The killer didn't call.
No new victims.
No new crime scenes.
Just quiet.
The press conference happened at noon.
Captain Morrison spoke. Controlled language. No details. Public reassurance. Ongoing investigation.
Pocho stood off-camera.
Reporters asked if the public was safe.
Morrison said yes.
Pocho didn't agree or disagree.
---
Back inside the station, the board still had three names.
Rick.
Sarah.
Marcus.
No fourth.
Harris leaned against the desk.
"Maybe he's done."
Pocho didn't look up.
"He's not."
"You sound sure."
"I am."
"Why?"
"Because he called."
Harris didn't argue.
The calls weren't random.
They were calculated.
If he wanted silence, he would've stayed silent.
The calls meant something else.
He wanted engagement.
---
Pocho reviewed surveillance footage from the grocery store parking lot again.
Grainy.
Low light.
A shadow moving near the edge of the frame.
Height roughly estimated.
Build consistent.
No clear face.
He watched it three times.
Nothing new.
He checked hardware store purchases within the radius. Cash transactions mostly. No useful identifiers.
He checked known offenders with assault histories.
Too many.
Nothing specific enough.
The quiet stretched through the afternoon.
Then the evening.
No new reports.
At 8:40 p.m., Pocho finally left the station.
Earlier than usual.
---
At home, his wife was in the kitchen.
"You're early," she said again.
He nodded.
"No new attacks."
She relaxed slightly.
"That's good."
"Yes."
They ate together.
The conversation stayed neutral.
Work. Her sister. Groceries.
It almost felt normal.
After dinner, she asked:
"Are you sleeping tonight?"
"Yes."
"You promise?"
"Yes."
She studied him.
"You don't have to carry it alone."
"I'm not."
"You are," she said quietly.
He didn't answer.
He didn't want to argue tonight.
He went to bed before midnight.
And for the first time in days, he slept.
---
The next day passed the same way.
Quiet.
No calls.
No bodies.
No hospital rooms.
Harris grew restless.
"Maybe he got scared," Harris said.
"Maybe," Pocho replied.
But he didn't believe that.
The killer wasn't impulsive.
He was deliberate.
If he stopped, it wasn't fear.
It was choice.
And choice meant planning.
That bothered him more.
---
At 6:15 p.m., Pocho stood alone in front of the map again.
Seven-mile radius.
Three points marked.
He imagined the spaces in between.
He wasn't frustrated.
He wasn't angry.
He was thinking.
If the killer was intelligent, the silence wasn't retreat.
It was repositioning.
He wrote one word on the board under the victims' names.
Waiting.
---
That night, his wife came into the living room while he was reading case files.
"You said you'd sleep," she said.
"I will."
"You said that yesterday."
He closed the file.
"I slept yesterday."
"Not tonight."
He looked at the clock.
It was 10:30 p.m.
"I will."
She didn't argue.
She just stood there.
"You don't have to chase him every minute," she said.
"If I stop, he moves first."
"He's already moving."
That sentence stayed with him.
He closed the file again.
And this time, he meant it.
He went to bed.
But he didn't sleep as easily.
The quiet wasn't comfort anymore.
It was pressure.