Thorne took the drive. As he turned to leave, the headlights of a black SUV cut through the mist like twin blades. He didn't run; he knew this city too well. He stepped into the shadows of the cherry blossoms, the drive heavy in his pocket.
The image wasn't of a politician or a lobbyist. It was a live feed of his own office. On the screen, he saw himself sitting at the computer, lit by the blue glow of the monitor. Behind him, a shadow moved.
Back at his desk, he plugged it in. The screen flickered to life. It wasn't a spreadsheet or a legal brief. It was a video file, crisp and sharp. He pressed play.
"Is the resolution high enough for you, Detective?" a voice rasped from the dark.
When Thorne arrived, the monument was a tomb. The Seed was slumped against a cold stone pillar, his eyes wide and fixed on the Potomac. No blood, no struggle. Just a small, silver flash drive clutched in his hand and a faint scent of bitter almonds in the air.
The rain in Washington D.C. doesn't wash anything away; it just turns the marble gray and the secrets into mud.
17 October 2022
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01 July 2021