THE INK OF THE DEAD

Eliana had learned long ago that the dead never stayed silent. They spoke through bloodstains, shattered glass, and the whispers of those left behind. And sometimes, if you listened closely enough, they spoke through ink.

Banky Lockwood's journal was the last remnant of a man whose life had been brutally cut short. Sitting at her dimly lit desk in her apartment, Eliana ran her fingers over the worn leather cover, its edges softened by years of use. The Lockwood patriarch had been a meticulous man, a financier who controlled vast fortunes, a man who knew where all the skeletons were buried, perhaps even his own.

Flipping through the first few pages, she found routine financial notes, daily schedules, and brief mentions of meetings with clients. But as she neared the final weeks before his death, the tone changed.

June 3rd.

Something is wrong. I can feel it. There's a shadow in my house, a presence that wasn't there before. Zayden is restless, distant. He won't speak to me. If I am right about what I suspect, my own son may be in more danger than he realizes.

Eliana's pulse quickened.

June 8th.

The calls won't stop. They never speak. Just breathing on the other end. I have no enemies, not ones who would resort to such theatrics. Unless…

The sentence trailed off into a series of deep scratches, as if the pen had been dragged across the page in hesitation.

Eliana reached for her phone and dialed Bilal, her partner at the precinct. He answered on the second ring.

"Tell me you found something," he said, his voice tinged with exhaustion.

"I think Banky Lockwood knew he was going to die," Eliana said, flipping another page. "His journal is full of paranoia—strange phone calls, shadows in his house. Something had him spooked."

There was a pause on the line. Then Bilal sighed. "Damn. That changes things. The family kept saying it was a business deal gone wrong."

"It wasn't." Eliana scanned the next entry. "Banky knew someone was coming for him. The question is, did he know who?"

She stopped at a particular entry, dated June 12th the night before he died.

If you're reading this, it means I failed to stop it. My sins are catching up to me. I have tried to shield my son, but it may already be too late. The name—

The name.

The ink was smudged, as if the paper had been wet when the words were written. Frustration tightened Eliana's chest.

"Bilal, I need you to get a forensic team to check for indents on this page," she said, tapping the paper. "Banky was about to name someone, but it's been wiped out."

"I'll get them on it," Bilal agreed. "Meanwhile, you should talk to Zayden again. If his father thought he was in danger, he might have left him more than just a journal."

Eliana hesitated. The last thing she wanted was another confrontation with Zayden Lockwood. But if Banky had been trying to protect his son, then Zayden might be the missing piece in this puzzle.

"Yeah," she murmured. "I'll pay him another visit."

Lockwood Manor loomed under the gray morning sky, its iron gates standing ajar as if expecting her. The path leading up to the estate was lined with overgrown hedges, their once-manicured perfection now frayed at the edges.

Eliana knocked on the heavy oak door, bracing herself for the storm waiting on the other side.

Zayden answered after a long moment, dressed in another crisp suit, though this time, his tie was undone, and there was a weary darkness under his eyes.

"Detective," he said, voice taut. "Back so soon?"

She held up the journal. "Your father left breadcrumbs. I need answers."

Something flickered across Zayden's face, grief, hesitation, or something darker. He stepped aside, allowing her in.

They moved through the grand hall, past the flickering chandeliers and towering oil paintings of Lockwoods past. Zayden led her to the study, where the fire had been replaced by cold embers.

"Where did you find that?" he asked, eyeing the journal as she set it on the desk.

"Your father kept notes in his final days," Eliana said, watching him closely. "He believed someone was after him. And he thought you were in danger."

Zayden stiffened. His jaw tensed, and for the first time, he looked truly shaken.

"Did he mention names?" His voice was quiet, almost too controlled.

"He tried." Eliana flipped to the smeared entry. "But this part was ruined. You wouldn't happen to know who he was afraid of, would you?"

For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. Then, with a deep inhale, Zayden turned away, his hands gripping the edge of the desk.

"He never told me outright," he admitted. "But he warned me to be careful around certain people in his business circle. Old money families, powerful men who never take kindly to betrayal."

Eliana studied him. "Do you think your father betrayed them?"

Zayden gave a bitter chuckle. "Detective, in this world, everyone betrays someone eventually."

A gust of wind rattled the windows, sending a shiver down Eliana's spine. She leaned forward. "I need names, Lockwood. If you want me to find who did this, you have to start talking."

Zayden hesitated, then exhaled sharply. "There was one man my father always seemed… wary of. Adrian Mercer. He's a billionaire investor with ties to industries most people don't ask questions about."

Eliana's pulse quickened. "What kind of ties?"

"Money laundering. Offshore accounts. The kind of things my father was too smart to be involved with. At least, that's what I always thought. But before he died, he told me to stay the hell away from Mercer. That if anything ever happened to him, Mercer would be the first person I should fear."

Eliana tapped her fingers against the desk, considering. "Then Mercer just became my next stop."

Zayden met her gaze, something unreadable in his expression. "Be careful, Detective. Men like Mercer don't play fair."

"I don't either," she shot back.

As she turned to leave, Zayden called after her.

"There's something else," he said, voice almost hesitant. "I found something in my father's study the night he died. A key. No label, no indication of what it unlocks. Just… a key."

Eliana stopped at the door. "Where is it?"

Zayden reached into his pocket and produced a small, silver key. He placed it in her palm, his fingers lingering for a brief moment before pulling away.

"Whatever it opens," he said, "it might be the answer you're looking for."

Eliana studied the key, its metal cool against her skin.

A key. A name. A journal filled with ghosts.

And somewhere in the shadows, the past was waiting to be unlocked