The granite headstone was cold under my fingertips, despite the morning sun warming my back through my black blazer. Detective Antonio Chen, beloved father. The dates carved below told a story of a life cut short. Time haven't dulled the sharp edges of grief that cut through me every time I read his name, carved in elegant script that somehow made his absence feel more permanent.
"Fifteen years today," I whispered, placing fresh white lilies against the stone. The flowers looked fragile against the dark granite, their petals already beginning to brown at the edges from Detroit's unseasonably warm October morning. "I'm still hunting him, Dad. Still trying to make it right."
The cemetery stretched out around us in rolling hills of green, dotted with monuments to lives lived and lost. Riverside had always been peaceful, a place where the city's noise faded to a distant hum and the only sounds were wind through ancient oak trees and the occasional call of mourning doves. It should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like standing at the edge of an abyss, staring down at all the answers I'd never found.
"You know he can't hear you, right?" Vincent's voice came from behind me, gentle but teasing. My partner had insisted on driving me to Riverside Cemetery this morning, claiming he needed to pay respects to fallen officers. I knew better. Vincent Torres had been watching out for me since I'd transferred to Detroit's Supernatural Crimes Unit six months ago, and today was no different.
His concern should have warmed me. Instead, it made me feel exposed, like he could see through the careful mask I wore to the raw grief underneath.
"Maybe not," I said, not turning around. My fingers traced the carved letters of my father's name, worn smooth by fifteen years of weather and my own desperate touches. "But it helps me think."
Vincent moved to stand beside me, his presence solid and reassuring. At six-foot-two with graying temples and kind brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, he looked more like someone's favorite college professor than a cop who specialized in hunting monsters. But I'd seen him take down a rogue vampire with nothing but a wooden stake and sheer determination three weeks ago, moving with a speed and precision that had left me breathless. Appearances were deceiving in our line of work, a lesson I'd learned the hard way.
The autumn air carried the scent of dying leaves and distant rain, mixing with the lingering smell of Vincent's coffee and the faint cologne he wore. Normal scents. Human scents. Nothing like the wild, intoxicating fragrance of cedar and moonlight that had surrounded Marco Salvatore last night, making my pulse race and my skin burn with recognition I couldn't figure.
"You want to talk about what happened last night?" Vincent asked quietly, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. "At the warehouse?"
My hand stilled on the headstone. How could I explain what I'd felt when I'd looked into those silver eyes? How could I tell my partner my friend that I'd experienced something that defied every logical explanation I'd built my career on? That for one impossible moment, standing in that dusty warehouse with gunfire echoing around us, I'd felt like I was exactly where I belonged?
"Just adrenaline," I said, the same lie I told him twelve hours ago when he found me sitting in my car outside the precinct, hands shaking and eyes wide. "Big bust, a lot of gunfire. You know how it gets."
Vincent was quiet for a long moment, and I could feel his analytical gaze studying my profile. He'd been a detective for twenty years before joining SCU, and he had a way of seeing through people's defenses that made him both an excellent partner and an occasionally uncomfortable friend.
When he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral. "The report said Marco Salvatore escaped again."
"He did." The words tasted bitter, like copper pennies on my tongue. "We had him, Vincent. Right there in front of us, surrounded, nowhere to run. And he just... vanished."
Like smoke. Like something that had never been quite real to begin with.
"Supernatural criminals are slippery," Vincent said, adjusting his glasses in a gesture I'd learned meant he was thinking hard about something. "That's why we have a whole unit dedicated to catching them. They don't follow human rules or human limitations."
I finally turned to look at him, studying the lines around his eyes that spoke of too many late nights and too many cases that ended without justice. "Is that why you think I joined SCU? Because they're hard to catch?"
Something flickered in Vincent's eyes, surprise, maybe, or concern. He'd been fishing for information about my motivations since my first day on the unit, asking gentle questions about my background, my family, and my reasons for leaving Homicide. I'd deflected every time, keeping my secrets locked away behind professional courtesy and practiced smiles.
"Isn't it?" he asked.
I laughed, but there was no humor in it. The sound echoed off the surrounding headstones, harsh and brittle in the morning air. "You've been my partner for six months, Vincent. You never wondered why a decorated detective with a perfect case closure rate would transfer from Homicide to chase monsters?"
"Everyone has their reasons for hunting the supernatural," Vincent said carefully, his tone taking on the gentle probing quality he used with reluctant witnesses. "Most of them are personal."
He was fishing again, trying to get me to open up. But standing here, at my father's grave, with the memory of silver eyes still burning in my mind and the scent of cedar still clinging to my clothes like a promise, the walls I'd built suddenly felt too heavy to maintain.
Maybe it was time. Maybe Vincent deserved to know why his partner carried a fifteen-year-old case file in her bag and why she sometimes woke up screaming from dreams of blood and claws and yellow eyes in the dark.
"My father wasn't killed by a human," I said quietly.
Vincent went very still beside me, his breathing barely audible. "Sarah..."
"Fifteen years ago, Detective Antonio Chen was investigating a series of brutal murders in Chinatown. Seven victims in three months, all torn apart like animals. Bodies so mutilated that the medical examiner had to identify them through dental records." I traced my father's name with one finger, the granite rough under my skin. "Witnesses too terrified to speak, evidence that made no sense to anyone who didn't know what to look for. But Dad was getting close to something. Someone. And they killed him for it."
The memory hit me like it always did, sudden, vivid, devastating. I was twelve again, coming home from school to find the front door hanging open, moving on its squeaky hinges in the October wind. Calling for Dad, my voice echoing through our small house. Walking through rooms that felt too quiet, too still, following the scent of copper and fear. Finding him in his study, surrounded by case files and photographs, his body...
I pressed my lips together, forcing the images away. Even now, fifteen years later, the memory could drop me to my knees if I wasn't careful.
"Jesus, Sarah." Vincent's hand found my shoulder, warm and steady through the fabric of my blazer. "I'm sorry. I had no idea."
"The official report said it was a gang killing," I continued, my voice steady despite the images flashing through my mind like frames from a horror movie I couldn't turn off. "Random violence. Wrong place, wrong time. Case closed, file sealed, everyone moves on. But I knew better. Even at twelve, even in shock, I knew what I'd seen wasn't human."
I pulled a thick manila folder from my bag, its edges worn soft from years of handling. The weight of it was familiar, comforting in the way that old pain sometimes was. "I've been building this case for fifteen years, Vincent. Every piece of evidence, every witness statement, every crime scene photo the department thought they'd buried. All the murders my father was investigating, plus dozens more that followed the same pattern."
Vincent took the folder with careful hands, his expression growing more serious as he flipped through pages of police reports, newspaper clippings, autopsy photos, and handwritten notes in my careful script. I watched his face change as recognition dawned.
"These are all werewolf attacks," he said, his voice tight with the kind of knowledge that came from years of hunting monsters.
"Territory disputes," I confirmed. "Three different packs fighting for control of Detroit's supernatural underworld. My father stumbled into the middle of their war, and they silenced him before he could expose them."
"And you joined SCU to finish what he started."
"I joined SCU to find his killer." The words came out harder than I'd intended, sharp enough to cut. "And when I find him, I'm going to make him pay for what he took from me."
Vincent closed the folder, studying my face with those perceptive brown eyes that seemed to see too much. "Revenge is a dangerous motivator in our line of work, Sarah. The supernatural world doesn't play by human rules. It doesn't recognize human concepts of justice or fair play."
"Neither do I." I took the folder back, clutching it against my chest like armor. "Not when it comes to this."
"And last night? Marco Salvatore? Does he fit into your father's case?"
I hesitated. The truth was, I wasn't sure. Marco was powerful, dangerous, clearly not human. The way he'd moved, the way shadows had seemed to bend around him, the raw authority in his voice when he'd spoken my name like a prayer all of it screamed supernatural predator.
But the feeling I'd had when I'd looked into his eyes... that hadn't felt like the cold calculation of a killer. It felt like recognition. Like coming home to a place I'd never been but had been searching for my entire life.
"Maybe," I said finally. "He's connected to the supernatural underground. That makes him a person of interest."
Vincent nodded slowly, but something in his expression made me think he wasn't entirely convinced. "Just be careful, Sarah. Personal vendettas have a way of clouding judgment. And in our line of work, clouded judgment gets people killed."
"I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" Vincent's voice was gentle but pointed, carrying the weight of experience and genuine concern. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're carrying fifteen years of pain and calling it justice."
His words hit closer to home than I wanted to admit, striking at fears I'd been pushing down for months. I turned back to my father's grave, running my fingers over the carved letters one more time, drawing strength from the familiar ritual.
"He was a good man, Vincent. A good father. He read me bedtime stories and taught me how to throw a curveball and never missed a single school play." My voice cracked slightly, and I cleared my throat. "He deserved better than dying alone in his study, torn apart by monsters while his twelve-year-old daughter was at soccer practice."
"Yes, he did." Vincent moved to stand beside me again, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "But he also wouldn't want his daughter to sacrifice her life trying to avenge his death."
"You didn't know him."
"No, but I know you. And I know that the woman who transferred to SCU six months ago was driven, focused, and professional. The woman standing here today is angry, hurting, and making decisions based on emotion instead of evidence."
I wanted to argue with him, to insist that I was fine, that I had everything under control. But the memory of Marco's silver eyes made my skin burn, and the scent of cedar and wildness still clung to my clothes despite three showers and a complete change of uniform.
Maybe Vincent was right. Maybe I was letting my emotions cloud my judgment.
But I'd been hunting my father's killer for fifteen years. I wasn't going to stop now.
"I need to get back to the station," I said, stepping away from the headstone with reluctant finality. "There's paperwork from last night's bust, and Rodriguez wants a full report by the end of day."
Vincent watched me for another moment, his eyes full of the kind of concern that made my chest tight. Then he nodded. "Alright. But Sarah? If you need to talk about your father or anything else, I'm here. Partners look out for each other."
"I know." I managed a smile that almost felt genuine. "Thank you."
As we walked back to Vincent's car across the dew-damp grass, I felt his eyes on me, studying, assessing. He was a good partner, maybe even a good friend. The kind of man my father would have liked and trusted.
But there were things I couldn't tell him, secrets I couldn't share. Like the fact that I'd been dreaming about silver eyes and whispered promises since I'd gotten home last night. Or that every time I closed my eyes, I could hear a voice calling my name with an intimacy that made my soul ache with longing I couldn't explain.
Vincent pulled out his phone as we reached his car, typing a quick message. I caught a glimpse of the text before he put it away: The daughter is ready. Time to move to the next phase.
My blood turned to ice in my veins. "Vincent? Who are you texting?"
He looked up, his expression innocent and mildly confused. "Just checking in with Rodriguez about the case load." He smiled, but something in his eyes had changed a hardness that hadn't been there moments before. "Ready to head back?"
I nodded, but my mind was racing. The daughter is ready. What daughter? Ready for what? And why did the casual way he'd typed those words make every instinct I possessed scream danger?
As Vincent started the car, I stared out the window at my father's grave and wondered if the man I trusted with my deepest secrets was exactly who he claimed to be.
Or if I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.