Chapter 4: The Dead Don’t Text

Grief is strange. Some days it’s heavy, like a wet coat you can’t take off. Other days, it’s just a whisper in the background—a scent, a sound, a slip of memory. Then there are moments, like this one, when it grabs you by the throat and drags you back into the past.

I woke up just after 4 AM, heart pounding, body tense. Not from a nightmare. I don’t get those anymore. I’ve seen enough in real life that my dreams are oddly quiet now.

I rolled over and checked my phone, expecting a boring notification or a missed alarm.

But there it was.

1 new message

Unknown number

“You missed something. Locker 208. King Street Station.”

I stared at it, frowning. No name. No context. But something about the way it was written…

It hit me in the gut.

Kaden used to text like that. Blunt. Direct. No fluff. Just words that cut straight to the point. But it couldn’t be him. It wasn’t him. Kaden was dead. Buried. Gone. I was seventeen when I stood at his grave, when I dropped a rose onto the casket and whispered goodbye to the only person who ever truly understood me.

But still… I couldn’t look away from that message.

I should’ve reported it. Blocked the number. Gone back to sleep.

Instead, I was dressed in twenty minutes and behind the wheel ten minutes after that, driving through wet, quiet streets toward the station I hadn’t been to in over a decade.

King Street Station used to be one of Kaden’s favorite places when we were kids. He’d sneak out sometimes and disappear for hours, only to come back with stories about street performers and overheard secrets. I thought it was just big brother mischief. Now? I’m not so sure.

The station was almost abandoned at this hour, just a sleepy security guard watching old TV reruns in the booth. I slipped past unnoticed and found the row of lockers at the far end.

Locker 208.

Rust flaked off the handle. The keyhole was jammed, but I managed to pop it open with the back end of a pen.

Inside were three things:

• A brown envelope

• A USB stick

• A black-and-white photograph

I picked up the photo first. My breath caught.

Kaden.

He looked older—about how he’d look now, if he were still alive. Standing next to a man I didn’t recognize, near what looked like a warehouse or shipping dock. The date printed at the bottom?

Four months ago.

My legs nearly gave out. I had to lean against the locker door to steady myself.

What the hell was this?

The envelope was packed with newspaper clippings, mostly about internal investigations and missing evidence from old police cases. Names circled in red ink. And one name appeared again and again:

Detective Inspector Jansen.

My boss.

My breath came short. My skin felt too tight. I closed the locker, pocketed the USB and the envelope, and left before anyone could see me.

Back in my car, I sat in silence, clutching the steering wheel, trying to slow my racing heart.

Was this a setup? A warning? Or… something else?

And why now—after all these years?

If this was some sick game, I’d play it. If it was a lie, I’d rip it apart. But if there was even a sliver of truth… if Kaden was alive, or if he had known something—something worth dying for—then I wasn’t going to stop until I uncovered it.

Whatever it took.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

This was a message.

And I got it.

Loud and clear.