Three Evening was drawing in and the world was tinged blue. The streetlamps cut angle-poise shapes into the dark, and Sam Grayle stepped through them with his usual, clipping step. Something wasn’t sitting right with him about this last case. The murder. Something Eve had said. He flicked the clasp on his lighter and lit up another cigarette. He was down to his last. Time to quit. He said this to himself each time he reached the end of a pack. He crumpled the pack and threw it into an alley with a flick of his wrist. The crackle of filter paper. A glow. Blue smoke. He thought he heard a shuffling sound. Then, a cough. Quiet but unmistakable. He stopped, half in shadow, half under a streetlamp. A harlequin silhouette. His hand moved to his holster. ‘Ain’t gon’ have the time to cock that afore I shoot, mister.’ The voice was reedy, with a light whistle behind each ‘s’ sound, as if the man was missing a front tooth. Slow breath, drawn through gravel. Click and slide of a safety. Grayle felt his muscles tighten. He squared his shoulders, sucked on his cigarette, then drew the paper from his mouth, slowly. He couldn’t tell the shadows apart but held steady, making his chest broad. He felt the old rage start to flicker inside of him. Steady.
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