When the police knock for a murder you didn’t commit, you don’t open the door—you hit the pavement.
The Concrete Alibi
The neon sign across the street flickered, casting rhythmic bruises of violet light across Stallings’ apartment. “Be right there, Captain,” Dan called out, his voice a steady lie. He didn’t wait for Canton’s boots to hit the floor.
He slipped through the window, the iron fire escape groaning under his weight like a snitch. Rain slicked the alleyway, smelling of wet soot and bad intentions. He had maybe twenty minutes before Canton realized the “arrest” was happening to an empty room.
Lee Ann was dead, and the world thought Dan had pulled the trigger. But he’d seen the shadow lurking near her flat—the twitchy, frantic gait of Benson Maslow. Benson wasn’t just an ex; he was a human wrecking ball with a grudge that finally leveled the only thing Dan ever cared about.
Dan reached the basement club where Maslow usually drowned his paranoia. The air inside was thick with cheap gin and desperation. There, in the corner booth, sat Maslow, staring at a blood-stained cufflink—Lee Ann’s cufflink.
Dan’s hand went to the heavy iron pipe in his jacket. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Outside, the wail of sirens grew closer. Canton was fast, but Dan was fueled by a cold, hollowed-out rage.
He stepped into the light. Maslow looked up, eyes widening, a jagged grin forming. “Took you long enough, Stallings,” Maslow whispered, reaching slowly into his pocket.
The sirens screamed at the curb. The door burst open. Shadows swarmed the entrance. Dan lunged forward.
Finish the Story
Did Dan deliver his own brand of justice before the law tackled him to the grease-stained floor? Or was Maslow’s hand in his pocket reaching for a confession—or a final, deadly surprise? The ending is in your hands.