Against the Clock

Episode 05

The early evening air was cool as I watched the water lap against the dock, waiting for Marco to arrive. News of the body had spread quickly, but there were still more rumors than facts. I made myself inconspicuous as I lingered, hearing snippets from the officers' muttered conversations.

And then I saw it—the body, sprawled on the dock, a graying man, somewhere in his fifties. His face was contorted, not in the peaceful resignation I'd sometimes seen before, but frozen in abject terror. The detail that drew my eye, though, was his left hand. His middle finger was missing, severed cleanly, leaving a dark, almost neat wound. It was deliberate. A message. But for whom?

Then Marco arrived, silent and unyielding as he approached the body. Even with only a cursory glance, he began cataloging every detail, his mind parsing each fragment of evidence like pieces of an unseen map. I could almost sense the calculations swirling in his head, each step he took bringing him a fraction closer to my secrets.

And that sent a shiver down my spine.

By the time I arrived at Luca's, the darkness outside felt almost comforting, a shield between the docks and what lay inside this house. Luca's invitation had been unexpected—a casual "Come over for dinner," with that easy smile he always wore. But tonight, something about him felt different, like an offbeat in a familiar song.

I stepped into his kitchen, instantly wrapped in the warm aroma of garlic and spices. He moved with a quiet precision, chopping vegetables with a kind of practiced calm that felt almost ritualistic. I leaned against the counter, watching him, sensing something... unsettling.

"Make yourself at home," he said, nodding to the open shelves lining the walls. As I scanned them, my gaze caught on a small jar, partially hidden behind a stack of spices.

My heart skipped a beat.

Inside that jar, suspended in murky liquid, was a severed middle finger.

I felt the blood drain from my face. For a second, the room seemed to close in around me, the quiet hum of the fridge amplifying the silence. The finger was swollen, preserved, the faint lines of a fingerprint still visible. I fought the urge to recoil, forcing myself to remain calm, to not reveal what I'd just seen. Why would Luca have...?

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice smooth and casual as he turned to face me, wiping his hands on a dishrag.

I felt my lips pull into a smile that felt paper-thin. "Nothing. I... I was just admiring your setup," I said, nodding toward the shelves. My eyes flicked back to his, searching for a hint of anything—some trace of intention, a smirk, a clue. But his expression remained unreadable, just that easy smile as he gestured for me to sit.

"Dinner's almost ready. I've got a special dish planned, just for you." His voice was friendly, his tone light, but there was something in his eyes that felt sharper, like a blade concealed beneath a velvet cloth.

I settled at the table, forcing myself to relax, yet I couldn't shake the chill in my bones. Luca placed a plate in front of me, a lovely dish draped in sauce, meticulously plated. He sat across from me, his gaze never wavering. "Dig in," he said, his smile inviting, yet somehow—sinister.

I took a small bite, feeling his gaze on me, the food tasteless against the nerves knotting in my stomach. The image of that finger lingered in my mind, each detail burned into my thoughts. I chose my words carefully. "You've always had... interesting tastes, Luca."

He chuckled, a sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Only the best for my friends."

As he poured wine and filled the silence with stories, I realized I knew very little about him, truly. The Luca I knew was the friendly face, the laid-back friend, the kind of guy you'd trust with your secrets. But tonight, I sensed something darker beneath the surface. And I wondered if, all along, he'd been hiding something in plain sight.

The rest of the meal passed in a fog. I forced myself to laugh at his jokes, to ask questions, to feign interest. But all the while, my mind raced, each sip of wine accompanied by a flood of suspicion. That finger in the jar. Was it his doing? Could he be...?

When I finally left, his face lingered in my mind, that warm smile concealing something shadowed. As I walked home, the night air felt different—thick with something unspoken, electric with the knowledge that, somehow, I was no longer the only one hiding things.

Back at the dock, Marco was still there, his sharp gaze dissecting each piece of the puzzle. The body, the missing finger—it was all connecting in his mind, each new clue drawing him closer.

And yet, as I closed the door behind me, I felt the thrill of having stayed one step ahead once again.