"Kyle Clady, you are under-"
The rest of his sentence never makes it out.
Or rather, if it does, I never hear it, the words drowned out by what I mistakenly thought was thunder.
On the south end of town, Detective Malcolm Marsh is called to a crime scene in the middle of the night. A quaint home on a bucolic neighborhood street, no part of him anticipates the macabre sight he'll find...or the identity of the half-dozen victims it holds.
Along the coast, Sven sits in the sand. Staring out over the ocean, he uses the calming influence of the sea to steel his nerves as he grabs a pair of forceps and painfully removes the metal projectile scraping against his ribs and protruding from his flesh. A remnant of the very same incident Marsh is now investigating.
In Mira Mesa, Byrdie is summoned by the newly installed leader of the Wolves. An olive branch, extended to one of the longest-tenured members , even in the wake of all that recently happened. And at the center of it all, Kyle Clady, his frantic search for what happened to his wife continuing, even as the various players around him begin to converge.
All of them looking for their own answers, with absolutely no qualms in extracting them by any means necessary.
