Chapter 3: Wolves and Graves

The next day, I was making arrangements for Lauren’s funeral.

The funeral home reeked of lilies and cheap air freshener. I sat with the director, numb, answering questions about caskets and headstones. Lauren’s parents sat in the corner, their grief like a black hole. The world felt hollow, colorless.

Eric Dalton showed up at my door with a few uniforms. He didn’t waste time: "Jake, there’s been a murder out by the trailer park."

He stood in my doorway, flanked by cops, face stone-cold. His eyes flicked to the packed boxes, the sympathy cards piled up.

He was waiting for me to react.

He watched me, searching for any crack—guilt, fear, anything. I kept my face blank, hands steady as I folded Lauren’s favorite sweater.

I ignored him, busy packing up my wife’s things, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Couldn’t look at him. The only thing that mattered was putting Lauren’s life in order, one last time.

He added, "Our investigation shows the victim was one of the elementary school attackers. You interested?"

His tone was sharp, daring me to flinch. The accusation hung in the air, heavy as a storm.

Since you put it that way, I looked up. "Congrats. Looks like you’re about to close the case."

My voice was flat, dead. I stared him down, letting him know I wasn’t scared.

Eric’s jaw tightened. "You don’t think the attackers turned on each other, do you?"

He leaned in, voice dropping. He wanted me to slip, to give him something. But I just stared, letting the question hang between us.

I didn’t answer.

The silence stretched, thick as tar. Eric shifted, frustrated, waiting for me to crack.

He pressed on. "You know why I’m here."

He was fishing, hoping I’d break. I gave him nothing.

I sneered, eyebrows raised. "What, you think I did it? Then prove it. I’ll be right here when you do."

I let the words land, anger sharp beneath the surface. If he wanted a fight, I was ready.

Eric flung his badge on the table and yelled, "Jake Mercer, Black Wolf, don’t think you’re above the law!"

His voice boomed in the small room, badge rattling on the wood. Whatever we’d had—gone, replaced by suspicion and raw anger.

Furious, I grabbed him by the collar. "Don’t try to throw your weight around with me. You’re not up for it. Show me the evidence!"

We locked eyes, years of history crackling between us. My grip was tight, but I forced myself to let go.

He pried my fingers off, pulled out cuffs, and snapped them onto my wrist.

The metal bit into my skin, cold and final. I didn’t fight it.

"Jake Mercer, you’re a suspect in a homicide. Come with us for questioning!"

He read me my rights, voice tight with emotion. The uniforms stepped up, hands hovering over their holsters.

"And just so you know, this order came straight from Captain Henry Whitaker!"

The name hit me like a punch in the gut. I hadn’t heard Whitaker’s name in years—not since the day I was forced out.

Hearing it, my pulse jumped, throat tightening.

Everything from the old days came rushing back—late nights at the precinct, the old man’s gravelly voice, the way he always had my back.

He’d been my mentor in the detective unit. He’d taken plenty of heat from upstairs for sticking up for me.

He taught me the job, taught me justice, taught me where the lines were. When the brass wanted me gone, he was the only one who fought for me.

When they kicked me out, he got demoted—went from deputy chief to beat cop, just like that.

He took the hit for me, never blamed me, not once. I owed him more than I could ever pay back.

As I was led away, Eric said, "Captain Whitaker says this time, you’re not getting off."

His words stung, but I squared my shoulders. Whatever was coming, I’d face it head-on.

At the station, Whitaker sat across from me—coffee cup in hand, back a little hunched, his face calm but watchful.

The interrogation room was cold, the overhead light buzzing. Whitaker looked older, but his eyes were still sharp, still cutting right through me.

He’d aged—a full head of gray now. When he looked up, the creases around his eyes made my own vision blur.

He gave me a small, sad smile—the kind that said he knew more than he let on. The years between us, the weight of everything we’d both lost—it was all right there.

I lowered my head, throat tight, feeling like a kid who’d lost his way. Couldn’t stop the grief from rising up.

The tears came, hot and silent, hitting the table. For the first time since Lauren died, I just let myself break down.

I could barely breathe.

The pain was endless, swallowing me up. Whitaker just sat there, letting me have my moment.

He handed me a tissue, rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers, and finally asked, "You were only married two years, right? Didn’t even get the chance for a kid."

His voice was gentle, the smoke drifting between us. I managed a nod, couldn’t trust myself to speak.

I wiped my face, nodded again.

He watched me a moment, his gaze softening. He’d seen this kind of hurt before, too many times.

He said, quietly, "The line between man and monster’s thinner than you think."

He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "We all got a dark side, Jake. What you do with it—that’s what matters."

"Don’t forget—you were a cop once. Do what you know is right. Don’t cross that line."

He tapped the table, slow and steady. "You’re better than this. Don’t let the job, or the pain, turn you into what you’re chasing."

With that, he picked up his coffee and, at the door, looked back at me.

He paused, eyes locking on mine. In that look, I saw forgiveness, and maybe a little hope.

It took me right back—those old days on the force, after every screw-up, he’d look at me just like that. No words needed.

I remembered the late nights, the lectures, the way he always believed I could be better. That look said more than any words ever could.

Eric Dalton never found a shred of evidence, no matter how hard he tried. After a night at the station, I picked up right where I left off—my plan for revenge wasn’t finished.

The investigation hit a wall. They let me go, no charges. But inside, I was different now—driven by grief, by vengeance, by the memory of Lauren’s courage. And I wasn’t done yet.

Next up was Joey.