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Garrick sat in the witness box, his lupine features impassive as he listened to the district attorney lay out the narrative of his investigation. The courtroom's stale air, thick with the scent of old wood and nervous perspiration, did little to distract him. Every eye in the room was on him—jurors, press, and the hushed gallery—all waiting for him to deliver the final, damning testimony against Matthias Rooker, the man the tabloids had christened "The Baptist."

Before Garrick's testimony, the prosecution had already built a formidable case. Samantha Jones, the mouse survivor, had taken the stand, her small frame trembling as she recounted her harrowing escape. Her voice had cracked when describing the cold water Rooker forced into her lungs, and the jury had leaned forward, hanging on her every word. Then came the german shepherd neighbor, his testimony providing the crucial timeline that led to Rooker's capture. Together, they'd painted a picture that left little room for doubt.

But it was Garrick's testimony that would bind it all together, that would transform a compelling narrative into an airtight conviction. He adjusted his tie, and began to speak, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. He walked the jury through the meticulous months-long investigation—how he'd profiled the killer, connected the seemingly random victims, and ultimately traced Rooker's signature to the same lake where his sister had tragically drowned years before. Each detail, each piece of evidence, was another brick in the wall that would ensure Matthias Rooker would never see the outside of a prison cell again.

The jury didn't deliberate long. Less than three hours later, they returned with the verdict: Guilty on all counts.

The courtroom erupted. Reporters surged forward, cameras flashed, and the sound of gavels banging for order was almost drowned out by the noise. Garrick stood as the judge sentenced Rooker to life without parole, feeling a grim satisfaction settle over him. As he made his way out of the courthouse, a throng of microphones was shoved in his face.

"Detective Garrick!" a reporter shouted over the din. "How does it feel to have put Grayside's most notorious killer behind bars?"

Garrick paused, scanning the crowd of eager faces, and for a moment, he considered his words carefully. "It's not about me," he said, his tone measured. "It's about the victims, and about making sure this city is a safer place."

The headlines the next morning were triumphant: "HERO COP SENDS 'THE BAPTIST' TO HELL!" Garrick's name was suddenly everywhere, and with it came a wave of public admiration that he hadn't sought and didn't particularly want. But in Grayside, where the rain never seemed to stop and the fog often lingered well into the afternoon, Garrick's victory was a rare bright spot—a story people clung to.

***

Two years had passed since the trial, and the media's glow had long since faded. Garrick found himself back in the trenches, trudging through the gray, rain-slicked streets of Grayside. His life had returned to the familiar routine of cold coffee, stale donuts, and case files that never seemed to close. The city moved on, but Garrick's name was still whispered in the precinct, a reminder of the one case that had defined his career.

Then the call came in, shattering the mundane rhythm of his day.

The dispatcher's voice was clipped, professional. "Homicide, 12th and Elm. Victim is a female fox, early twenties."

Garrick arrived at the scene to find the usual chaos—uniformed officers cordoning off the area, forensics dusting for prints, and the ever-present hum of speculation hanging in the air. But something felt different this time. There was an undercurrent of tension, a sense that this wasn't just another murder.

When he entered the apartment, the feeling solidified into a cold dread. The victim, a young red fox, lay sprawled on her bedroom floor, her fur matted with water and blood. The room smelled of damp earth and something else—something that made the fur on Garrick's neck stand up. He crouched beside her, noting the signs of a struggle, the way her clothes were torn, the water pooling around her body. It was all too familiar.

The medical examiner arrived shortly after, her expression grim as she knelt beside the body. "Asphyxiation," the medical examiner stated, her voice steady despite the grim scene. "But no ligature marks, no bruising around the throat. Nothing to indicate manual strangulation." She ran her gloved fingers along the victim's neck, her brow furrowed in concentration. The dim light from the hallway cast long shadows across the fox's still form, making the water on her fur glisten like tears.

Garrick watched her work, his mind already racing back to the Rooker case. The method was too familiar, too precise. "Given the state of the floor, I'd guess drowning, but we'll need an autopsy to confirm," the ME added, her voice clinical. She paused, adjusting her position to get a better angle on the victim's lower body. "There are also signs of forced penetration."

Garrick nodded, the fur on his neck bristling. His gaze swept the room, methodical, searching for anything out of place. He approached one of the forensic techs dusting for prints. "Find anything?"

The tech shook his head, frustration evident in his posture. "Not a single thing. Guy was a ghost."

Garrick's eyes continued their sweep of the room, noting the overturned furniture, the shattered picture frame on the floor, the water staining the carpet. And then, something glinted in the dim light near the baseboard. He moved closer, pulling a nitrile glove from his pocket and stretching it over his paw. Crouching down, he carefully picked up what had caught his attention: a single strand of hair, deep orange in color, stark against the dark wood of the floor.

He examined it closely, turning it between his fingers. It was too thick to be the victim's. He placed it in an evidence bag, his mind already piecing together the puzzle. Someone had been here, someone who had taken the time to cover his tracks, but had missed this one small detail. A mistake.

But as Garrick stepped back into the hallway, his thoughts darkened. The method, the precision, the lack of evidence—it all pointed to a chilling possibility. This wasn't a random act of violence. This was a message. And deep down, he knew exactly who it was from.

***

The victim was Nichole Johnson, a young red fox with a promising career ahead of her. Garrick had spent the last two days digging through her life, trying to find something—anything—that would lead him to whoever had ended it. Her coworkers painted a picture of a bright, ambitious woman, well-liked, with no obvious enemies. Her apartment building was quiet, the neighbors unaware of the violence that had unfolded just doors away. There were no signs of forced entry, no witnesses, no nothing. It was as if the killer had simply walked in, done what he came to do, and vanished without a trace.

Garrick sat at his desk, staring at the case file, the weight of frustration settling in his chest. The press was already sniffing around, sensing a story. He could feel the pressure building, the whispers in the precinct growing louder with each passing hour. But he had nothing. No leads, no suspects, just a single strand of orange hair and a growing sense of dread.

And then, the report came in. The medical examiner's final findings. Garrick opened the file, his eyes scanning the pages until he found the section he'd been dreading. The water in Nichole's lungs wasn't just any water. It contained specific microbes, a unique blend of algae and bacteria that could only be found in one place: the same lake where Matthias Rooker's sister had drowned.

Garrick's blood ran cold. This was impossible. Rooker was locked up, serving a life sentence. There was no way he could have done this. But the evidence was undeniable. Someone was copying his M.O., down to the last detail. And the only ones who knew about the water were the people who had worked the case.

Garrick's mind raced. Who else had access to that information? The prosecutor? The judge? The medical examiner? He pushed the thought aside, refusing to believe that anyone on his team could be involved. But the possibility gnawed at him, a dark shadow he couldn't escape. Someone was out there, someone who knew the case inside and out, and they were playing a twisted game.

Garrick's phone rang, jolting him from his thoughts. He picked it up, his voice sharp. "Garrick."

"Got the results from the hair," the voice on the other end said. "It's a tiger's. Male. No match in the system." Garrick's grip tightened around the receiver, his mind flashing back to the crime scene. A tiger. It was the first real break they had, but it raised more questions than answers. Who was this guy, why was he mimicking The Baptist, and how did he know about the lake water?

Garrick hung up, the gears in his mind already turning. He needed to find this tiger, and fast. But as he stood up, preparing to head back out into the rain-soaked streets of Grayside, a sickening realization settled over him. This wasn't just a copycat. This was personal. Someone was targeting him, using the one case that had made his career to tear it all down. And if Garrick didn't stop him, more bodies would follow.

***

The precinct the next morning was abuzz when Garrick arrived, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and whispered speculation. The moment he stepped inside, all eyes were on him. He could feel the weight of their stares, the unspoken questions hanging in the air like a storm cloud about to break.

Before he could make it to his desk, the Captain's door swung open. "Garrick. My office. Now."

Captain Ilya stood behind his desk, his arms crossed, his expression a mixture of frustration and concern. "You've seen the news?"

Garrick shook his head, his jaw tight. "I just got here."

Ilya tossed a newspaper onto the desk, the headline blaring in bold, black letters: "KILLER ON THE LOOSE? THE BAPTIST MAY HAVE STRUCK AGAIN!" Below it, a smaller subheading read, "Detective Lucas Garrick Under Fire as New Murder Mirrors Infamous Case."

Garrick picked up the paper, scanning the article quickly. It was worse than he'd imagined. The reporter had dug up every detail of the original case, painting Garrick as the hero cop who might have gotten it wrong. The implication was clear: if this new murder was connected to The Baptist, then maybe Rooker wasn't the right guy. Maybe the real killer was still out there.

"This is a disaster," Ilya said, his voice low and strained. "The mayor's office is already fielding calls. The press is calling for an internal review. We need to get ahead of this, Garrick. What the hell is going on?"

Garrick tossed the paper back onto the desk, his frustration boiling over. "I don't know yet. But I will."

Ilya's eyes narrowed. "You better. Because if this blows up, it's not just your career on the line. It's all of ours." He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I need you to find this guy, and I need you to do it fast. Before the press decides you're the story."

Garrick nodded, already turning toward the door. "I'm on it."

He stepped back into the bullpen, the noise of the precinct fading into the background as his mind focused on the task ahead. He needed to find the tiger, and he needed to do it before the media turned this into a circus. The clock was ticking, and Garrick could feel the noose tightening around his neck with every passing second.

***

Garrick's mind raced as he made his way back to his desk. The press had the bit between their teeth now, and they weren't going to let go. The story was too good—hero cop, notorious killer, possible miscarriage of justice. It had all the makings of a media frenzy.

He sat down, pulling up the case file on his computer. The tiger hair was the only lead they had, but it wasn't enough. They needed more. He needed to figure out who knew about the lake water, who had access to the case files, and who had a reason to target him. The list was short, but the possibilities were terrifying.

Garrick's thoughts kept circling back to one name: Matthias Rooker. The guy was locked up, but that didn't mean he couldn't pull strings from behind bars. Garrick had made plenty of enemies over the years, but none as dangerous as Rooker. If anyone had the motive and the means to orchestrate something like this, it was him.

But how? Rooker was isolated, monitored closely. There was no way he could have done this himself. Unless he had help. Someone on the outside, someone with access to the case. The thought made Garrick's stomach turn. He needed to talk to Rooker, to see if the guy was behind this, or if someone else was using his M.O. to send a message.

Garrick grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. The rain was coming down harder now, the streets of Grayside slick with water that mirrored the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. He needed answers, and he needed them fast. Because if he didn't find the killer soon, the next headline might just be about him.

***

The prison loomed in the distance, a stark, gray structure against the overcast sky. Garrick had been here before, but this time felt different. The weight of the case pressed down on him, heavier than the rain-soaked air. As he stepped inside, the familiar scent of disinfectant and despair filled his nostrils. The guard led him through the maze of corridors, their footsteps echoing off the concrete walls.

When they reached the visitation room, Garrick took a seat, his eyes fixed on the door. A few minutes later, Matthias Rooker was led in, his hooves clanking against the floor with each step. The appaloosa hadn't changed much since the trial. His fur was still a mix of brown and white, his eyes cold and calculating. He sat down across from Garrick, a smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Detective Garrick," Rooker said, his voice smooth and measured. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Garrick leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. "You know why I'm here. Another girl's dead. Same M.O. as yours."

Rooker's smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. "That's terrible. But what does that have to do with me? I'm right here, as you can see."

Garrick's fists clenched under the table. "Don't play games with me, Rooker. Someone's copying you. Someone who knows details about the case that weren't made public."

Rooker tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "Details? Like what?"

"Like the water. The lake where your sister died. That's not something you just stumble upon. Someone's using your playbook, and I think you know who."

Rooker's expression shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing. "You think I had something to do with this? After all this time, you still think I'm pulling the strings?"

"I know you are," Garrick shot back, his voice low and dangerous. "You've got nothing to lose, and everything to gain by making me look like a fool."

Rooker leaned back, his hooves tapping lightly on the floor. "You know, Detective, I always maintained my innocence at the trial. I told them I was being set up. But no one wanted to listen. They needed a villain, and I fit the bill."

Garrick's patience was wearing thin. "You're not going to wiggle your way out of this. If you're behind this, I'll find out. And I'll make sure you never see the light of day again."

Rooker's smile returned, colder than before. "You're welcome to try, Detective. But I think you'll find that the truth is much more complicated than you'd like to believe."

Garrick stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "This isn't over, Rooker."

Rooker watched him go, his expression unreadable. "No, Detective. It's just getting started."

As Garrick walked out of the prison, the downpour had slowed to a drizzle, the light droplets sticking to his ears. He knew Rooker was lying, but he also knew the guy was smart—too smart to leave a trail. If he was involved, he'd covered his tracks well. But Garrick wasn't going to let him get away with it. He had to find the tiger, had to figure out who was pulling the strings before another girl ended up dead.

***

Back at the precinct, the atmosphere had shifted. The buzz of earlier had been replaced by a tense silence, the weight of the investigation pressing down on everyone. Garrick made his way to his desk, his mind still racing from the conversation with Rooker. He needed to focus, to find something—anything—that could lead him to the tiger.

He pulled up the forensic report again, staring at the single piece of evidence they had: the hair. It was a long shot, but it was all they had. He needed to figure out who it belonged to, and fast. The problem was, there were thousands of tigers in Grayside, and without a match in the system, they were back to square one.

Garrick's thoughts turned back to Rooker. The guy was a psychopath, but he wasn't working alone. Someone on the outside was helping him, pulling the strings while he sat in his cell, playing the puppet master. But who? And why?

Garrick picked up the phone, dialing the number for the prison. "I need to see Rooker's visitor logs," he said when the guard answered. "And any correspondence he's had since he was locked up."

The guard on the other end hesitated. "That's going to take some time, Detective."

Garrick's grip on the phone tightened. "I don't care how long it takes. Just get it done."

As he hung up, Garrick felt a flicker of hope. If Rooker had been in contact with someone on the outside, maybe there was a trail to follow. But it was a long shot, and Garrick knew it. He needed something more, something concrete. And time was running out.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. The press was already calling for blood, and if he didn't come up with answers soon, they'd be calling for his. The thought made his stomach churn, but he pushed it aside. He couldn't afford to think about that now. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it, no matter what it took.

The rain had picked up again, the sound of it drumming against the windows of the precinct. Garrick stared out into the gray afternoon, his mind already piecing together the next steps. He was going to find this guy, and when he did, there would be hell to pay. But first, he needed to figure out who the hell he was looking for.

***

The next morning, Garrick arrived at the precinct to find a stack of files waiting for him on his desk. The prison had finally sent over Rooker's visitor logs and correspondence. He flipped through them quickly, his eyes scanning the names and dates. Most of the visitors were family, a few old friends, nothing out of the ordinary. But then, one name stood out: Roman Stryke.

Garrick frowned, trying to place the name. It wasn't familiar, but something about it nagged at him. He pulled up the department's database, typing in the name. Nothing. He opened a web search and quickly found the answer. Roman Stryke was a lawyer, a high-profile defense attorney known for taking on controversial cases. And recently, he'd taken on Matthias Rooker's.

Garrick's gut tightened. Why would Rooker need a new lawyer now, after all this time? And why this guy? He dug deeper, pulling up Stryke's client list, his cases, anything that could give him a clue. But there was nothing that stood out, nothing that connected him to the murder.

Until he found the photo.

It was an old article, a profile on Stryke from a few years back. The photo showed Stryke standing in front of a courthouse, his fur a deep orange, his eyes sharp and confident. Garrick's breath caught in his throat. He pulled up the evidence photo from the crime scene, the single strand of tiger hair. The color was a match.

Garrick's mind raced. Could it be? Was Stryke the tiger they were looking for? It seemed too easy, too convenient. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Stryke had access to Rooker, he knew the details of the case, and he was exactly the kind of man come up with this scam.

Garrick's thoughts were interrupted by the sharp rap of knuckles on his cubicle wall. He looked up to see Captain Ilya standing there, his arms crossed and his expression grim. "Garrick. My office."

Garrick nodded, already pushing back his chair. He could feel the eyes of his fellow detectives on him as he followed Ilya into his office, the air thick with unspoken questions. Ilya closed the door behind them, the sound echoing in the tense silence.

"I just got off the phone with the mayor," he said, his voice low. "The public's in an uproar. They want answers, and they want them now."

Garrick sighed, running a hand through his fur. "I know. I'm working on it."

Ilya's eyes narrowed. "Working on it isn't good enough, Garrick. We need a break in this case, and we need it yesterday. The press is calling for your head, and if we don't give them something soon, they'll get it."

Garrick met the bull's gaze, his jaw set. "I've got a lead. A lawyer named Roman Stryke. He's been visiting Rooker, and I think he might be involved."

Ilya raised an eyebrow. "You think a lawyer is behind this?"

Garrick nodded. "It's a stretch, I know. But he's got the means, the motive, and the opportunity. And his fur matches the hair we found at the scene."

Ilya stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. "Alright. But you need to be sure, Garrick. If you're wrong about this, it's going to blow up in our faces."

Garrick nodded, already turning toward the door. Garrick strode back to his desk, the precinct's muted noise fading into the background as his thoughts zeroed in on the leak. If Stryke was Rooker's accomplice, then he had to be the source—someone with intimate knowledge of the case, someone who knew about the lake water. His eyes caught a copy of the newspaper on a nearby desk, the same headline that had turned his morning upside down. He glanced at the byline: James Collins. Of course. Collins had a reputation for digging where he shouldn't, for getting stories no one else could.

At his desk, Garrick picked up the phone, his fingers moving with practiced precision. He dialed The Herald's number, the familiar ring echoing in his ear. "Yes, this is Detective Garrick, GPD. Can you connect me to James Collins, please?" A pause, then, "Yes, I'll hold."

The line clicked, and a voice came through, smooth as whiskey. "Detective. How can I help you?"

"I want to talk," Garrick said, his voice low. "Mind meeting me at The Daily Grind coffee?"

"The one on Ninth?"

"That's the one. Thirty minutes."

Garrick hung up, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. He needed to know what Collins had been told, and by whom. As he walked out of the precinct, he noted the clear sky, a rarity this time of year. He slid into his car, the engine turning over with a low rumble, and headed toward Ninth.

***

The coffee shop was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of roasted beans and fresh pastries. Garrick found a booth in the back, the leather cracked but still comfortable. He ordered a black coffee, his eyes fixed on the door. A few minutes later, Collins walked in, a black lab with a sharp, confident stride. He spotted Garrick and made his way over, sliding into the opposite seat with a casual ease.

"Detective," Collins greeted, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp. "What's this about?"

Garrick took a sip of his coffee, studying the journalist. "I want to know where you got your information."

Collins leaned back, crossing his arms. "You know I can't reveal my sources."

"I'm not asking for names," Garrick said, his voice steady. "I just need to know who's feeding you this story. Is it someone close to Rooker? Someone who had access to the case files?"

Collins's expression didn't waver. "I'm just doing my job, Detective. The public has a right to know."

Garrick leaned forward, his gaze steady. "And what about the truth? Does the public have a right to that, too? Or are you just chasing headlines?"

Collins's jaw tightened. "I printed the facts as they were given to me. If you've got a problem with that, take it up with the facts."

Garrick felt a surge of frustration, but he kept it in check. "You're being used, Collins. Someone's feeding you information to make me look bad, to get Rooker off the hook. And you're playing right into their hands."

Collins's posture sharpened, his eyes holding Garrick's with a flicker of intrigue. "If you've got proof, I'd love to see it. Otherwise, I've got a job to do."

Garrick's jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck cording with frustration. He stared at Collins across the scarred table, the black lab's expression maddeningly neutral. The coffee between them had gone cold, forgotten in the tense silence of the booth.

"Alright," Garrick said, his voice low and gravelly. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on chipped table. "I'll make you a deal. One guess. Yes or no. And when I crack this case, you're my first call."

Collins's ears twitched, a flicker of interest in his dark eyes. He ran a paw over his chin, considering the offer. The coffee shop's low murmur of conversation seemed to fade into the background as the two of them sat locked in their silent negotiation.

"One guess," Collins repeated, testing the words. "About what?"

"Your source's name," Garrick said, his eyes locked onto Collins's. "Just a name. You give me that, and I'll give you the exclusive when I bring this whole thing down."

Collins studied him for a long moment, the low light casting shadows across his muzzle. He knew the risk. A single word could blow his source's cover, could burn a bridge he might need later. But Garrick's reputation for closing cases was ironclad. The promise of an exclusive on a story this big was too good to pass up.

"Alright, Detective. Deal."

Garrick's eyes didn't waver. "Roman Stryke."

Collins's composure cracked for a split second—just a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes before the professional mask slid back into place. He didn't speak, just gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "First call when this breaks?"

"First call," Garrick confirmed, tossing a few bills onto the table. The coffee sat untouched between them, cold as the conversation that had just transpired. He stood, the booth's leather creaking in protest, and walked out without looking back.

The afternoon air hit him as he stepped outside, crisp and carrying the familiar dampness of Grayside. Confirmation. That's what he had now—not proof, but the thread he needed to pull. As he slid into his car, his mind was already working ahead, methodically piecing together how to turn this lead into something solid.

The precinct could wait. He turned the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life, but instead of heading back toward the familiar gray building, he took a left. A detour. The law offices of Henson and Stryke were just ten blocks away.

***

Garrick pulled his unmarked sedan into the last empty space in front of the sleek glass building that housed Henson and Stryke. The rain had picked up again, streaking down his windshield as he killed the engine. As he sat there, watching the city's lights blur through the water-streaked glass, his mind worked. He needed more than Collins's confirmation—he needed proof, something tangible to connect Roman Stryke to Nichole Johnson's murder. He'd figured out the rest of the plan on the short drive over, a way to get his second confirmation that he was on the right track. It wasn't legal, it wasn't clean, but it would get him what he needed: a DNA sample from Roman Stryke, whether the tiger lawyer knew he was giving it or not.

The law office of Henson and Stryke was located in one of the more upscale parts of Grayside, the kind of place where the carpets were plush and the air smelled of money. Garrick stepped inside, shaking the rain from his fur as he approached the receptionist. "I need to see Mr. Stryke," he said, trying to sound casual.

The receptionist, a sleek black cat, looked him up and down, her expression unimpressed. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No," Garrick said, flashing his badge. "But it's important."

The cat's eyes narrowed slightly, but she picked up the phone, dialing Stryke's office. After a brief conversation, she hung up and nodded toward the elevator. "Third floor. He'll see you."

Garrick stepped into the elevator, his heart pounding as the doors slid shut. This was the first step, the one that would either confirm his suspicions or send him back to square one. When the doors opened again, he stepped into a hallway lined with expensive art, the kind that said we win our cases. He found Stryke's office at the end of the hall, the door slightly ajar. Garrick knocked once before pushing it open.

Stryke stood and walked over to Garrick as he entered. He was even more imposing in person, his frame towering over Garrick's as he extended a paw. "Detective Garrick," he said, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. "What can I do for you?"

Garrick shook his paw, trying to keep his expression neutral. "Just need to ask you a few questions about Matthias Rooker."

Stryke's smile didn't waver. "Of course. Please, come in."

Garrick followed him into the office, his eyes scanning the room for anything that could help him. It was a typical lawyer's office, all dark wood and leather, with a large desk dominating the space. Stryke motioned for him to sit, then took his own seat behind the desk.

"What can I help you with, Detective?" Stryke asked, leaning back in his chair.

Garrick leaned forward, his eyes locked on Stryke's. "I'm sure you've heard about the recent murder. The one that mirrors Rooker's M.O."

Stryke nodded, his expression unreadable. "I have. Terrible business."

"I need to know if Rooker's mentioned anything to you. If he's given you any indication that he might be involved."

Stryke's eyes narrowed slightly, but his tone remained calm. "Matthias has maintained his innocence from the beginning. He has nothing to do with this."

Garrick watched him closely, looking for any sign of a lie. But Stryke was good, too good. He didn't give anything away, his demeanor as cool and collected as ever. But Garrick wasn't ready to give up. He needed to get something, anything, that could tie Stryke to the crime.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. One of Stryke's assistants stepped in, carrying two cups of water. "Thought you might like some refreshments," she said, placing the cups on the desk.

Garrick's eyes flicked to the cups, an idea forming in his mind. He waited until the assistant left, then reached for one of the cups, taking a small sip. "Thanks," he said, setting the cup back down.

Stryke took a sip from his own cup, his eyes never leaving Garrick's. "Besides, even if he had given me any indication, I couldn't tell you, attorney client privilege."

"You've taken him on as a client?" Garrick asked.

"I have," Stryke replied, his tone confident. "I believe he deserves a fair trial, don't you?"

Garrick leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. He needed to get that cup, to get Stryke's DNA. But he couldn't just grab it, not without raising suspicion. He needed a distraction, something that would give him the opening he needed.

He glanced around the room, his eyes landing on a framed photo on the shelf behind the lawyer. It was a picture of Stryke with a well-known celebrity client, the two of them smiling at the camera. "I didn't know you represented him," Garrick said, nodding toward the photo.

Stryke's eyes followed his gaze, a flicker of pride crossing his face. "Yes, he's one of my high-profile clients. A very successful case."

Garrick seized the opportunity. As Stryke looked away, he reached out, switching their cups. It was a small move, subtle, but it was enough. He quickly picked up his own cup, pretending to take another sip as if nothing had happened.

Stryke turned back to him, oblivious to the switch. "Is there anything else, Detective?"

Garrick shook his head, standing up. "No, that's all for now. Thanks for your time."

Stryke stood as well, extending his paw again. "Anytime, Detective. I'm always happy to cooperate with law enforcement."

Garrick shook his paw, his grip firm. He could feel the weight of the cup in his other paw, the DNA that could be the key to everything. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, then turned and walked out of the office, his heart racing with anticipation.

As he stepped back into the elevator, Garrick allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. He had what he needed. Now it was just a matter of getting it to the lab and waiting for the results. And if they matched the hair from the crime scene, Garrick would have the confirmation he needed.

***

The lab was quiet when Garrick arrived, the only sound the hum of the machines processing evidence from other cases. He approached the tech at the counter, a gray-furred rabbit who looked up from his work with a curious expression.

"Got something for you Gunny," Garrick said, placing the cup on the counter. "Need you to run a DNA test on it. Discreetly."

The rabbit raised an eyebrow. "What's this for?"

"Just need to know if it matches this," Garrick said, sliding the evidence bag with the hair across the counter. "But keep it quiet. I don't want anyone else knowing about this until I'm sure."

Gunny nodded, his paws moving quickly to log the evidence. "I'll have it for you by tomorrow."

Garrick breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks Gunny. I owe you one."

He left the lab, the rain still coming down outside. He needed to be patient, to wait for the results before making his next move. But the waiting was torture. Every second that ticked by was another second that Stryke could be covering his tracks, getting rid of any evidence that could tie him to the crime. Garrick just hoped he wasn't too late.

That night, he couldn't sleep. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying the conversation with Stryke over and over again. The guy was cool, too cool. But Garrick knew better than to trust a smooth talker, especially one who had Matthias Rooker as a client. If Stryke was involved, he'd find out.

***

The next morning, Garrick was at the precinct before the sun came up, his nerves on edge as he waited for the lab results. He paced the small space behind his desk, checking his phone every few minutes, as if the results would magically appear before the lab even opened. When his phone finally buzzed, he snatched it up, his heart pounding as he read the message: DNA match confirmed.

Garrick let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. It was him. Stryke was the tiger they'd been looking for. But now came the hard part: proving it. His sample was inadmissible, and without a matching sample he had no probable cause to bring the tiger in for questioning.

He needed more, something that would hold up in court. He needed to get Stryke to slip up, to make a mistake that would tie him directly to the murder. But how? The guy was smart, careful. He wasn't going to just confess.

Garrick's mind raced as he tried to come up with a plan. He needed to create a situation where Stryke would feel pressured, where he'd have to make a move that would expose him.

And then it hit him, a thought so dirty it felt right at home in the perpetual grime of Grayside. He needed one thread of probable cause, just enough to pull Stryke into the web he'd been weaving around Rooker. He didn't have to walk a straight line to catch a crooked man.

Garrick pushed back from his desk, the chair scraping against the worn linoleum. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and strode out of the bullpen, ignoring the curious glances from his fellow detectives. The rain was coming down in sheets now, the kind that soaks through to the bone, but he barely noticed as he made his way to his car.

He drove through the slick streets of Grayside, the city's lights blurring through his rain-streaked windshield. The prison loomed in the distance, a stark, gray structure against the overcast sky. He knew what he had to do, even if it meant getting his hands dirty in the process.

At the prison, Garrick signed in and made his way to the visitation area. He'd asked for Ian Wali, an inmate serving a life sentence for murder. Wali had been put away by another detective, a fact Garrick was counting on. He needed someone who didn't have a personal stake in his downfall, someone who would be willing to make a deal.

When Wali was brought in, the coyote looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He was a scruffy-looking guy, with a scar running down the side of his muzzle and eyes that had seen too much.

"What do you want, Detective?" Wali asked, his voice rough.

Garrick leaned forward, his voice low. "I need you to do something for me. It's simple, and it'll be worth your while."

Wali's ears perked up at that. "I'm listening."

"I need you to tell the Warden you overheard Rooker talking about his lawyer, Roman Stryke. Tell him Rooker said Stryke was the one who killed that girl, Nichole Johnson."

Wali's eyes narrowed. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I'll make it worth your time," Garrick said, sliding a folded envelope across the table. "There's a grand in there. All you have to do is tell the Warden what I said. That's it."

Wali stared at the envelope, his paw twitching as if he wanted to grab it. "What's in it for you?"

Garrick leaned back, his expression unreadable. "Let's just say I need to rattle some cages. This'll help me do that."

Wali hesitated for a moment, then snatched the envelope, tucking it into his pocket. "Alright. But if this blows up in my face, I'm coming for you."

Garrick stood up, his expression grim. "It won't. Just do your part, and we're good."

As he walked out of the prison, the rain still pouring down, Garrick felt a sick twist in his gut. He hated playing dirty, but sometimes it was the only way to get the job done. And if it meant bringing Stryke down, it was worth it.

Back at the precinct, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Garrick sat back at his desk, idly perusing the Johnson case. The file felt heavier today, the pages worn from his constant flipping. He traced the edge of a photograph of Nichole Johnson, her russet fur a stark contrast against the sterile backdrop of the morgue. He knew it wouldn't be long before he'd be called into Captain Ilya's office; the fuse had been lit, he just needed to wait for the detonation.

An hour later, his phone buzzed. The Captain's voice was sharp through the receiver. "Garrick. My office. Now."

The bullpen was quieter than usual when he walked past, the other detectives stealing glances at him as he made his way down the hall. Garrick didn't acknowledge them, his eyes fixed on the frosted glass of the Captain's door. Inside, Ilya was already pacing, his hooves wearing out the linoleum floor, his arms crossed and his ears pinned back in agitation.

"Close the door," the bull barked, not even looking up as he entered.

He did as he was told, the click of the latch punctuating the tension in the room. "What's going on, Captain?" he asked, keeping his voice even.

Ilya finally stopped pacing, turning to face him with a glare that could cut through steel. "The Warden just called. One of Rooker's cellmates claims Rooker implicated his lawyer in the Johnson murder. What the hell have you done, Garrick?"

He didn't flinch. "I didn't do anything, Captain. But I know how to use the information I've got."

The captain's eyes narrowed. "Don't play games with me. This smells like a setup."

Garrick shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "Maybe it is. But it's also probable cause. We can bring Stryke in for questioning now, legally. That's all we need."

He stared at him for a long moment, his jaw tight. "You're treading on thin ice, Garrick. If this blows up—"

"It won't," he interrupted, pushing off the doorframe. "I've got a DNA match from the scene. All I need is a legal sample to make it stick. This is just the lever we need to get it."

Ilya exhaled sharply, his ears relaxing slightly. "Fine. But this is your mess. You clean it up."

Garrick nodded, already turning to leave. "I will."

As he stepped back into the bullpen, the low hum of conversation followed him to his desk. He could feel the weight of his colleagues' stares, but he didn't care. The game was in motion, and Roman Stryke was about to find himself in the crosshairs. All Garrick had to do now was wait for the tiger to make his move.

***

The next day, Garrick sat in the interrogation room, the air thick with anticipation. Roman Stryke had been brought in, his expression calm, almost bored, as if this was just another day at the office. Garrick watched him through the one-way mirror, his jaw clenched. This was it. The moment he'd been waiting for.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Stryke looked up, his eyes cold and calculating. "Detective Garrick. What a surprise. Have more questions about Matthias?"

Garrick took a seat across from him, his gaze unwavering. "We have a witness who says you were involved in Nichole Johnson's murder."

Stryke raised an eyebrow, but his expression didn't change. "Is that so? And who might this witness be?"

"Someone who overheard Rooker talking about it," Garrick said, watching closely for any sign of a reaction.

Stryke's lips twitched into a smirk. "I see. And you believe this person? A convicted felon?"

Garrick leaned forward, his voice low. "I believe what the evidence tells me. And right now, it's telling me you're involved."

Stryke's smirk widened. "You'll have to do better than that, Detective. I have an alibi for the night of the murder."

Garrick's gut tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. "Let's hear it."

"I was at home," Stryke said, his tone confident. "Working late. I have a receipt from a La Belle Notte that delivered dinner to my place that night. You can check it."

Garrick didn't let his disappointment show. He knew Stryke was lying, but he needed proof. "We'll check it," he said, standing up. "But this isn't over."

Stryke leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I'm sure it's not. But I've got nothing to hide."

As Garrick walked out of the interrogation room, his mind raced. He needed to find a way to break Stryke's alibi, to find the crack in his story. Because if he didn't, Stryke would walk, and Garrick's career would be over.

***

Garrick stormed back to his desk, his mind racing. He couldn't let Stryke get away with this. He needed to find a way to prove the alibi was fake. He sat down, pulling up the restaurant's records on his computer. The receipt was there, just as Stryke had said. But something didn't add up. The timing was too perfect, too convenient. Garrick needed to dig deeper.

He picked up the phone, dialing the restaurant. "This is Detective Garrick with the GPD. I need to speak to the driver who delivered a meal to Roman Stryke two nights ago."

The woman on the other end of the line hesitated. "I'll have to check our records. Can you hold?"

Garrick waited, his patience wearing thin. After a few minutes, the woman came back on the line. "I found the driver. His name is Tom. He's not here right now, but I can give you his number."

Garrick scribbled down the number, then hung up, dialing immediately. The phone rang a few times before a gruff voice answered. "Hello?"

"Tom? This is Detective Garrick with the GPD. I need to ask you about a delivery you made the other night."

Tom hesitated, his voice wary. "Yeah? What about it?"

"You delivered a meal to Roman Stryke, right?"

"Yeah, that's right. What's this about?"

"Did you see Mr. Stryke when you delivered the food?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then Tom said, "No. I just handed it to the guy at the door."

Garrick's heart pounded. "What guy?"

"I don't know. Some coyote. Said he was Mr. Stryke's assistant or something. Gave me a big tip, told me to just leave it at the door."

Garrick's mind raced. This was it. The crack in Stryke's alibi. "Can you describe him?"

"Looked like a young guy, maybe twenties," Tom said, his voice raspy through the phone. "Wore one of those white collared shirts, clean as a whistle, with black slacks. Definitely a coyote, you could tell by the snout. Thin, wiry type. The kind you'd expect to see running errands for a big shot lawyer, not the lawyer himself."

Garrick scribbled the description down, his pulse quickening.

"Mind sending me a selfie?" he asked, his voice steady despite the rush of adrenaline.

"Sure, I'll text it over."

"Thanks, Tom. You've been a big help."

He hung up, his mind already working through the next steps. If Stryke wasn't home when the food was delivered, then his alibi was a lie. But he needed more. He needed to catch Stryke in that lie, to get him to admit he wasn't home that night.

Garrick sat back down across from Stryke. The lawyer lounged in his chair like he owned the place. "Let's go over this again," Garrick began, his tone casual. "You said you were home all night, working. Alone."

Stryke nodded, his expression smug. "That's right. Alone."

"And you received a food delivery that night."

"Yes. I ordered dinner from La Belle Notte. It was delivered to my home."

Garrick leaned forward, his eyes locked on Stryke's. "And you were the one who received the delivery?"

Stryke's confidence faltered for just a second, but he recovered quickly. "Of course. Who else would it be?"

Garrick pulled out his phone, opening the selfie from Tom. "Ever seen this guy?"

Stryke's eyes flicked to the photo, and for the first time, Garrick saw a crack in his composure. The lawyer's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "No," he said, his voice a little too quick. "Never seen him before."

Garrick smiled, but it was cold. "That's funny. Because he's the one that delivered your food." He slid the photo across the table, watching as Stryke's facade began to crumble. "Care to explain why he says he handed the food to a coyote at your door?"

Stryke's eyes flashed with anger, but he quickly masked it. "I don't know what you're talking about. He must be mistaken."

Garrick shook his head. "I don't think so. I think you're lying, Mr. Stryke. And I think you know exactly who that coyote is."

Stryke didn't respond, his silence speaking volumes. Garrick knew he had him. But Stryke didn't budge. He just sat there, his expression unreadable, as if he was already planning his next move.

Garrick leaned back, crossing his arms. "We'll see what a jury thinks of your alibi. In the meantime, you're under arrest for the murder of Nichole Johnson."

Stryke's eyes flashed with fury, but he didn't say a word as Garrick cuffed him. The fight was far from over, but Garrick knew he'd won this round. And as he led Stryke out of the interrogation room, he couldn't help but feel a grim satisfaction.

***

Back in the squad room, Garrick handed Stryke off to the officers, his mind already moving to the next phase. He signaled to one of the lab techs, a sharp-eyed wolf named Lila. She approached, her expression curious.

"Swab him," Garrick said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Standard procedure."

Lila nodded, her eyes flicking toward tiger, lightly pulling away from the officers restraining him. "You got it, Detective."

Garrick watched as she walked over, her movements efficient and practiced. Stryke recoiled as she approached, his lips curling in a snarl. "You have no right to do this," he growled, but Lila didn't flinch. She swabbed the inside of his cheek with a quick, precise motion, then sealed the sample in a sterile bag.

"Thanks," Garrick said. "Rush it."

"You got it," Lila replied, already heading back to the lab.

Captain Ilya stood at the edge of the room, watching the exchange. He stepped forward as Lila walked away. "You're sure about this?"

Garrick nodded, his eyes fixed on Stryke. "He's lying. I just need to prove it."

Ilya crossed his arms, his expression skeptical. "The press is going to have a field day with this. You know that, right?"

Garrick's jaw tightened. "Let them. I've got this."

He studied him for a moment, then sighed. "I hope so, Garrick. Because if you're wrong, we're all going down with you."

He didn't respond, just watched as the officers led Stryke to the back. The tiger's eyes met his one last time, the hatred in them unmistakable. Garrick held his gaze, unflinching, until the door swung shut behind them.

He turned back to his desk, his mind already moving ahead to the next step. The trial, the evidence, the media—it was all going to be a shitstorm, but Garrick was ready. He'd been through worse, and this time, he had the truth on his side. All he had to do was see it through to the end.

***

The courtroom was packed, the air thick with tension. Reporters lined the back, their cameras ready, while the public filled the gallery, their whispers a low hum of anticipation. Garrick sat in the front row, his eyes fixed on the judge's bench, his jaw tight. This was it. The moment of truth.

Roman Stryke sat at the defense table, his expression cool and composed, as if he wasn't the one on trial. Garrick watched him, his mind replaying every move Stryke had made, every lie he'd told. But now, the lies were about to catch up with him.

The prosecutor stood, her voice steady as she addressed the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence in this case is clear. Roman Stryke is a cunning, manipulative individual who conspired with Matthias Rooker to commit a heinous crime. The DNA evidence, the witness testimony, the lies—it all points to one conclusion: Roman Stryke is guilty."

Garrick listened as she laid out the case, piece by piece, the evidence stacking up against Stryke. The DNA match, the fake alibi, the connection to Rooker—it was all there, undeniable. But Garrick knew better than to relax. Stryke was a snake, and he wouldn't go down without a fight.

When the prosecutor finished, the defense attorney stood, his voice smooth and persuasive. "The prosecution has painted my client as a villain, but the truth is far more complicated. Mr. Stryke is a respected lawyer, a man who has dedicated his life to upholding the law. The evidence against him is circumstantial at best, and the real killer is still out there. Matthias Rooker is the one pulling the strings, not my client."

Garrick clenched his fists under the table, his anger rising. He knew exactly what Stryke was doing—trying to shift the blame, to create doubt where there was none. The defense was the first to call their witness. "The defense calls Detective Lucas Garrick."

Garrick stood, making his way to the stand. He swore in, his eyes locked on Stryke as he took his seat. The defense attorney approached, his tone condescending.

"Detective Garrick, you're the one who arrested Mr. Stryke, correct?"

"That's right."

"And you based that arrest on a witness statement from a convicted felon, isn't that right?"

Garrick nodded. "Yes, but—"

"No further questions, your honor," the attorney interrupted, walking back to his seat.

The prosecutor stood, her expression determined. "Detective Garrick, you also obtained a DNA sample from Mr. Stryke, correct?"

"I did."

"And what did that sample show?"

Garrick looked directly at the jury. "It matched the hair found at the crime scene. The crime scene where Nichole Johnson was murdered."

A murmur rippled through the courtroom, but Garrick didn't look away. He could feel Stryke's eyes on him, but he didn't care. He was here for one thing: to see justice served.

The prosecutor continued, her voice unwavering. "And what about the alibi Mr. Stryke claimed? The one where he said he was home alone?"

Garrick's jaw tightened. "It was a lie. The delivery driver testified that he handed the food to someone else, a coyote, not Mr. Stryke. Stryke wasn't home that night. He was with the victim."

The courtroom was silent, the weight of Garrick's words hanging in the air. He could see the doubt in the jurors' eyes, the realization that Stryke was guilty. "No more questions for the detective your honor." Garrick stepped down and walked back to the gallery. He could feel Stryke's eyes burning a hole through him. He flashed a quick grin before returning to his normal neutral expression. The prosecutor moved to call her next witness.

Matthias Rooker entered the room, his hooves clicking on the floor as he made his way to the stand. He was cuffed, his expression cold and unreadable, but Garrick could see the flicker of amusement in his eyes. This was all a game to him, a sick, twisted game where he held all the cards.

The prosecutor wasted no time. "Mr. Rooker, did you conspire with Roman Stryke to commit the murder of Nichole Johnson?"

Rooker smiled, a slow, deliberate smile that sent a chill down Garrick's spine. "I did."

The prosecutor stepped forward, her voice sharp as broken glass. "Whose idea was it, Mr. Rooker?"

Rooker leaned into the microphone, his lips curling. "Does it matter who struck the match when the whole house burns down?" He paused. "The lawyer came to me. Smelled blood in the water. Wanted to help me turn the city against its hero." His eyes flickered toward Garrick, cold and calculating. "He wanted a payday. I wanted revenge. A perfect partnership."

Garrick's blood ran cold as Rooker described the plan in detail, how Stryke had killed Nichole Johnson, how he'd leaked the details to the press to create chaos. The jury listened, their expressions grim, as Rooker laid it all out, his voice calm, almost detached.

The prosecutor finished, and the defense attorney rose from his seat, adjusting his tie as he approached the stand. His voice was smooth, calculated, designed to plant seeds of doubt in the minds of the jurors.

"Mr. Rooker," he began, his gaze fixed on the equine inmate. "Is it not a fact that this was not Mr. Stryke's scheme? That it was, in fact, yours?"

Rooker shook his head, his expression unwavering. "No, it's not."

The attorney pressed on, his tone insistent. "Mr. Rooker, is it not a fact that you requested a consult with Mr. Stryke? That you asked him to represent you for an appeal?"

Rooker's eyes flickered, a brief spark of defiance in their depths. "No, he came to me."

The attorney leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mr. Rooker, is it not a fact that you threatened Mr. Stryke and his family?"

Rooker's composure finally cracked, his lips curling into a sneer. "No," he spat, his voice low and dangerous. "That's a lie."

Garrick could hear Stryke's words in the attorney's questions. He wanted to try to lay all the blame on Rooker. He chuckled quietly, Stryke was digging his own grave, and he was using his own attorney as a shovel. They had recordings of every phone call, every visit between Stryke and Rooker. They had the evidence to prove it was all on Stryke, to show that he was the one pulling the strings.

The prosecutor stood again, her voice cutting through the tension in the room. "Your honor, the prosecution would like to submit phone records between Mr. Stryke and Mr. Rooker as evidence."

The defense attorney shot up from his chair, his voice cutting through the courtroom's heavy air. "Objection!" he barked, his tone sharp as broken glass. "Your honor, those calls were made when Mr. Stryke was acting as Mr. Rooker's attorney. They're protected by attorney client privilege."

The judge peered over her glasses, her expression unreadable. The gallery leaned forward, a collective breath held in anticipation. Garrick watched Stryke, whose mask of composure had finally cracked. The tiger's eyes darted toward the judge, then to Rooker, then back again—a cornered animal seeking escape.

The prosecutor's voice cut through the tension like a razor, her tone sharp and precise as she addressed the bench. "Your honor, attorney client privilege doesn't extend to criminal conspiracy." She paused, letting her words sink into the charged atmosphere of the courtroom, her gaze unwavering as she faced the judge. "These recordings establish not a lawyer defending his client, but a co-conspirator plotting murder from behind prison walls." The defense attorney shifted uncomfortably, his tailored suit suddenly feeling too tight as sweat began to bead along his brow.

The judge's gaze swept over the courtroom, weighing the arguments. Stryke's attorney stood rigid, his face a mask of professional confidence that didn't quite reach his eyes. The tiger himself had gone pale beneath his stripes, a detail that didn't escape Garrick's notice. In the gallery, reporters scribbled furiously, their pencils scratching against notepads like frantic rats in the walls of Grayside's justice system.

"Overruled," the judge finally ruled, her gavel striking the wooden bench with a sound that seemed to echo through the entire courtroom. "The records will be admitted."

A gasp rippled through the gallery. Garrick allowed himself a small, grim smile. He watched as the prosecutor approached the evidence table, her paws steady as she retrieved the phone transcripts. The air in the room shifted—subtle but undeniable—like the pressure drop before a storm.

The prosecutor began reading, her voice clear and measured: "'Matthias, I've got the details. The lake, the water—everything we need to make it look like your work. But the money... we need to discuss the split.'"

Stryke's breath caught audibly. His attorney shot him a warning glance, but the tiger seemed unable to tear his eyes away from the damning words being read aloud in open court.

"'Eighty-twenty,'" the prosecutor continued, reading Stryke's recorded voice. "'I take the risk, I get the bigger share when we sue the city for wrongful conviction.'"

Garrick watched the jurors' faces shift from curiosity to dawning horror. The neat narrative the defense had tried to construct was crumbling before their eyes.

The prosecutor continued reading until she felt the jury had heard enough. She looked up from the transcripts, her gaze sweeping the jury box. "No threats, your honor. No coercion. Just two criminals discussing the details of their conspiracy and how they would profit from an innocent woman's murder."

The defense attorney opened his mouth, then closed it again, visibly struggling to formulate a response. Beside him, Stryke had gone completely still, his earlier arrogance replaced by a cold, hard fear that Garrick recognized all too well—the look of a predator who'd suddenly found himself caught in a trap of his own making.

"The prosecution rests," she said, her voice carrying the weight of certainty.

As the judge called for a recess, Garrick allowed himself to look directly at Stryke for the first time since the trial began. The tiger's eyes met his, and in that moment, all pretense fell away. There was no smug superiority now—just the raw, desperate fear of a man who knew the game was over.

Garrick nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly. Checkmate.

***

The courtroom erupted into chaos as the jury filed back in, their verdict written on a piece of paper that would seal Stryke's fate. Garrick held his breath, his eyes locked on the foreman as he stood.

"We, the jury, find Roman Stryke guilty of the murder of Nichole Johnson."

The room exploded, reporters shouting, cameras flashing, but Garrick didn't hear any of it. He watched as Stryke was led out of the courtroom, his head down, his once-confident stride now reduced to a shuffle. The tiger had been caught, but Garrick knew the real victory was that Rooker would remain right where he belonged—behind bars, his twisted game brought to an end.

As Garrick walked out of the courtroom, the captain clapped him on the back, a rare smile on his face. "You did it, Garrick. You nailed him."

Garrick nodded, but there was no satisfaction in his chest, just a quiet, weary relief. The case was closed, but the shadow of what could have been lingered in the back of his mind. He'd come too close to losing everything, to letting Rooker and Stryke destroy everything he'd worked for.

But he hadn't. And as he stepped out into the rain, the cool water washing over him, Garrick knew he'd do it all over again if he had to. Because in Grayside, justice wasn't always clean, but it was worth fighting for. Even if it meant getting his hands a little dirty along the way. He looked up at the gray sky, the rain still coming down, and for the first time in a long while, he let himself breathe easy. The Baptist had been stopped, his accomplice brought to justice, and Garrick had survived. For now, that was enough.