The Crimson Silence

Behind Closed Doors

The city lights flickered through Angela’s apartment window, casting a dim glow across Jake as he sat on her couch, the quiet around him thick with anticipation. He could feel every second stretch into an eternity, the weight of his unanswered questions pressing against his mind. For hours, he’d replayed recent events in his head, trying to connect fragments of conversations, lingering glances, and half-truths. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was on the verge of something monumental, but what?

The silence was interrupted by a sudden burst of noise—he’d accidentally sat on the TV remote, switching it on and startling himself. Jake jumped, his heart pounding as he quickly turned it off. He let out a shaky breath, the sound having jostled him back into his own paranoia. Trying to steady himself, he grabbed a beer from Angela’s fridge and returned to the couch, hoping it would calm his nerves.

Taking a slow sip, Jake’s gaze drifted down to his phone, and he absentmindedly opened his camera roll. He paused, staring at a recent photo of Nathan’s office wall, where he’d seen some old pictures. Without really thinking, he zoomed in on a particular image, one of Nathan with a college football team. His heart nearly stopped—Nathan and Andrew were in the same photo, their arms around each other, college friends. Guns for hire, but to what extent? Jake's mind raced. What else had been hidden in plain sight?

He felt a flash of anger and then a creeping sense of dread as he realized he was in deeper than he’d thought. He paced around the living room, his body wired and tense, trying to process the implications. There was only one way forward now: he needed answers from Angela.

Hours passed as he wrestled with impatience and apprehension, finally dozing off on the couch, lulled by his own exhaustion. A sharp knock on the door snapped him awake, and he stumbled toward the window to peek out. It was Angela.

He opened the door, still half-asleep, and she immediately noticed the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Hey…did I wake you?” she asked softly, her tone a mix of concern and warmth.

Jake rubbed his face, forcing himself to focus. “Yeah… I guess I dozed off waiting.”

Angela dropped her briefcase by the door, moving in for a kiss, but Jake shifted slightly, hesitating. She looked at him, momentarily thrown off.

“What happened to Detective Nathan?” he asked, cutting to the chase, trying to mask his discomfort.

Angela’s expression shifted, sadness washing over her face as she processed the question. She composed herself before answering, her voice barely above a whisper. “He was shot in both legs…stabbed in the chest. He bled out.”

She sank into the couch, eyes closed, the faint tremble of her hands betraying the shock and grief beneath her calm exterior.

Jake sat down beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

Angela nodded, her voice barely steady. “The Crimson Killer… He’s getting more vicious with each one.”

“Crimson Killer?” Jake asked, masking his dread with curiosity.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice hollow. “That’s what the FBI is calling him. Blood, red, death—Crimson.” She fell silent, lost in her own thoughts.

Jake glanced at her, feeling the weight of her fatigue. He came close reaching out to take her hand. His touch was gentle, his voice soft. “You look tired,” he said, his eyes warm with genuine care. “Go freshen up. I’ll make us something to eat.”

Angela looked up, surprised, her eyes meeting his with a glimmer of amusement mixed with something softer. A blush crept across her cheeks. “You’re… going to cook for me?” she asked, her tone carrying both disbelief and a hint of affection.