutting the door behind him. “Especially not you, freak.”

I raised my hands and backed into the main living space. I wasn’t stupid enough to argue.

“What the hell is going on?” Graham asked, standing, but the heavier one pushed past me and pointed his gun at Graham. “Pen!”

“Sit down,” the heavier cop said, and Graham put his hands up and did as he was told, settling back into the chair behind his desk as the skinnier one pressed the barrel of his gun into my chest and pushed me backwards. Eventually, they got us where they wanted us and settled down, me sitting on the desk and Graham behind it, the two cops pointing guns at us from a little too close for comfort.

Our hands were still raised, and they hadn’t lowered their guns. “What the hell is this?” Graham asked, seething. “You can’t just barge in here.”

“Well, we just did,” the skinny cop said. “And we’ve got something to say to you.”

“You could’ve done that at the door,” I grumbled, but then skinny cop’s gun was pressed up against my forehead, the cold barrel seeping warmth from my skull, and I went very still.

“Speak again, freak, and I shoot,” he said.

I glared at him with as much force as I could muster, which wasn’t nearly as much as usual, but it was enough for him to glare back.

“What do you want?” Graham asked evenly, trying to keep everyone civil. “Why the theatrics?”

“We had to make sure your little black blood pet here wouldn’t snap our necks as soon as we walked inside,” skinny cop said. He dug the gun into my scalp a little more. “Just a precaution.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I spat. “I’m not a killer.”

“Sure, freak.”

It didn’t surprise me that they knew I was a black blood. Every black blood was on record in the city, name and address and powers accessible by cops and officials everywhere. Plus, Graham had been a police officer, and cops don’t forget traitors to their kind. That’s what Graham was to them, thanks to me.

“Benner, reel it in,” the bigger cop said to his partner. Then he turned to Graham. “What were you doing at the Strausses?”

Graham furrowed his brow. “We were investigating,” he said. “We’re investigators. They allowed us inside. Nothing illegal happened.”

“Oh, but you didn’t ask permission first,” Benner, the skinny cop, said. “Thought you could just waltz into our case without us finding out? You and your little freak?”

“Shut up,” I growled. Rage boiled in my chest.

Skinny cop glared at me, gritting his teeth. And then, fast as lightning, he raised his hand and whipped me across the face with his gun.

I fell off the desk and onto the floor from the force of it, grunting when I hit the ground. “Pen!” Graham yelled, and I heard him scramble out from behind the desk and appear at my side. His hands were warm. “Pen, you okay?”

“Fine,” I said, sitting up. I felt something warm and wet roll down the side of my face – when I lifted my hand to it, my fingers came away stained black.

 “What’s wrong with you?” Graham yelled, turning on the cops, but they just pointed their guns at us, almost nonchalantly, like beating up teenagers was their daily racket. It probably was, knowing the cops in this city. “She’s a kid!”

“She’s a black blood,” Benner said simply. 

“I’m fine, Graham,” I said, pressing my hand into his arm, but when I looked up at the cops, they both fixed their guns on me, fear flashing in their eyes. Graham tightened his grip on my arm and shook his head.

“Aw, don’t tell her no,” Benner said. “Let her use her powers. Go on. Give us an excuse to arrest her, get her off the streets. I’m sure the world would thank us.”

“Don’t,” Graham said. He was watching the cops, but I knew it was for me. I could feel the rage turning white hot, my power building up inside me. I knew what would happen if I used my powers against two cops. They could shoot me dead, had every right to, and no one would care. No one but Graham.

So I stifled my rage and used my brain instead.

“You’re the cops on the Strauss case,” I said. “What’s your angle then? It’s been six months. You’ve got to have theories.”

Benner opened his mouth to say something, but big cop held up his hand, stopping him. I kept going.

“I think you wanted it to be the parents, didn’t you? Or maybe a servant. Made sense, no forced entry, kitchen knife. But you couldn’t find enough evidence. Couldn’t find the murder weapon. And when it didn’t point to a convenient person, you gave up. Slid the file in cold storage. Easy. Except then more murders started happening, just like the Strauss murder.” My eyes widened, and I realized something. “You kept it out of the media,” I said. “You kept the details of the murders out of the media so people couldn’t connect the dots, didn’t you?”

“Alright, that’s enough,” big cop said, lowering his hand. Benner grinned and took a step forward, slipping his gun into his holster and cracking his knuckles. I kept going.

“You did,” I said. Everyone knew the cops owned most every media outlet in town. “Why? Afraid someone would figure out there’s a serial killer on the loose? Your boss not want that news tarnishing his reputation? Or maybe you’re in league with the perp. Bet you think he’s doing a humanitarian service, killing black blood kids. You would, wouldn’t you?”

“If we were in league with a homicidal maniac, we would’ve just sicked him on you instead of coming here ourselves,” Benner spat, an angry grin on his face that didn’t quite reach his infuriated eyes. He stepped closer.

“So it is your boss, then.” Benner and the big cop scowled, and I knew I was right. I grit my teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. “Commissioner Graves not a fan of sullying his reputation with a serial killer? He’s up for re-appointment soon, isn’t he? What, he scared he won’t get the job for the fifth time in a row if people find out his cops can’t catch a killer? Not surprising. You idiots couldn’t catch a thief if he swiped the badge off your belts. All you care about is hurting people, you sick jerks—”

Benner moved fast, so fast I barely even registered what was happening, his hand raised and coming down to hit me like lightning. But then Graham was in the way, his head snapping to the side from the force of a blow that should’ve hit me. Benner moved to try and hit me again, and I braced myself, but then Graham sprang up and tackled him to the ground.

“Graham!” I yelled, getting up, but big cop surged forward and grabbed me around the middle, holding me as Benner beat Graham to a pulp on the floor of our living room. Graham barely even put up a fight—I realized he’d just been trying to get the focus off me.

I never should’ve opened my mouth. Now Graham was getting beaten up because of it.

“Stop it!” I yelled, kicking and struggling. “Leave him alone!”

One more hit, and then Benner stood up, chest heaving, standing over Graham who was in a heap on the floor. Benner’s fists were stained red. Graham spat blood on the carpet.

“I should charge you,” Benner said. “For assaulting an officer.”

“And then I’ll tell them you broke in without a warrant,” Graham replied, his voice a little unsteady, his face pointed towards the ground. “Maybe even let the media you don’t own know who’s been covering up for a serial killer. Who’ll be in deeper shit then?”

Benner glowered at Graham on the floor. “You go to the media, you won’t last a day,” he said. “Go ahead, try it. We’ll be at your door an hour later and put a bullet in that freak you call a daughter. You want to risk that instead?”

Graham sucked in a breath and glared up at the skinny cop, but then he glanced at me, and I knew they had us. Benner grinned.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. And then, for good measure, he kicked Graham in the ribs.

“Hey!” I yelled, struggling. Big cop let go of me, and I ran over to Graham and dropped down next to him.

“Hey,” I said, quieter this time. The cops began to back up, heading for the door. “Hey, you okay?”

Graham coughed and spat out some more blood. “No,” he said. “But I’ll be alright.”

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

“Not your fault, kid. Not your fault.” He sucked in a breath and watched the cops leave. I did the same.

“Bastards,” I whispered as soon as the door shut behind them. “Stupid, ugly bastards.”

Graham moved to a sitting position and sighed, rubbing his side where he’d been kicked. We were alone again, sitting on the carpet in the living room.

“What do we do?” I asked. “Should we… should we go to the media?”

“No.” Graham answered quickly, glancing up at me. “No, the cops have their fingers almost every media outlet in the city. And I’m not risking you. They barely need an excuse to kill you, and I’m not giving them one.”

I still didn’t understand why Graham cared so much about me. All I’d ever been to him was a nuisance and a reason for him to get fired. “What about Noir News?” I asked. “They might care. And the police definitely don’t own them.”

“I’m not risking you,” Graham said again. “We solve this, we do it on our own. The media–”

He froze, his eyes unfocused, jaw slack, and my heart skipped. I knew that look.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

Graham grinned at me with his bloody teeth. “I think I just figured something out.”

~*~

“It’s about the media, right?” Graham said. We’d bandaged each other up as best we could and gone back into Graham’s bedroom, where our wall of evidence was hanging. Sticky notes, printed website pages, kitchen twine and pushpins. “The cops are trying to keep these murders and their connections out of the media. But there aren’t any connections, aside from the method of the murder. Every kid who’s been murdered has been different. Except for their blood. And…”

“Yeah? And?” I asked as Graham pointed to various parts of the wall.

“Eli Strauss,” he said, pointing at a printed page from the internet tacked up on the wall. “His family’s history was broadcasted on Voxinn Noir News six months ago. A week later, he was killed.” He pointed at another piece of paper. “Marvin Blake, his mom was killed in a botched robbery that awakened his blood. Also on Noir News.” He pointed again. “Harriet Shu, awakened in a massive car crash on the I-90. Noir News.” Graham looked at me. “You see?”

“You think the killer has been finding victims through a black blood news outlet?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s…” I walked up to the wall and looked, and sure enough, there it was. Everyone had appeared on Voxinn Noir News, where black blood arrivals and awakenings were broadcasted for the city to see. Anya Shostakovich’s family was famous. Johnny McCarron was the kid of a criminal awakened during a gunfight. All the other kids had been in the news in some way, and barely a week after their fifteen minutes of fame, they’d been murdered in their sleep.

Except…

“Elena,” I said, pointing. “She doesn’t have a story.”

Graham moved closer, frowning, and then his face cleared, and at the same time, my mind snapped into place.

“The killer knew her,” we said at the same time.

And then something else slid into place, something I’d almost forgotten.

“Wait,” I said, looking at the news clippings scattered about the wall. A dim memory resurfaced, standing in a crappy apartment hallway with the smell of Mayaloan cooking. Who else had been blasting Voxinn Noir News in Maian de la Cruz’s apartment building?

I took a step back, my throat going dry. “Who was that blonde you talked to, in the neighboring apartment to Mrs. Maian?”

It took Graham a moment, and then his eyes widened. “Everett Lancaster,” he said.

“I think we should pay him a visit.”

~*~

It was nearing midnight when we pulled up outside of Maian de la Cruz’s apartment building. We got out of the hovercar, Graham tucking his pistol into the back of his waistband and flipping his jacket over it. He’d tried to convince me to take a gun too, but I had my powers. Plus, I wasn’t a fan of guns. Too loud.

“You ready?” Graham asked, looking up at the apartment building.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Let’s go, then.”

We walked up to the front door, and I took a moment to unlock it with my telekinesis. We were inside in under two minutes and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

We reached apartment 5A, and Graham took a breath before he knocked on the door. I listened for any sounds of movement. Nothing.

“Maybe he’s asleep,” I said.

Graham knocked again and said, “Mr. Lancaster? It’s Graham Ramirez. I wanted to ask a few follow up questions.”

No answer. Graham looked at me, and I nodded and put my hand on the lock.

It snicked open easily, and I stepped back, allowing Graham to turn the knob and step inside. He looked around, listening, and I followed him into the apartment.

“Hello?” he called out. No answer.

I shut the door behind us and locked it, tense as a tightrope, waiting for Everett Lancaster to jump out of the shadows and attack us. But nothing happened. It was quiet in the apartment. Very quiet.

“I don’t think he’s here,” I whispered. Graham nodded.

“I’ll take the bedroom,” he said, pulling the gun out of his waistband. “You check the living space.”

We split up, Graham going towards the door near the back, slightly ajar and showing the foot of a bed. I slipped into the living/kitchen area and looked around.

The TV was still playing Voxinn Noir News, but it was muted, newscaster mouths moving without voices, like ghosts. A thin tablet was on the table in the living room, so I sat down on the couch and picked it up.

Password required. I cursed and put it back down, wishing I was a technopath. Then I got up and went to the kitchen.

My eyes flitted over to the knife block on the counter, and my blood ran cold.

“Pen?” I jumped, but it was only Graham, calling out from the bedroom. “You better come see this.”

I swallowed and walked into the bedroom and saw the top of Graham’s head on the other side of the bed—he was kneeling on the floor. I crossed over and knelt down next to him, looking at the gap in the floorboards where he’d lifted one of the boards away to reveal a secret hiding spot.

“How’d you find that?” I asked as Graham began pulling out pieces of paper.

“It was loose,” he said. We looked at the papers, and I swallowed.

It was an article about the Strauss family, with a big circle around Eli. He was only five years old—a baby. There were other papers clipped to the article, and we flipped through them—personal notes, blueprints of the house from the local library, a record of Eli’s black blood and powers from the public registry, everything a person needed to commit the murder of a child, right there for anyone to access. Graham put the paper aside and dug around in the floorboards some more.

We found records on ten different kids, most of them already dead. I recognized them from our own research and the police files. Two of them weren’t dead, though, a Riley Peterson and a Jenna Cho. Jenna Cho’s pile was thicker, more filled out. Closer to death.

“Graham,” I said.

“What?”

“One of the kitchen knives is missing.”

He looked up at me, realization in his eyes. “That’s why he’s not home,” he said. “He’s going after Jenna.”

~*~

We sprinted back out to the car and plugged in Jenna’s address, which we’d gotten from the files Everett Lancaster had left in his room. In barely any time, we were speeding down the streets of Voxinn towards Riverbank, the richest neighborhood in town. Jenna and her family lived in an old mansion leftover from fifty years ago, before black bloods first came about, the kind of home difficult to retrofit advanced security into. Every kid who’d been killed hadn’t had a lick of electronic security, and Jenna was no different. At least we knew our guy wasn’t a technopath.

“Graham!” I said as he sped through a yellow light and took a hard left. “What if he’s a black blood?”

“You still think that?” he asked. “Why would a black blood be killing other black bloods?”

“I don’t know! But we need to be careful!”

“That’s what the Glock is for.”

We sped through town as fast as we could—by the time we got to Riverbank, it was nearing 12:30, Jenna’s house not far away. Graham slowed to a halt outside the mansion. There was another car in front of us, one that didn’t look nice enough to belong in this neighborhood. It had to be Lancaster’s.

We got out of the car and ran across the street, and that’s when I saw him, standing in the darkness of the front porch. He had turned at the shutting of our car doors, tall and dressed in all black, and his eyes locked onto mine.

“Oh no,” I whispered.

He slipped into the front door, silent as a ghost, and shut the door behind him.

“Hurry!” Graham said, and we ran across the street to the front door. I slammed into the door and pressed my hand against the lock, but as soon as I reached out with my mind, something felt wrong.

“He’s jammed the lock!” I said, kicking the door.

“Go!” Graham said, slamming his weight against the door. “Find another way in!”

“What about you?”

“I’m gonna try and wake up the family!”

I ran around the house, trying to imagine the blueprint in my head—I’d only gotten a glance at it, but I remembered Jenna’s room was circled in red, somewhere along the back of the house. I ended up in the backyard and stepped back, looking up at the windows. Which ones belonged to Jenna? She was on the second floor, right? Near the middle?

“Crap.” I took a few more steps back and then ran forward and leapt, pushing myself into the air with my powers, and landed on the roof of the back porch, my sneakers skidding on the shingles. I managed to gain purchase and climbed up to one of the windows—it looked like a bedroom, a child’s bedroom. Was this Jenna’s? Did she have any siblings?

The door to the bedroom opened, and I saw the shape of a man in the doorway. Lancaster.

“Jenna!” I screamed, trying to open the window. It was locked—I focused on the latch on the other side of the window and moved it, then yanked open the window. “Jenna, wake up!”

Lancaster was standing over her bed, but as I climbed inside, I saw Jenna’s eyes open, and when she saw the glint of the knife in his hand, she screamed.

“No!”

I thrust out my hand, focusing on the knife, and it flung itself out of Lancaster’s hand and embedded itself into the wall of Jenna’s bedroom. Lancaster turned around and scowled at me just as I finally slipped completely into the bedroom.

“Why?” he yelled. “I’m saving her!”

“Jenna, run!” I yelled, shoving towards Lancaster with both hands. He slammed into the wall, scattering the child’s drawings that’d been taped up everywhere, and Jenna scrambled out of bed and ran to the door.

“No!” Lancaster yelled, curling his hand into a claw, and Jenna froze in place, screaming for her mother. “I won’t let you stop me!”

He was a black blood. A black blood with telekinesis, just like me. I’d been right.

“Let her go, bastard!”

He turned to me, his eyes full of rage, and his other hand curled into a fist. I felt something invisible close itself around my neck and squeeze.

My eyes bulged, and I tried to suck in air, but nothing came, my windpipe blocked by Lancaster’s powers. I clawed at my neck, and the force I’d been using to hold Lancaster in place dropped, and he landed on his feet and threw me against a wall.

I slammed into it with enough force to crack the plaster and slid onto the ground, my head spinning from the impact and lack of oxygen. Jenna was still screaming, and I could hear people running from down the hall.

Lancaster pulled the knife out of the wall and started approaching Jenna, who was still frozen in place. How was he able to hold her for so long? He must’ve been trained with his powers.

I couldn’t fight him, not alone. Not like this.

“Lancaster!” I yelled, pulling myself to my feet. “Stop!”

“Don’t you see? She has to die!” he yelled. “It’s the only way to save her!”

“She’s ten!”

He growled and put the knife up against Jenna’s neck, and then his head snapped up, and Graham appeared in the doorway.

“Not so fast, motherfucker,” he said.

He fired one bullet, and it went right into Lancaster’s arm—he stumbled back, dropping the knife to the floor, and Jenna broke out of his grip and collapsed on the ground, crying. Lancaster’s knees buckled and he fell to the floor, one hand pressed to his bleeding arm. A woman I assumed must’ve been Jenna’s mother appeared behind Graham and pushed past him to her daughter.

“Jenna!” she yelled, scooping the girl up in her arms. Graham sidestepped them and moved to Lancaster, gun aimed right at his head.

“Ma’am,” he said, “take Jenna downstairs.”

“But, but what’s going on—?”

Lancaster yelled, and suddenly Graham’s gun went off, but Lancaster had shoved the gun and Graham’s arm towards the ceiling with his powers and yanked the pistol from his grip. Jenna and her mother screamed and got up to run, and when Lancaster pointed the gun at them, I saw red.

I leapt from where I’d been standing and tackled him to the ground, struggling to grab the gun and kicking and punching every part of him I could reach. I knew martial arts and a few dirty tricks, but Lancaster had obviously been trained. Even with an arm bleeding blood like tar, he had me pinned to the ground within moments, gun at the back of my head. But I didn’t care. Jenna and her mom were gone from the room. They were safe, for now.

“Pen!” Graham yelled, running up, but Lancaster dug the gun deeper into my scalp, and Graham skidded to a halt. “Don’t hurt her, you bastard, don’t you dare.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” he asked, and I tried to focus on breathing, on anything but the cold gun barrel digging into the back of my skull. Not even an inch from death, one trigger pull from my brains blown all over Jenna Cho’s floor.

I stared up at Graham, and I must’ve looked terrified, because his face broke completely.

“Everett, please,” he began.

“You stupid P.I.s,” Lancaster said. “Never know when to mind your own business. I was saving them. I was saving all of them! Why can’t you people see that?”

“Saving them from what? From who?” Graham glanced at me again. Hold on, his gaze said. Hold on.

“From this world! From the people that take us and destroy our lives because of what we are! Do you know what a prison camp in the Farms is like? Do you know what it’s like to grow up separate from your mother your whole life so you can be someone else’s weapon? Then sent into a warzone to die? To be tortured? That’s what they do to people like us!”

Everdale military. I’d been right. I’d been right all along.

Too bad I was about to die despite it.

“So you kill them to save them?!” I asked, unable to keep my mouth shut.

“It’s better that way. They don’t have to suffer. It’s better.” Lancaster shook his head. “It’s better. Don’t you know? Don’t you get it?” I realized he was talking to me, and my heart skipped a beat in my chest. “Don’t you understand how it’s better?”

I didn’t want to think about it, but pinned to the ground with a maniac behind me, I couldn’t help it—my brain ricocheted back four years, and I thought about it. I did.

If I hadn’t been a black blood, Humanity First wouldn’t have taken an interest in me. They wouldn’t have found me, hungry and twelve and alone on the streets, wouldn’t have taken me in. They wouldn’t have locked me in their basement and beaten me half to death for the fun of it.

If I weren’t a black blood, Graham wouldn’t have been fired. He’d stuck up for me, fought for me, saved me. He’d busted some of his peers in that church, committing acts of terror and violence, and he’d pulled me out of that basement and protected me. And they kicked him off the force because of it, because he’d dared to care more about a black blood than his fellow cops.

Every bad thing in my life, in the lives of those around me, even this, even now, was because of my black blood. Every single bit of it.

And for a moment, a brief, terrifying moment, I understood him.

“You do,” Lancaster breathed, and I could hear the smile in his voice. My eyes refocused on Graham, staring at me, hands out in a placating gesture like he could save me with that alone. “You get it, don’t you?”

Graham shook his head, and suddenly, the thought of all those murdered kids came back to me. Throats slit in their sleep. Eli Strauss, a baby. Window left open, like helping their souls escape to heaven would be a mercy.

I grit my teeth and growled. “You’re wrong,” I whispered, and it was all I could manage. “You’re wrong.”

Graham took a step forward, and Lancaster dug the gun into my head, and I cried out in pain. Graham froze again, and I could practically feel the rage radiating off Lancaster in waves.

“No,” he said, and then louder, “no, no you’re wrong. You don’t understand. How could you? You have no idea what it’s like. You have no idea. No idea.” He twisted the gun into my scalp, and I hissed. “But now…” He leaned down, and I saw the manic grin on his face. “Now I’ve got you, don’t I? Maybe I was never meant to kill Jenna tonight. Maybe it was supposed to be you” His voice rose, and I stared at Graham, hoping that the last thing I’d see would be his face. “Say goodbye, private eye. She’s going to a better place–”

I saw movement in the doorway, and then a shot rang out, and Everett Lancaster’s head snapped back and pulled his body to the ground. He fell onto the floor next to me, Graham’s gun clattering away. I stayed on the ground, frozen, staring at Jenna’s mother in the doorway holding a smoking shotgun.

I could barely breathe.

“Pen!” Graham was at my side in an instant, pulling me into a hug that I didn’t realize I needed. As soon as he did, the dam broke—I started hyperventilating, clutching him like a scared child, tears brimming in my eyes.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, my eyes wide and seeing nothing. “Oh my god, oh my god–”

“I got you,” Graham said, pulling me close. “I got you.”

I buried my face into his shoulder and felt tears leak out of my eyes.

It took a moment for me to calm down, and by that point, Jenna’s mom had walked into the room and was pointing the gun at us. Graham looked up at her, still holding me. Jenna’s mom just looked… conflicted.

“You mind explaining?” she asked. We heard sirens in the distance—the police were coming. I glanced at Everett Lancaster’s face and quickly turned away, my stomach churning at the sight, his black blood seeping into the rug like ink into paper.

Graham nodded. “Might take a while.”

“The police will notice evidence of a super fight,” the mom said. Jenna peeked into the bedroom, staring at the two of us, her hands shaking.

“That they will,” Graham said.

I knew the implications. We all did. If they knew I’d been using my powers, I’d get arrested. Even if I was using them to help others. Power usage without official sanctioning meant you were a danger to the public. That’s how it was in Voxinn.

“What are—” My breath escaped me, and I swallowed and tried again. “What are Jenna’s powers?”

“Telepathy,” Jenna said quietly. Nothing ostentatious. Nothing that would cause this kind of physical damage. And she was rich, in a good neighborhood, with a mom that could afford a decent lawyer. Good, good. She was safe.

“I suggest you leave before the cops get here,” Jenna’s mom said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Graham said.

“Just hurry. And don’t come back here again.”

Graham and I climbed to our feet and headed out of the bedroom, Jenna reaching forward to brush my hand.

“Thank you,” she said.

We made our way down the stairs as fast as we could manage, crossed the street, and hopped into the car. We were driving around the bend just as the first cop car sped around the corner. None of them followed us.

~*~

We learned the rest of Everett Lancaster’s story on the news later that week, when his profile was released to the public. He’d been a soldier in Everdale, the only city in all of Rennal that had a secondary black blood military division, soldiers raised from an early blood awakening by drill sergeants and commanding officers. He’d been sent on a mission to the Farms, the black blood slave camps that fed most of the country, to save someone or something classified, but he’d been captured and held there for five years. When they finally broke him out, he’d been too unstable—Everdale pushed him out, and he came to Voxinn, alone, abandoned, tortured far more than anyone ever should be.

It made sense why someone like that would turn to killing kids—he thought he was saving them from a life of pain and torment. The life of a black blood. I understood, at least a little. It scared me, though, that understanding. Scared me a lot.  

We told Maian de la Cruz that her daughter’s killer had found justice, and she invited us over for dinner to celebrate, and for once, Graham accepted, and the three of us sat down one night and had steak fajitas with homemade tortillas. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that her next-door neighbor had been her granddaughter’s murderer, but the food was good. Some of the best food I’d ever eaten. That kind of helped keep my mind off things.

We couldn’t risk Pablo Balmaceda losing his job over handing us private case files, so the night after our dinner with Mrs. de la Cruz, we burned all the paper in our kitchen sink, Graham’s lighter finally having a use after he’d quit smoking a year ago.

“Think the Chos will ever come calling?” I asked, handing him another sheet to burn. It held a picture of a smiling, happy family, one that’d been torn apart by a car crash and torn a little bit more by a murder. Graham took the paper and shook his head.

“They know everything they need to,” he said, lighting the corner of the page on fire. “I doubt it. Might give us some business down the line if they do, though.”

“Yeah, sure.” That wasn’t why I’d asked. “Just, you think they’ll come anyway? When Jenna is older, maybe?”

“Maybe. Why?”

“I don’t know, I just…” I thought about it for a little, chewing my lip and staring at a sheet of forensic evidence on the counter next to me. “She’s been attacked by a homicidal maniac because of the color of her blood. It’s something we have in common.”

Graham dropped the flaming sheet of evidence into the sink and turned to me, really looking. “I’m sure she’ll come,” he said. “When she’s older.”

“You think?”

“I’m sure.”

I smiled at that. Then my smile slipped away, Everett Lancaster’s words ringing like a bell in my mind.

“What if he’s right?” I asked softly, staring at the ash in the sink. Graham turned to look at me, but I didn’t meet his gaze. “What if… what if this isn’t a life worth living? All this power, and I can’t use any of it. Not even to help people.”

“Hey, Pen.” The sound of Graham’s lighter flicking shut. “Look at me.”

I glanced up and met his eyes, and Graham put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “You did help someone,” he said. “Jenna Cho. She’s alive today because of you.”

I shrugged and looked away, but he shook me, so I brought my gaze up again. His eyes were warm and comforting, and they looked right into me, right to my soul. “Any life with you in it is worth living,” he said. “Just because people… just ‘cause the world wants to hurt you, that doesn’t mean you give up.”

“Easy for you to say,” I said. “You’re not like me.”

Graham’s face went a little sad, and he was quiet for a moment. “No,” he finally said, “I’m not. But you want to help people, despite everything you’ve been through. You’re a good person, Pen.” He looked at me, really looked. “Don’t let some asshole with a kitchen knife change that about you.”

I stared up at him, my stomach churning. “You’d miss me if I was gone, right?” I asked.

His face almost broke at that. “Of course I would,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “Of course I would.”

We stayed like that for a bit, Lancaster’s voice still whispering in my head, but it was quieter now, dulled by the comfort of Graham’s arms around me. I sniffed and pulled away, giving him my trademark snarky smile, ignoring the tear streaks on my face.

“Alright,” I said, taking some more paper evidence and handing it to him, “we gonna burn this stuff or what?”

Graham smiled back and flicked on the flame of the lighter, taking the paper from my hand and holding it so it caught fire. Together, we watched as he dropped it into the sink, the pages curling and turning to ash, staining the metal black.