The moment he saw the phone, Hunter knew he wasn't leaving without it.
This is damning evidence. Like hell I'm leaving it behind.
A search of the rest of David's study came up empty. It didn't matter. Hunter had the ammunition and confirmation he needed.
He made sure everything was back to the way he found it. Not like it mattered. David would know someone was here when he inevitably discovered the missing phone.
He didn't care.
David would have no way of tracing it back to him.
Not bothering with the third unopened door, Hunter moved quickly, retracing his steps through the darkened hallway and back into the bathroom.
He pushed the window open again, the night air hitting him like a slap. Cold and sobering.
He climbed onto the windowsill, chest tight, the stolen phone burning a hole in his pocket.
His heart hammered as he eyed the branch he'd used to get in. In daylight it might've looked easier. Just a short leap. But in the dark, with adrenaline still making his hands shake, it felt a lot higher.
There was no time to think. He crouched, jumped, and caught the branch with both hands.
The rest of the way back home was easier. Physically speaking.
Mentally, he was unraveling.
The streets were quiet. Too quiet. Every passing car made him flinch. He kept one hand in his pocket, curled tightly around the phone. As if someone might try to tear it away from him at any second.
By the time he reached his front door, he was barely aware of his own footsteps.
The apartment greeted him with silence. Not the comforting kind. The kind that left space for your thoughts to get too loud.
He dropped the phone on the kitchen table like it was radioactive.
Pushing a hand through his sweat-slickened hair, he let out a shaky breath.
What now?
The police station. That was the obvious move. It had to be. But he couldn't show up looking like this – dressed in black like a damn burglar, face pale, hands still trembling.
It was the middle of the night. The station wouldn't even be open.
He had to wait. Just a few hours.
He turned on the kettle, but forgot to make tea. Wandering into the living room, he sank onto the couch.
He stared at the ceiling until the light of morning began to seep through the curtains.
His mind spun in sickening circles.
The torn photograph. Kat leaving without hesitation. The burner phone. The homeless man's haunting pleas of innocence.
They weren't fragments anymore. They were pieces of the same picture.
And all of them pointed to the same place.
A place no one else would've thought to look.
David had been around forever. His mother had trusted him. Loved him like family. He'd been there for birthdays, barbecues, holidays… Hell, they even brought him on a family trip once.
Hunter was sharp. Everyone knew it. It's what made him good at his job.
But somehow, he hadn't seen this.
Not until it was far too late.
Disgust curdled in his stomach. When it truly mattered, his instincts, his judgment, it had failed him.
He felt sick. Isolated.
The thought of calling someone came and went like a breeze. Who would he even call? There was no one left. He didn't have anyone to talk to.
And even if he did, would they understand him?
He doubted it.
Hunter forced himself back to the present. He needed a plan.
He pictured the station. The moment he handed over the phone. They'd ask where he got it. Fine. He could easily lie. Or evade the question. It didn't matter where he got it. What mattered was the evidence.
They'd analyze it. Confirm what he already knew.
They'd have to reopen the case.
They had to.
He stood and stretched, his joints stiff from hours on the couch.
Peeling off the black top, he picked out a random shirt from the pile of clothes on his chair.
The phone still sat where he left it, silent and damning.
He picked it up with the edge of his sleeve, like touching it bare would somehow implicate him.
The walk to the police station felt longer than it should've. Every step dragged.
His mind kept rehearsing what he'd say. Kept imagining them brushing him off. Laughing. Or worse…
Asking too many questions.
He hesitated on the steps of the precinct.
I'm doing the right thing.
He stepped inside.
The lobby lights hummed overhead, too bright after a night of shadows and silence. Hunter moved to the front desk, shoulders rigid, palms slick.
This is it. The moment that changes everything.
A second chance wrapped in cheap plastic.
He placed the burner phone down like it was made of glass.
The officer on duty looked up – and recognized him immediately.
"Hunter. Been a while."
"Yeah," Hunter said, his voice tight. He slid the burner phone across the counter. "I need someone to look at this. It's about the Ashborn murder. I think it proves the guy you convicted wasn't the killer."
Carl – Sergeant Carl Mallory – stepped out from behind the desk, his brow furrowing. "That case was closed, wasn't it?"
"It shouldn't have been."
Mallory looked at him, then at the phone. "What's that?"
"A burner. It has an outgoing call to my mom barely an hour before she was murdered." He met the man's eyes. "Do you think that's a coincidence?"
Mallory's expression didn't change. He looked down at the phone, then back up again.
"Where'd you get it?"
"Does it matter?"
"You know it does. Chain of custody matters. Legal searches matter. If this phone came from any way it wasn't supposed to... well, I can't just take it and run with it."
"Yes, you can," Hunter said, flatly. "The man you put away? The homeless guy, Gareth? He didn't do it. You got the wrong person."
There was a long pause. Mallory exhaled slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully.
"Hunter… I'm really sorry about your mom. I know how hard it's been. You were a good cop. But you know how this works. The case was investigated thoroughly and closed months ago. The guy confessed. Open and shut."
"It wasn't a real confession. He was coerced, you know that."
Mallory sighed, rubbing his temples.
"Tell me where you got it, Hunter. I can't help you if you're not straight with me."
"Just look at it," Hunter urged, his voice rising. "Please. The call log alone—"
"I'm not saying it's nothing," Mallory cut in. "But it's not enough. Not like this."
Hunter stepped back, staring at him in disbelief. "So that's it? You're just going to ignore this?"
"I'm saying go home. Get a lawyer. Do it properly. If there's something there, it'll hold up. But I can't touch that phone unless it comes through the right channels."
"What do you mean, right channels? Evidence is evidence!"
"You're letting your feelings cloud your better judgement, and it's understandable. But you know exactly what I mean. How do you think it's going to look, you handing in shady evidence after everything that happened?"
Hunter's jaw tightened. "So what, I'm just some disgraced ex-cop now? My word means nothing?"
Mallory didn't answer right away.
"You made a call back then," he said. "Some people respect it. Others… don't. But when it comes to reopening a closed case, especially one that's already gone to trial, everything needs to be airtight. Admissible. Clean."
Hunter let out a bitter laugh, no humor in it. "You think anything about this has been clean?"
"I'm trying to help you," Mallory said quietly.
"No. You're trying not to get your hands dirty."
A beat of silence stretched between them.
"Hunter," Mallory said finally, gently, "don't make this harder on yourself. You want this to stick? You want justice for your mom? Then do it right. Lawyer up. Submit the phone properly. Let it be processed. If what you're saying is true, then we'll find a way."
Hunter stared at him. Cold, sick disappointment settled in his gut. He looked down at the burner phone still clutched in his hand.
"I thought I could still trust you," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
"You can," Mallory replied. "Just not like this."
Hunter turned without another word.
He walked out of the station with the phone in his pocket and a storm in his mind.
For a long time, he stood just outside, staring at the early morning traffic moving obliviously past.
He wanted to do something. Kick in a door. Scream at someone. Make them see what he saw.
But the world kept turning. Cars kept moving. People kept living.
The fury sat in his chest like a ticking bomb with no target. He didn't know what came next. Didn't know who to trust, or where to go.
The evidence didn't matter. Not unless he played by their rules.
Hunter's fists clenched.
If the broken, shitty system wouldn't deliver justice, then maybe it didn't deserve to.
He'd find a way himself, no matter how long it took.