The call from the police station kept echoing in Denver's mind long after it ended. Even as he stood inside the clinic, even as people moved around him like it was just another ordinary day, nothing felt normal anymore. The weight in his chest had grown heavier, tighter, almost suffocating.
He knew this moment would come. But knowing it didn't make it any easier. Without wasting more time, Denver quickly gathered his things. His movements were rushed, but controlled—like someone trying hard not to look suspicious.
And then there was the suitcase. The black suitcase in which professor Taylor's research documents were kept. He picked it up slowly, his fingers were tightening around the handle. For a brief second, he hesitated but then he walked out of the clinic and headed towards the police station.
The drive to the police station felt longer than usual. The roads were the same. The buildings were the same. People moved as they always did. But Denver's mind was somewhere else entirely. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, but his thoughts kept drifting.
What if they know?
What if they found something?
What if… I actually..., No...
He stopped that thought immediately.
"No…" he muttered under his breath. His grip on the steering wheel tightened. He couldn't afford to think like that. Not now.
After what felt like hours, he finally reached the police station. The building stood firm and serious, it's presence alone enough to make anyone uneasy. He pulled into a parking spot a block away from the station, his breath hitching. He couldn't take the documents inside. If the police searched him, if they saw Professor Taylor's private research in his possession on the very morning after the murder, there would be no explanations left to give.
Denver parked his car but didn't step out immediately. He sat there.
Silent.
Taking a deep breath.
Then another.
"Stay calm," he whispered to himself.
His eyes shifted to the suitcase beside him. Slowly, he opened it, The documents were still there—Professor Taylor's research papers. Neatly stacked. Without wasting a second, Denver took them out and hid them inside the car, pushing them under the seat.
The suitcase now looked ordinary. He closed it, stepped out of the car, leaned against the door, and took a long, jagged breath of the freezing air.
"Act normal," he told himself. "You are just his former student. Nothing more." Then he walked into the station. Inside, the atmosphere was tense. The police station was a hive of controlled chaos. It was crowded with the "who's who" of Bristol—men in tailored overcoats and women clutching designer handbags, all looking indignant. These were the people who were used to call the police to solve their problems, not being summoned by them.
Many of them had been at the party the night before. Whispers filled the air. Some people looked annoyed, others nervous. A few spoke loudly, clearly frustrated.
"This is ridiculous," one man said angrily. "I have important works to do!"
"You can't just call us like this!" another added.
Some of them didn't even stay. They left, brushing past officers with irritation, clearly used to getting their way. Denver found a seat in the corner, he sat there waiting for his turn. To pass the time, he looked up at the television on the wall.
The news was a relentless loop of the same headline "Brutal Murder of Renowned Professor Brandon Taylor Shocks Bristol."
Images flashed on the screen—the professor's house, police tape, reporters speaking rapidly. Denver tried to look away, but the whispers in the room were just as loud.
Finally, an officer called his name. "Denver Jackson? Please come to room four."
The interrogation room was small, lit by an unforgiving fluorescent hum. Two officers sat across from him. They were polite, but their eyes were observant, cataloging every twitch of his fingers. And beside them there's Detective Miller, the most popular detective of the city.
They asked the standard questions: How long had he known the Professor? When was the last time they spoke? Did he notice anyone suspicious at the party? Denver answered carefully, sticking as close to the truth as possible without mentioning the frantic nature of his own night.
"How... how was he killed?" Denver asked, his voice cracking slightly.
The officers exchanged a look. "You haven't seen the reports?" one asked. "It's all over the radio."
"I've been working," Denver lied.
"One shot to the head," the officer said, leaning forward. "Whoever did it was definitely a professional. He deactivated the security grid and looped the CCTV cameras before entering. No fingerprints, no DNA, no shell casings left behind. He made it look like a robbery—took some cash and jewelry—but a thief doesn't know how to bypass a military-grade security system like that. So maybe there are more than one."
After an hour, they released him with the standard warning not to leave the city. As Denver walked back through the lobby, he ran into a familiar face. Max Benson was standing by the exit, looking uncharacteristically rattled.
"Denver," Max said, his voice lacking its usual arrogance. "God, what a mess. We saw him just the night before... he was so full of life, talking about miracles and the future."
"It's disturbing, Max," Denver agreed, his voice was hollow. "Professor didn't deserve to go like that."
"Well, the murderer soon gonna be captured don't worry" Max whispered, leaning in. "The police already know who did it. It's only a matter of time."
Denver's heart hammered against his ribs. He felt a surge of nausea. "They... they really know who the killer is?"
Max looked at him strangely. "Why do you look so terrified? It's a good thing. It's obviously Luis, the Professor's personal servant. The man has been missing since last night. He had the keys, he had access to every rooms or security, and he's the closest person to know Professor Taylor. Who else could it be?"
Denver let out a breath that he didn't realize he was holding. "You're Right. It's Luis. Of course. I hope they find him soon."
"They will," Max said, regaining some of his swagger. "How far can a servant get in one night? Anyway, give me your number. I'm stuck in Bristol until the police clear me to leave. Maybe we can grab a drink when this blows over."
Denver gave his contact number, patted Max's shoulder, and practically bolted for his car. He started the engine, his mind was spinning. He merged into the light afternoon traffic, heading toward the highway that looped around the city. While driving his mind was on a disturbed stage, he was remembering the interrogation conversation with the police, and Detective Miller who continuously marking his all expressions.
He was lost in thought when the sudden, shrill wail of police sirens pierced the air. Denver's eyes shot to the rearview mirror. Three police cruisers were screaming down the road behind him, lights flashing blue and red. They're coming for me, he thought, panic rising like bile in his throat. If they found the documents, I'm done...
He gripped the wheel, his foot hovering over the brake, but then a dark sedan roared past him on the left, weaving through traffic at a lethal speed. The police weren't after Denver; they were chasing the sedan.
Suddenly, the sedan slammed its brakes and veered into Denver's lane, clipping his rear bumper. The impact sent Denver's car into a terrifying skid. "No, no, no!" he screamed, fighting the wheel as his car fishtailed across the icy lanes. He managed to regain control just as the sedan pulled up alongside him. Denver looked to his right. Through the tinted glass of the other car, he saw a face he recognized. It was Luis. The personal servant of professor Taylor who was now the prime suspect of the murder, Luis's face was bruised, his eyes were wide with a mixture of rage and desperation.
Luis realized the police were gaining on him. He veered his car sharply, trying to ram Denver off the road to create a blockade. From behind, a police cruiser attempted to overtake Luis, but he swung his wheel, sending the cruiser spinning into the median where it rolled over in a massive crash. The highway had turned into a deadly scene.
Luis drew even with Denver again. He rolled down his window, holding steering with one hand while pointing a black handgun directly at Denver's head.
"Stop the engine!" Luis screamed over the roar of the wind. "Stop it now or I'll kill you! Stop!"
Denver was paralyzed. His foot was glued to the accelerator. He looked at the barrel of the gun, certain this was how his life would end—on a cold highway in a storm of chaos.
Then, a sharp crack echoed through the air—a sound different from the roar of engines.
A small, neat hole appeared in the center of Luis's forehead. His head snapped back, his eyes rolling into his skull. He was shoot by someone and died instantly.
The sedan, now steered by a dead man, veered sharply to the right. It smashed through the guardrail of the highway bridge. Denver watched in slow-motion horror as the car soared into the air, plummeted fifty feet to the road below, and erupted into a massive, blast...
The shockwave hit Denver's car. He lost his balance, his head slamming hard against the steering wheel. He felt his car grinding to a halt against the concrete barrier.
When Denver finally forced his eyes open, his vision was blurred by blood dripping from a cut on his brow. He pushed the door open and stumbled out. The highway was a graveyard of twisted metal and smoke. Injured drivers were climbing out of their cars, and two police officers lay motionless near their wrecked cruiser.
Denver walked to the edge of the bridge and looked down. Below, the charred remains of Luis's car continued to burn, Luis was gone. The secret of the murder—was buried in that fire. Denver's legs gave out. He sank to his knees, the cold pavement biting into his skin. He didn't understand who had fired that shot. As the sound of more sirens approached, Denver Jackson collapsed on the highway.