Chapter 3 : The Cross-Shaped Cut
They ran until Davis’s lungs burned and his legs felt like lead. They found shelter in an abandoned auto repair shop on the outskirts of the industrial district. The roof leaked, and the air smelled of stale oil and rust, but it was dark, and it was off the grid.
Davis set Maya down on a pile of old moving blankets. Rico immediately curled up around her, licking the rainwater from her pale cheeks. Maya giggled softly, burying her face in his fur.
Davis leaned against a rusted workbench, panting, trying to process the insanity of the last hour.
"Okay," Davis breathed out, wiping the rain from his eyes. "Maya. We need to talk."
Maya looked up, her large brown eyes shimmering in the dim light of the streetlamp filtering through a broken window.
"Your dad," Davis said gently, kneeling down to her eye level. "Who is he? And why do those men want you?"
Maya hesitated. She looked at Rico, who nudged her hand with his wet nose.
"My dad is Detective Miller," she whispered. "John Miller."
Davis felt the blood drain from his face. Detective John Miller. He was a legend at the precinct. A brilliant narcotics detective who had supposedly died in a fiery car crash six months ago. The official report said he fell asleep at the wheel.
"He’s… he's dead, Maya," Davis said softly. "I'm so sorry."
"No!" Maya shouted, her voice echoing in the empty garage. "He's not! He told me he wasn't!"
"Maya, the crash—"
"He came to my window!" she interrupted, tears streaming down her face. "Three nights ago. He tapped on the glass. He was hurt. He told me he couldn't stay, but he told me a secret. He said his partners were bad men. They tried to kill him because he found out they were stealing the drug money."
Davis's mind raced. Corrupt cops. Stolen evidence. It made perfect sense. It explained the cleaner. It explained why the precinct doctored Rico's records. They thought they had wiped out all of Miller's traces, keeping his highly trained K9 as a trophy, renaming him Rex.
"He told me to run," Maya cried. "He said they would come for me to make him come out of hiding. And he told me… he told me about Rico's collar."
Davis froze. He looked at the heavy tactical collar around the dog's neck.
The cross-shaped cut.
Davis slowly approached the dog. Rico watched him, his golden eyes intelligent and calm.
"Rico, stay," Davis commanded softly.
He unbuckled the thick leather collar. He ran his thumb over the tiny, deliberate cross-shaped scar in the leather. It wasn't just a scratch. It was a seam.
Using his pocketknife, Davis carefully sliced the seam open.
Inside the thick lining of the leather, tightly wrapped in waterproof tape, was a tiny black micro-SD card.
Davis stared at it in his palm. The holy grail. The evidence Miller had died—or faked his death—to protect. The proof of the precinct's corruption.
"He said everything is on there," Maya whispered. "He told me, 'If you ever find Rico, you find the truth.'"
Suddenly, the hair on the back of Rico's neck stood straight up. A low, rumbling growl vibrated in his chest.
Davis quickly pocketed the SD card and drew his gun. He crept toward the rusted metal garage door.
Outside, tires screeched on the wet asphalt. Doors slammed.
"Perimeter secure!" a voice barked through the rain.
Davis peered through a crack in the metal. Four unmarked police cruisers were parked outside. Heavily armed men in tactical gear were pouring out, forming a blockade.
And standing in the center of them was Captain Vance. Davis’s own commanding officer.
"Davis!" Vance's voice echoed through a bullhorn. "We know you're in there! You've been manipulated by a traumatized little girl! Hand her over, and we can forget this ever happened. You're a good cop, Davis. Don't throw your life away!"
May you like
Davis looked back at Maya. She was trembling, clinging to Rico.
They weren't good cops. They were monsters. And Davis was the only thing standing between them and a six-year-old girl.
