The rain slicked streets of the meatpacking district stank of rust and lies. Wes Garner, once a police sketch artist, now traced missing faces for anyone who could pay. Tonight, it was a woman—last seen stepping into a black sedan outside a shuttered slaughterhouse. Her husband swore she was taken. Wes knew better. The woman’s eyes, drawn from a faded photo, looked too much like the ones he used to sketch on wanted posters.
He found the sedan in a crumbling garage near the river. Inside, cigarette butts and perfume clung to the leather seats. A figure moved in the shadows—her. Alive. But not kidnapped. She smirked.
“He sent you?” she exhaled smoke. “Should’ve sent a man who doesn’t already know.”
Wes had seen it before. A second life, a second chance. He’d once thought he could start over too. It never stuck.
Outside, headlights flashed. The husband. A gun.
Wes sighed. Some people never quit chasing ghosts. Or drawing them.
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