The Red Notebook
March 2, 2025
The alley smelled of damp asphalt and old cigarettes. Detective Jake Mercer pulled his coat tighter against the cold as he stepped over a puddle, his boots leaving faint impressions in the water. The body lay a few feet ahead, slumped against a brick wall, blood smeared in a dark arc beneath it.
Henry Vance. Former reporter.
A guy like Vance didn’t get himself killed without a reason.
Mercer crouched down, studying the scene. No wallet. No phone. But something else caught his eye—a red notebook, half-tucked into the dead man’s jacket. He pulled it free and flipped through the pages.
Messy handwriting. Names. Dates. Addresses.
A story unfinished.
Mercer muttered under his breath, “What the hell were you digging into, Vance?”
Footsteps sounded behind him. He turned, already knowing who it was.
Detective Laura Hayes. His partner.
“Tell me you’ve got something,” she said, eyeing the notebook.
Mercer held it up. “Vance was onto something. And whatever it was, it got him killed.”
Hayes frowned. “Think it was a robbery?”
Mercer shook his head. “Too clean. No struggle, no mess—except for the bullet in his chest. Someone wanted him quiet, not just dead.”
Hayes nodded at the notebook. “Anything useful in there?”
Mercer flipped a few pages, his eyes scanning the scribbled notes. “Looks like a list of names. Some crossed out. Some circled. And one word keeps showing up—Sentinel.“
Hayes frowned. “Sentinel? That some kind of code?”
“Could be,” Mercer said, closing the notebook. “But whatever it means, Vance thought it was important enough to die for.”
A low rumble of thunder rolled through the city. Hayes exhaled, glancing around the dark alley. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Mercer nodded. “We find out what Sentinel means.”
They sat in Mercer’s car, parked under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, flipping through the notebook. The circled names stood out:
Elliot Grayson. Nina Delacroix. Samuel Pierce.
Mercer tapped a name. “Elliot Grayson. Recognize it?”
Hayes nodded. “Yeah. Corporate lawyer. Big name. Got some questionable clients.”
Mercer’s grip tightened on the notebook. “And now he’s on a dead reporter’s list.”
Hayes sighed. “Think he talks?”
“He will.” Mercer turned the key in the ignition. “One way or another.”
Grayson’s office was sleek—marble floors, glass walls, and an air of expensive silence. The receptionist barely looked up as Mercer and Hayes pushed past, heading straight for Grayson’s door.
Mercer didn’t knock. He shoved the door open.
Elliot Grayson looked up from his desk, surprised but not rattled. “Detectives,” he said smoothly, closing a file. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Mercer tossed the red notebook onto the desk. “Henry Vance. You knew him?”
Grayson’s eyes flickered to the notebook, just for a second. “Can’t say I did.”
Hayes leaned in. “That’s funny. Because your name is in his notes. Along with a lot of other people who don’t want their business made public.”
Grayson smiled. “You have no warrant, no evidence. Just a dead man’s scribbles. That doesn’t scare me.”
Mercer smirked. “You should be scared of what we find next.”
He turned to leave.
That’s when Grayson spoke again.
“Detective Mercer,” he said, voice calm. “I’d be careful if I were you. Some things are better left buried.”
Mercer didn’t turn around. He just walked out, notebook in hand, Hayes right beside him.
As the office door clicked shut behind them, Hayes exhaled. “He knows something.”
Mercer nodded. “Yeah. And now he knows we do too.”
They stepped into the night, the city humming around them. Somewhere out there, the truth about Sentinel was waiting.
And they weren’t stopping until they found it.