Shadows of Linwood

7381 words

The engine of the ‘68 Dodge Charger growled low, a predator idling in the shadows of Linwood Avenue, its black paint catching slivers of sodium-vapor streetlight through the cracked windshield. Leon Mercer gripped the steering wheel, knuckles tight, the leather creaking under his hands as he stared at the empty lot across the street. The same lot where he’d seen those two cats with the duffel bag two nights ago, moving like they owned the block, like they didn’t care who saw. Now, it was just after midnight, and the air coming through the half-rolled window carried the sharp bite of late autumn, mixing with the faint tang of motor oil and cigarette smoke inside the car. Reggie sat shotgun, fidgeting with a pack of Kools, the cellophane crinkling every time he tapped it against his knee. “Man, we been out here an hour,” Reggie muttered, voice low but edged, like he was chewing on glass. “Ain’t nobody comin’. You sure you saw what you saw?” Leon didn’t turn his head. His eyes stayed on the lot, on the sagging chain-link fence and the overgrown weeds bending in the breeze, on the boarded-up storefronts beyond that used to be something—a butcher shop, a hair salon—before the city started bleeding out. “I know what I saw,” he said, his voice a...