The Last Train
March 2, 2025
The 11:45 PM train rumbled into the station, its brakes screeching against the tracks. A thick fog curled through the empty platform, swallowing the few passengers waiting to board.
Detective Alex Monroe stood near the edge, hands in his pockets, watching. He wasn’t supposed to be working tonight, but something about the call he’d received an hour ago had unsettled him.
A simple message, whispered through the phone:
“Meet me on the last train. I know who killed her.”
And then, a click.
The doors hissed open, and Monroe stepped inside.
The train was nearly empty. A drunk man dozed in the corner, a woman scrolled through her phone, and an old conductor checked his watch near the door.
And then there was her.
A woman in a dark blue coat sat by the window, her fingers tracing the rim of a coffee cup. Her blonde hair was pulled into a low bun, and her eyes—sharp, cautious—met his as he approached.
“Detective Monroe?”
He nodded and slid into the seat across from her. “You the one who called me?”
She glanced toward the other passengers before speaking. “My name is Lydia Cross. I’m the one who found Emily Carter’s body.”
Monroe tensed. Emily Carter. The journalist who’d been murdered two nights ago.
“You told the cops you didn’t see the killer,” he said.
Lydia’s fingers tightened around her cup. “I lied.”
Monroe leaned in. “Who was it?”
Lydia swallowed hard. “A man in a gray suit. I saw him leaving her apartment that night.” She reached into her coat and pulled out a crumpled napkin. “She wrote this before she died.”
Monroe unfolded it.
A single name was scrawled across the paper.
Daniel Mercer.
Monroe’s pulse quickened. Mercer was a powerful businessman, untouchable in court, linked to corruption, but never convicted.
“She was onto him,” Lydia whispered. “And now, so am I.”
Monroe exhaled. “This is dangerous.”
“I know.”
The train slowed as they reached the next station. The doors slid open.
A man in a gray suit stepped in.
Lydia’s grip on her cup tightened. “That’s him.”
Monroe’s heart pounded. The man scanned the train, his gaze lingering on them for a second too long.
Then, he started walking toward them.
Monroe acted fast. He grabbed Lydia’s wrist. “Move.”
They pushed past the sleepy drunk and bolted toward the next car. The gray-suited man followed.
The train lurched forward.
Monroe turned, saw the glint of metal in the man’s hand. A gun.
No time to think. Monroe yanked the emergency brake.
The train screeched to a halt, passengers tumbling forward. The man lost his balance—just enough.
Monroe struck, slamming him against the door, knocking the gun loose.
Lydia grabbed it. Hands shaking, she pointed it at the man.
“Don’t,” Monroe said.
She hesitated.
The doors opened. Security rushed in.
The man didn’t fight as they cuffed him. He just stared at Lydia.
“This isn’t over,” he murmured.
Monroe pulled Lydia away.
She exhaled sharply. “Did we just survive that?”
He nodded. “Barely.”
As the police escorted Mercer’s hitman off the train, Monroe glanced at Lydia.
“You still want to tell the world?”
Lydia straightened. “Now more than ever.”
Monroe smiled. Emily Carter’s story wasn’t dead yet.