Chapter 3 - "Past the Hour"

A Chapter by HaleyB

Some clocks are never wound. Some hands stay bloodless. But the hour always arrives.

The second body waited behind the Ashbrook Public Library-tucked in the shadows of a stone alcove where patrons returned book after hours.

Morning light hadn't reached it yet. The alley glowed in a dull blue haze-the kind of cold that felt intentional, like the day itself hadn't wanted to look too closely.

The only real color came from the wrist.

Detective Elijah Brandt crouched beside the body, his coat soaking damp from the concrete. He didn't care. He was too focused on the pose.

This one was arranged. Deliberate.

Legs crossed neatly at the ankle. Hands folded in the lap. Head bowed just slightly-serene, almost reverent.

Like he'd fallen asleep in prayer.

Except for the carving.

A clock.

Not scratched. Not branded. Etched-delicately, with surgical certainty.

8:15

The skin around it was pale, smooth. No swelling. No bruising. No resistance.

No fight, Brandt thought.

He swallowed. That disturbed him more than any pool of blood ever could.

"Different time. Different pose," he muttered.

Behind him, Marcus LeClair stepped closer, boots silent on wet pavement.

"But same message," he said.

Brandt glanced back.

"There's a message?"

"There's always a message. Even when you don't know who it's for."

Brandt returned his gaze to the body. His jaw tightened.

What kind of killer doesn't wan to be caught-but wants to be understood?

He'd seen rage. Desperation. Panic

This wasn't that.

This was controlled.

Like someone keeping time.

Five Years Earlier - Port Briar, Maryland

The hallway still smelled like fire. Long after the flames were out, smoke clung to the walls like a memory that refused to leave.

She was twenty-three.

Cara Halden. Third-floor apartment. Found curled near the stairwell-burned alive before she ever reached the exit.

They had a suspect. Ex-boyfriend. History of threats. A timeline that fit.

Brandt had watched him during questioning-the way he blinked too slowly, the flat voice.

Too calm.

"He's not the guy," Elijah had said as soon as the door closed.

"We've got motive. Means. Opportunity," someone countered.

"Yeah, " Brandt had replied. "And none of it adds up."

But they'd pushed forward. Built a case. The jury found him guilty. Port Briar breathed easier.

And yet- Brandt still remembered the scorch marks near the banister. The missing phone. The flash point that never turned up.

Sometimes you solved a case. Other times, you just cleared it. And sometimes... sometimes you left with the wrong seconds untouched.

Back then, Marcus had told him,

"Justice isn't clean. It just needs to be done."

Brandt hadn't responded.

He still wasn't sure he agreed.

Ashbrook - Present

The white sheet covered the body now, but Brandt could still see the posture in his mind-peaceful. Respectful, even. Like the killer thought this was a favor.

The gurney wheels clacked rhythmically over the concrete. Tick, tick, tick. Echoing through the alley like the ghost of a clock.

"You're thinking Eloise Danner?" Marcus asked quietly.

"Same carving," Brandt said. "But this feels different. Measured."

"She was chaos," Marcus muttered. "Messy. Loud."

"This is method," Brandt said. "Like someone...correcting something."

Marcus frowned.

"Correcting what?"

Brandt didn't answer - but in the back of his mind, a phrase surfaced from some forgotten interview: broken gear.

Across town, a man hunched over a yellow ledger, scribbling notes in tight, careful script.