The city felt quieter at night, but Tyler couldn't find peace in the silence. He sat at his desk, blinds closed, the glow of the desk lamp the only light in the room. The case files were spread out before him like a patchwork of madness—photographs of bodies, autopsy reports, police statements that all led to nowhere. His handwriting was frantic across the margins, as though the ink itself had been pulled from him in desperation.
And then, the call came.
"Tyler," Jackson's voice came through, steady, warm, even at this hour.
Tyler swallowed hard. "Sir? It's late. Did something happen?"
"No new case. Just…" Jackson paused. Tyler could hear the scratch of pen against paper on the other end. "You've been pushing too hard. I thought I should check in."
The words lodged in Tyler's throat. He wanted to say he was fine, wanted to lie, but instead he let silence stretch out.
"You don't have to talk," Jackson said softly. "Just don't hang up."
Tyler stared at the crime scene photo in front of him, fingers gripping the edge until his knuckles whitened. The sound of Jackson's breathing—steady, unhurried—soothed him in a way the whiskey at his elbow never could. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, letting the voice anchor him.
When he finally spoke, his voice cracked. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm missing something right in front of me."
"You'll figure it out. You always do," Jackson replied. A pause, then quieter: "And you're not alone in this, Tyler. Remember that."
Tyler wanted to believe him. He almost said it out loud—I'm scared. But instead, he just whispered, "Thanks, sir."
And when he finally hung up, the silence that followed felt heavier than before.