Gemotions

Detective Harding’s jaw tightened. A single, intricately carved wooden bird rested on the worn, wooden surface of his desk. He recognised the signature craftsmanship, a style that had only ever been taught at one high school, the one he once taught at. His pulse quickened. The gift itself wasn't inherently threatening, but the circumstances were.

He spun slowly in his chair, his eyes scanning the precinct's deserted bullpen. The metallic smell of the empty room was usually comforting, but tonight, it felt like the prelude to something unpleasant. The bird’s beady eyes seemed to fixate on him.

"Damn it," he hissed under his breath, reaching for the phone, his fingers clumsy. His gut churned with a sense of foreboding. He knew who it was. He just knew it.