Dad, please come to the precinct right now... they're saying I hit him, but he locked the gates on me.
I drove straight from Arthur’s yard to the diner on the highway, the one that never closed. My friend, Elena, worked the graveyard shift there, moonlighting from her lab tech job. She was wiping down the counter when I walked in, her usual cheeriness muted by the early hour.
“Marcus? You look like you wrestled a bear.” She poured me a coffee without asking. “Everything okay?”
I slid into a booth, the smell of grease and stale cigarettes filling my nostrils. I pulled a small, sealed plastic baggie from my jacket pocket. Inside was a tiny, dried bloodstain I’d carefully scraped from Maya’s hoodie back at the precinct.
“I need you to run this,” I said, pushing the bag across the table. “Discreetly. Type and anything else you can find.”
Elena’s eyebrows rose. She glanced at the stain, then at my serious face. “That’s not exactly standard procedure, Marcus.”
“I know,” I admitted. “But it’s important. My daughter’s freedom depends on it.”
She hesitated, then picked up the bag. “I’ll see what I can do. It’ll take a few hours, maybe till noon. Come back around then.”
I nodded, grateful. I spent the next few hours driving aimlessly, the fatigue a dull ache behind my eyes. I called the precinct, but they wouldn’t release Maya until Detective Kelleher officially signed off. Kelleher wasn’t answering his phone. Arthur’s tentacles stretched deep.
I went back to the diner just before noon. Elena met me at the door, pulling me aside. Her face was tight.
“Okay, Marcus,” she began, her voice low. “I ran it. It’s not A-positive, like Arthur. It’s O-negative.”
My mind raced. Not Arthur. Not Maya, either, who was A-positive like her mother.
“O-negative is pretty rare, too,” Elena continued, checking her notes. “And there’s a small trace of industrial grease mixed in with it. Like from machinery.”
“Do you know anyone with O-negative blood who works at the quarry?” I asked, my heart hammering in my chest.
Elena paused, thinking. “Wait a minute… Toby Brooks. Young kid, just started a few months ago. Clumsy. Always cutting himself. I remember seeing his medical forms when he got hired. O-negative.”
Toby Brooks. The kid who was barely out of high school, Arthur’s new yard hand. The one Arthur had been “mentoring,” according to Maya.
I stood there, the implications slowly sinking in. Maya hadn’t assaulted Arthur. The blood belonged to Toby. Arthur had lied to the police, to me, and to everyone.
“Where can I find Toby?” I asked.
Elena pointed a thumb toward the back of the diner. “He’s in there. On break. Grabbing a burger before his afternoon shift at the yard.”
I pushed through the swinging kitchen door, the clatter of dishes and sizzle of the grill loud in my ears. Toby sat hunched over a plate of fries, his phone propped up beside him. He looked younger than 18, his face pale and etched with worry. He had a bandage wrapped around his right forearm.
He looked up as I approached, his eyes wide. He knew who I was. Panic flashed in his eyes.
“Toby,” I said, my voice calm, but firm. “We need to talk. About last night.”
His fork clattered onto his plate. He immediately looked away, trying to shrink into his seat. The smell of his cheap cologne mixed with the cooking oil.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Brody,” he mumbled, not meeting my gaze.
I leaned in closer. “The blood on my daughter’s hoodie, Toby. It’s yours. O-negative. And those zip-ties near the gate? We both know what happened.”
Toby’s shoulders slumped. He pushed his plate away, his burger untouched. He started to tremble, his eyes darting around the busy kitchen, desperate for an escape. He knew he was caught.
“He… he told me…” Toby’s voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands. He was crying, silent, desperate sobs shaking his whole body. “He said you were coming to burn the place down.”
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