Chapter Text
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for justice, for they shall be satisfied.”
━━━━━━☆━━━━━━
As Ponyboy stepped out into the dim morning light, the chill of the New York streets wrapped around him like a familiar old coat. The city was still shrouded in a misty gray, the sun yet to breach the horizon, but the world was already stirring with life.
He had only two thoughts on his mind: Mac Grayson and a cup of coffee.
Finding a coffee shop open at 4 a.m. might have been a challenge in most places, but this was New York—a city that never really slept. The streets, though quieter than during the day, were still alive with the steady hum of early risers and night owls. Here, the search for a good cup of coffee at any hour wasn’t a stretch; it was a certainty.
The cane he walked with made the journey more difficult, but coffee was coffee and he would certainly need it this morning.
Ponyboy made his way down the sidewalk, the cool air sharpening his senses. He knew exactly where he was headed: a small, tucked-away coffee shop that had become his sanctuary in the early hours of the morning. The place was run by a woman with a warm smile and a talent for baking, her pastries as much a draw as the coffee she served. She had a knack for knowing what her customers needed before they even said a word, and after so many mornings, she knew Ponyboy better than most.
The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped inside, the familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries enveloping him in an instant. The shop was quiet at this hour, just a few regulars nursing their drinks in solitude. He liked it that way—no distractions, just the soft murmur of the radio in the background and the hiss of the espresso machine.
As he approached the counter, the woman behind it looked up and smiled, already reaching for a cup.
"The usual, Curtis?" She asked, her voice as comforting as the smell of baking bread.
You know it." He affirmed with a nod, offering a small smile and tip in return.
She set to work, and Ponyboy let his mind drift back to Mac Grayson, the man who had become both mentor and partner over the years.
Grayson was tough, seasoned by years of walking the beat as a cop, and now just as formidable in the world of private investigation. Ponyboy had learned a lot from him—how to navigate the darker corners of the city, how to read people, how to stay one step ahead. But there was always something more beneath Mac’s gruff exterior, something that kept Ponyboy intrigued and, at times, wary.
Sometimes he thought about drawing the man, the way his beard framed his face and eyes squinted with deep contemplation. Mac overshadowed him by nearly half a foot, which was always a reassurance when you faced a tough client. Today however, his only feelings towards Mac Grayson were pure irritation as he was supposed to be his ride and bailed on him without a word.
The woman placed the steaming cup in front of him, pulling him from his thoughts.
"Careful, it’s hot," She said with a shy tint, Ponyboy thought she might like him and in another universe he would have the time for a date.
Ponyboy wrapped his hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. He took a slow sip, savoring the rich, bitter taste; as usual there was a small brown sugar tint to the coffee, just as he liked. Outside, the city continued to wake up, the soft glow of dawn starting to peek through the buildings.
It wasn’t often that Mac forgot to pick him up, maybe a year or two ago when they first started, but now? There were a lot of things Ponyboy didn’t know about Mac Grayson, but one thing was clear—today was going to be another long day. He could feel it in his chest, just like he felt the warmth of the coffee spreading through him, steeling him for whatever lay ahead.
With a nod of thanks to the woman behind the counter, he took one last look around the cozy shop before stepping back out into the awakening city.
—
The office he and Mac shared was nestled within a small, unassuming apartment complex on the quieter side of town. Only a few other businesses operated in the area—a dusty pawn shop, a tired-looking laundromat, and a bakery that opened just before dawn—leaving them with the peace and solitude they needed to work. It wasn’t much, but it served their purposes, providing just enough anonymity to keep prying eyes at bay.
Ponyboy made his way up the narrow stairwell, his footsteps echoing softly against the worn, creaking wood. The climb was a familiar routine, but the slight limp he’d had since he was sixteen added an extra challenge to the start of each day. It was a nuisance he’d long since learned to live with, but on days like this—when the air was thick with the promise of rain or the cold bite of snow—it was harder to ignore the way his leg protested every step.
He had always downplayed the discomfort, insisting it wasn’t that bad. But he knew, and so did Mac, that the truth was different. The climb was a test of endurance on days like today, each step a reminder of the lingering injury. Mac had suggested installing an elevator to their landlord more than once, but the man’s grimace had said it all—such a luxury was beyond his means, a pipe dream in a place where everything else was held together by duct tape and wishful thinking.
So the stairs remained his only way up.
A year into their partnership, Mac had taken it upon himself to start driving Ponyboy to the office in the mornings, a small gesture to ease the burden. It had become part of their routine, one of the few constants in their unpredictable line of work. But this morning had been different. This morning, Ponyboy had found himself alone, forced to make the climb without the usual reprieve. The absence of Mac’s car outside his building was as unsettling as the twinge in his knee with each step.
Ponyboy couldn’t help but wonder if it was deliberate, a lingering bitterness from their argument the day before. The harsh words exchanged still hung in the air between them, unresolved and sour. But deep down, he knew better. Mac wouldn’t leave him stranded out of spite. At least, he hoped he wouldn’t.
As he reached the top of the third flight, Ponyboy paused, catching his breath. He shook out his leg, the familiar ache stubbornly clinging on, as if it could be shaken free with enough effort. But the pain was a constant companion, one that wouldn’t be banished so easily.
With a resigned sigh, he straightened up and continued down the dimly lit hallway toward their office, his mind already shifting to the day ahead. There was work to be done, and whatever tension lay between him and Mac would have to wait. For now, he would focus on what he could control—getting through the day, no matter the circumstances.
Ponyboy swung the door open, the sign reading “Grayson and Curtis Private Investigators” jangling slightly as he stepped inside. The room greeted him with its usual clutter—files stacked precariously on Mac’s desk, a map of New York pinned haphazardly on the wall—but today, something felt off.
Mac was behind his desk, eyes glued to a stack of papers, but his usual focus was absent. Ponyboy could sense it immediately, a strange tension hanging in the air. He placed his coffee on his own desk with a bit more force than necessary, the dull thud breaking the silence.
“You could’ve picked me up,” He muttered, more to the room than to Mac. His leg throbbed dully from the walk, and he could still feel the sting of the morning’s cold in his knee. “Had to walk the whole way.”
Mac’s response came slower than usual, his voice flat. “Yeah, sorry about that. Got caught up.”
Ponyboy narrowed his eyes, studying Mac’s face. The older man wasn’t meeting his gaze, a sure sign that something was wrong. Mac was many things—gruff, stubborn, occasionally impossible—but he wasn’t avoidant. Not unless there was something worth avoiding.
“Ain’t like you to forget. Something wrong?” Ponyboy’s irritation simmered just below the surface, but concern began to creep in. The way Mac kept his eyes down, the tension in his shoulders—it all pointed to something bigger, something he wasn’t saying.
Mac leaned back in his chair, fingers rubbing at the back of his neck like he was trying to knead out the hesitation.
“We’ve been asked to take on a case,” he said, voice level but lacking its usual edge.
Ponyboy frowned. “And?”
“It’s out of state.”
The words hung there, heavy, but Ponyboy didn’t flinch. They’d traveled for cases before, sometimes on short notice, and he didn’t see why this would be any different. “Okay...?”
Mac finally met his eyes, and what Ponyboy saw there made his heart skip. There was something in Mac’s gaze—a mixture of hesitation and concern—that unsettled him more than the ache in his knee after the walk. Mac was never this careful with his words, never this unsure.
“It’s Tulsa, Curtis.”
For a moment, the room felt like it was tilting.
Tulsa.
The name hit him like a wave crashing against rocks, the memories of home, of what he’d left behind, rushing back too fast to stop. His hand tightened around the cup’s handle, the ceramic warm against his palm—but then it was gone. The cup slipped, hit the floor, and shattered, hot coffee splashing across the wooden boards.
Ponyboy and Grayson stared at the mess, heart thudding in his chest. Grayson stood, despite being older he was far steadier on his feet than Ponyboy, and went to his side. Mac lowered him down to his office chair, moving his cane off to the side and then leaning back to look at him. The smell of coffee mixed with the dusty scent of the old office, grounding him just enough to keep the flood of memories at bay.
Ponyboy swallowed, trying to find his voice.
“Why Tulsa?” His words came out thick, heavy with something he wasn’t ready to name.
“They asked for us specifically,” Mac said, his tone softer now, like he was navigating a minefield. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I know what Tulsa means to you.”
Ponyboy nodded slowly, the motion almost mechanical. Tulsa meant everything and nothing at the same time—a place that was home but also a graveyard of too many things he’d buried deep.
“We’ve done out-of-state cases before,” he said, but it sounded weak, even to his own ears.
“Not like this,” Mac murmured, and Ponyboy could hear the unspoken weight in those words. This case, this return, wasn’t just another job. It was a confrontation with a past Ponyboy had long tried to outrun.
The silence stretched between them, thick and uneasy. The remnants of the shattered cup lay at their feet, a tangible reminder of the fragility of everything they’d built, everything they’d left behind.
Ponyboy finally broke the silence, his voice steadier than he felt. “When do we leave?”
Mac hesitated again, just for a moment. “Soon. We’ll need to be ready.”
The words hung unsaid, ‘You’ll need to be ready’.
Ponyboy didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded once more. The room felt too small, the air too heavy. Without another word, he turned and looked to the window, staring out at the city that had been his refuge, trying to ignore the pull of the place that had once been home.
—
The last day he saw his brothers was on July 2nd, 1966.
He had been 15, a just recently turned 15, when it happened.
The night was suffocating, the kind of heat that pressed down on everything, leaving the world in a hazy, feverish state. Ponyboy’s shirt clung to his back, soaked through as he sat on the porch steps, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of tension inside the house. The screen door slammed shut behind him, the sharp sound cutting through the thick air like a knife.
He could still hear the echoes of the argument—Darry’s voice, low and hard, like the rumble of distant thunder, Sodapop’s attempts to calm things down, always caught between the two of them. But tonight was different. There was something in Darry’s voice, a note of desperation that sent a shiver down Ponyboy’s spine despite the heat.
“Pony, you don’t understand,” Darry had said, his voice tight with something that felt like fear. “This isn’t just about you.”
he didn’t remember what he said to his brother, but he remembered the way their faces scrunched up tight like in pain. Ponyboy had tried to push, tried to get them to explain, but they had clammed up, exchanging looks that only deepened his frustration. Sodapop had grabbed his arm, his grip almost too tight, his eyes wide and pleading.
“Just listen to him, Pone,” Sodapop had urged, but there was a crack in his voice, a tremor that betrayed something deeper. “Please.”
But Ponyboy couldn’t, not with the way they were acting, like they were hiding something from him—for months they had been. The tension in the house was unbearable, suffocating. He needed air, needed space to think. So, he had walked out, needing a moment to clear his head, but the unease in his gut only grew stronger.
He didn’t get far. The sound of heavy footsteps on the porch snapped him out of his thoughts. He remembered Darry grabbing his arm and pulling away from the front door. He turned just in time to see his brother stride past him, his face pale but determined, Sodapop following close behind. Ponyboy frowned, confusion mingling with a rising sense of dread.
This wasn’t normal. None of this was normal.
A knock echoed from the front door—loud, insistent. It reverberated through the quiet night, and Ponyboy felt his heart lurch in his chest. Darry’s hand tightened on the doorknob, hesitation flickering across his features. He glanced back at Sodapop, a silent exchange passing between them, and then opened the door a crack.
“Stay back, Pony,” Darry murmured over his shoulder, his voice barely audible, but there was an edge to it that made Ponyboy freeze. He’d never seen Darry like this, never seen his brother’s broad shoulders so tense, so ready for... something.
The door opened wider, and Ponyboy caught a glimpse of a man standing on the porch, his figure cast in shadow by the dim porch light. He was tall, his silhouette imposing, and something about him made Ponyboy’s blood run cold. The man’s eyes flicked to Ponyboy, narrowing slightly as they met his. He’d hadn’t seen him for weeks, he almost thought it was over.
It made the hair on his skin stand straight up.
“Hey there kid,” the man said, his voice low, gravelly.
Darry shifted, blocking Ponyboy from view. “Leave him out of this,” he said, the words clipped, almost a command.
But the man didn’t move. His gaze stayed fixed on Ponyboy, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his face. “He looks just like her,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Before Ponyboy could process what was happening, Darry’s hand shot out, pushing him back, away from the door. “Stay inside, Pony,” Darry ordered, but there was a tremor in his voice now, something that sent a spike of fear through Ponyboy’s chest.
Sodapop grabbed Ponyboy’s arm again, harder this time, trying to pull him away, but Ponyboy resisted, confusion and fear warring in his mind. “What’s going on?” he demanded, his voice shaking. “Who is that?”
“Please, Pone, just go,” Sodapop whispered, his voice cracking with desperation. “Please.”
But Ponyboy couldn’t move. His feet felt rooted to the spot, his heart pounding in his ears. He could see the fear in Sodapop’s eyes, the way Darry’s hand trembled ever so slightly as he reached for something just out of sight—a shadowed figure, a sudden blur of movement.
Everything exploded at once. The man lunged forward, Darry’s shout, Sodapop’s scream. Ponyboy felt something cold and heavy pressed into his hands, but he didn’t have time to react. The world blurred into a cacophony of shouts and movement, of fear and instinct taking over.
A loud bang echoed through the night, sharp and deafening. Ponyboy’s breath caught in his throat, his hands trembling violently as the man stumbled back. Then, silence—thick, suffocating silence.
Ponyboy’s vision swam, his legs giving out as he sank to the floor. Sodapop was beside him, shaking him, but Ponyboy couldn’t hear the words; his ears rang, his mind a jumbled mess of shock and disbelief.
The last thing he saw before everything went black was Darry’s face—pale, scared, and filled with a kind of desperation that Ponyboy had never seen before.
He was put into foster care a week later.
—
The memories from that night were jumbled, almost like watching scenes flash by through the window of a speeding car. He couldn’t piece together what happened to the man or how the days after the confrontation had unfolded. All he knew was that by the time he woke up the next morning, the man was gone, and the threat of being put into foster care loomed over him.
Just like before, no one told him what happened—another big secret, like the one that had set everything in motion.
He remembered the tight, pained expressions on his brothers' faces as they pulled him toward the car. He could tell they were helpless, unable to do anything to stop what was happening. And before he knew it, he was whisked away, far from home, from Oklahoma, to somewhere else. The worst part was that he wasn’t even in the same state anymore—shuffled between boys' homes and foster care in less than a week.
He heard from his brothers a few times through letters, but in his anger and frustration, he had torn them apart, furious at the situation. He blamed them. If they had told him what was really happening, he might have found a way out of it, maybe even prevented it altogether. But instead, he’d been left in the dark, confused and abandoned.
The last thing he had written to them was short and bitter:
Don’t bother writing again until you tell me what happened.
And they hadn’t.
He tried to tell himself that the letters might have been lost as he moved from place to place, with no permanent address to speak of. But the anger inside him refused to let go, whispering that he was just a problem they were finally rid of. When the time finally came for him to leave foster care at eighteen, there was no sense of joy or relief, just a hollow feeling of resignation.
All he had to show for it was a cane, a limp, and nowhere to call home.
His last foster home was near Colorado, where he managed to get a scholarship to a small college nearby. He earned a degree in English—he’d always been a decent writer—and worked for the local paper. It was there he met Mac, a rugged old police officer who was running out of leads. Somehow, Mac had seen something in the fresh-out-of-college kid who didn’t know when to quit, and before long, they were working together.
Mac never asked about the cane or the scars on Ponyboy’s legs.
Ponyboy never asked about the dust-covered family photo on Mac’s desk.
They had an understanding.
The tires hummed a steady rhythm against the asphalt, the only sound breaking the heavy silence inside the car. Ponyboy stared out the window, the endless stretch of highway blurring into a grey-green smear. His thoughts tangled like the overgrown weeds on the roadside, memories pushing at the edges of his mind, unwelcome and untended.
He tried for a while to reconcile with what happened, but found that it only brought him more pain.
Beside him, Mac kept his focus on the road, his knuckles just a shade too tight around the steering wheel. He’d seen this before—the way Ponyboy’s posture stiffened, the way his fingers drummed against his leg in a restless pattern. He saw it in officers after a gunfight, that study tension that never seemed to go away. And he knew Ponyboy, he was going to try and push this out pretending it wasn’t bothering him till it choked him.
Mac cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet car.
“Tulsa,” he said, keeping his tone casual, like he was talking about the weather. “How long has it been?”
Ponyboy’s eyes flicked to Mac, just for a second, before returning to the window. His jaw worked like he was grinding down words he didn’t want to say.
“Not long enough,” he replied, the words clipped, barely more than a mumble. Mac nodded, not missing the way Ponyboy’s shoulders tightened. He’d expected that.
“Gotta be strange, going back after all this time,” Mac ventured, his voice dipping into something softer, more careful. “You sure you’re good with this, kid?”
Ponyboy’s hand stilled on his knee, fingers curling into a fist. He felt the question like a needle under his skin, sharp and persistent. The thought of Tulsa was like a bruise he didn’t want to press on, a place where the edges of his memory frayed and blurred. But he couldn’t let that show, not to Mac, not to anyone.
“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly, the lie obvious even to his own ears. But he kept his gaze fixed out the window, avoiding the weight of Mac’s scrutiny. “It’s just another job.”
Mac’s jaw twitched, a muscle jumping just beneath the skin. He wasn’t buying it, but he knew when to back off. He’d been around long enough to see through the bravado, to recognize the tremor beneath the surface.
“Just remember,” Mac said, his voice low, almost as if he was talking to himself, “We’re here to work the case, not stir up the past.”
Ponyboy turned then, his eyes hard, but there was something else there too—a flicker of something vulnerable, something almost like fear. His lips tighten into a line, and his eyes squint the same look that he always got from the kid before they got to an argument.
“I know what we’re here for, Mac,” He said defensively, the words quiet but firm. “Believe me the past is something I don’t wanna see here.”
But even as the words left his mouth, a cold knot of doubt twisted in his gut. He didn’t know if he was telling Mac the truth, or just trying to convince himself that he still had control.He could feel Tulsa pulling at him, the memories like shadows that crept in around the edges, dark and unrelenting. It was his home once even if he didn’t like to think about it; those roots dug deep, even as he tried to pull at them.
The silence settled back in, heavier than before, as the road stretched on and the distance between them and Tulsa grew shorter with every mile.
—
“Grayson!” A middle-aged, pudgy man hurried toward them as soon as they stepped out of the car, his strides quick and purposeful.
“Sir,” Grayson greeted, his voice formal and gruff, the tone he reserved for most people. The man let out a scoff, clasping Grayson’s hand with a firm grip and pulling him closer with a chuckle.
“Always so stiff with you, Mac,” he said, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
Ponyboy took that brief pause to look around, letting the sights and sounds of the city wash over him. The air had that familiar, dry warmth, and the skyline felt like an old photograph he had half-forgotten. For a moment, the bustle of the street, the honking horns, and distant chatter were drowned out by the weight of memory. Tulsa wasn’t just a place—it was a collection of fragments from a life he’d left behind, a life he wasn’t sure he was ready to face again.
He had walked the streets his whole life, ate at these diners for every celebration, driven down the streets in the back of his brothers pick up. It should feel like home. It should feel warm and kind, but all he could feel was a coldness in his heart— the fear of not knowing what was going to come of this. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t have to see any of them at all and could get the case done and be out.
He just hoped the press in Tulsa wasn’t as eager for detailing on the case, the last thing he needed was for his brothers to find out he was here through the local newspaper.
He turned, as if suddenly noticing Ponyboy, who had taken a moment to exit the car, leaning on his cane as he stepped onto the pavement. The man’s gaze flicked to the cane, then back up to Ponyboy’s face. His smile faltered just slightly, and he raised an eyebrow.
“Didn’t know we needed a backup,” He remarked casually, the words laced with a hint of condescension.
Before Ponyboy could respond, Mac stepped in smoothly.
“We don’t,” He said, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. “We’re more than enough to get the job done.”
Ponyboy held back a smirk, Mac did that often— grouping the two of them together when people implied Ponyboy wouldn’t be capable. Like any offense to him was a personal attack on Mac's own abilities. He wasn't as imposing as his partner was, between his cane and his smaller stature the difference was clear. Mac however, stayed strong to the fact that he couldn’t read people like Ponyboy could.
They each had their own strength. It was what made them good partners.
The man nodded, though his gaze lingered on Ponyboy for a beat longer, as if weighing his response. Eventually, he turned back to Grayson, the moment passing.
“Alright then, let’s get you both up to speed.”
Ponyboy followed them into the station, Mac unconsciously slowing his pace to stay in step with him. Their routine was well-practiced, honed over years of working together on countless cases.
Mac always took the lead with the questions. His gruff demeanor and commanding presence often made people eager to spill whatever information they had. Whether it was police officers, witnesses, or suspects, they were quick to offer up what they knew under Mac’s sharp, probing gaze. While Mac handled the direct interrogation, Ponyboy played his part—quietly observing, reading the subtle shifts in expressions, the way eyes flickered or hands fidgeted, clues that spoke louder than words. He had a knack for spotting lies, for picking up on the small details others might miss. When they reached an investigation scene, it was Ponyboy who would take in the surroundings, searching for the overlooked, the hidden, the details that didn’t fit.
It was a routine that worked for them, a balance that allowed each to do what they did best. And while they weren’t often called in on police investigations, this case was different.
A girl was missing, and her boyfriend had been murdered.
Ponyboy already knew some of the details from the file they’d been given but he had known them, not well but he’d passed them in school before. The missing girl, Cherry Valance, and her boyfriend, Bob Sheldon, had been well-known around town. They were a few years older than Ponyboy, a couple who had been together throughout high school. Bob had been found face down with a knife in his back, and less than an hour after his body was discovered, Cherry had vanished.
As they moved deeper into the station, the familiar hum of police activity buzzed around them—phones ringing, officers shuffling paperwork, the low murmur of conversations about the day's cases. Mac’s presence commanded attention; officers glanced up, nodded, and quickly returned to their tasks, not wanting to be the one caught slacking under his gaze.
“So Johnson, give me the run-down,” Mac approached the front desk, his usual scowl in place, while Ponyboy lingered a few steps behind, taking in the atmosphere.
The station smelled faintly of burnt coffee and sweat, the kind of place where tension hung in the air like a thick fog. It wasn’t new to him—he’d walked through similar stations a dozen times—but this time, the undercurrent of familiarity made his skin prickle. He’d been in here once or twice mostly to bail out Two-Bit or Dally after a bar fight, but thankfully he avoided it.
However, something lingered like a fractured memory.
One where he’d been sitting in the waiting room, fear so overwhelming he had wanted to throw up. Just as he grassed onto the memory, it slipped through his fingers like sand. He shook his head, trying to focus once more on the room.
As Mac continued speaking with the desk sergeant, Ponyboy’s attention drifted. He scanned the faces of the officers in the room, looking for anything that might give away their thoughts—concern, impatience, unease. These were the people who would be their eyes and ears on the ground, and Ponyboy knew how much that could matter. There was tension in the air, these people were important— their parents threaded through the community, perhaps some of these officers knew them.
Ponyboy’s gaze wandered to the wall of missing persons posters. Cherry’s face stared back at him, her smile frozen in time, the edges of the poster already curling with age. It struck him how young she looked, even though she was older than him. Bob’s death, her disappearance—it was all too familiar, like a bad rerun of the life he once knew.
But, he shoved those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the details.
This paper wasn’t like the other missing posters that linger the sides, it was center focus; as if nobody could bear the idea of putting her in the corner next to the other missing posters. He caught one or two officers, staring at the paper, a personal emotion lingering in their eyes. They wouldn’t be unbiased in this investigation, most small towns weren’t.
But who was he to judge, especially in this case?
“Yeah but where was he when it happened?”
Mac’s gruff voice cut through the noise, drawing his attention back to the desk. He seemed looking at the desk cop, who, unlike the others, didn't seem to care much for the case. He was pointing towards a door at the far end of the station, where they’d be briefed by the detective in charge. Mac gave a curt nod and gestured for Ponyboy to follow.
“These guys are useless, all the gots is one suspects so far,” He grumbled when Ponyboy got close enough to hear him.
“What about Sergeant Johnson?” He asked absentmindedly, taking in the images, hung up on the wall of award, gifted to different detectives and sergeants over the years.
“He’s a good buddy of mine, not so much as good of a detective. That’s why they called us,” He mumbled, shifting through his pockets for a cigarette and lighting it as they stood, waiting in the hallway for Johnson to open the door.
Ponyboy’s eyes kept darting back to the people back by the main room, the flicker of recognition in some of their eyes, the way others quickly looked away. He knew they were being judged, weighed. But Mac walked with the confidence of someone who’d seen it all before, his heavy steps echoing in the narrow hallway as they approached the briefing room.
He wasn’t sure if they’re wearing this came from familiarity or from his appearance either way it unnerved him.
He found himself getting a little inpatient; he was about to reach for the door when Mac’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, stopping him.
“You good?” Mac asked, his voice low enough that only Ponyboy could hear.
Ponyboy met his eyes, surprised by the concern buried beneath the usual gruffness. As much as his partner liked to put up a rough exterior, he knew there was some care— otherwise he probably would’ve thrown Ponyboy to the streets by now.
“Yeah,” Ponyboy replied, his voice steady, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was convincing himself or Mac. “Let’s do this.”
Mac held his gaze for a moment longer, as if weighing the truth in his words, then gave a slight nod. They pushed through the door together, stepping into the briefing room where the reality of what they were about to face settled over them like a heavy blanket.
Inside, detective Johnson stood by a whiteboard covered in photos and notes. The crime scene images of Bob’s body were stark and cold, and among them, a photo of Cherry, her eyes bright and alive, seemed out of place—too vibrant for the grim wall it was pinned to.
Ponyboy took a seat, scanning the room, the faces of the other cops, the tension in the air. They were seasoned, hardened by years of dealing with the worst humanity had to offer. But there was something else there too—a flicker of doubt, uncertainty, as if they were all silently questioning whether this case would ever have a resolution.
“You said you got suspect for us?” Mac started asking questions, his voice filling the room with authority, cutting through the silence like a blade.
“Yeah, the guy that we picked up was last seen talking to Cherry.” Johnson responded, a fire in his eyes with fists clenched on the table.
“Can this wait? My partner and I usually prefer to see the scene of the crime first,” Mac hated to have their routine interrupted, the more so he had to be caught off guard by the case.
“Nah, we talk to him first. Can only hold him for so long without evidence.”
Mac started to argue with the detective, and Ponyboy didn’t blame him. They’re only suspects without a shred of evidence to place them at the crime? These guys really were ridiculous, he had forgotten how rough the police were in Tulsa—only remembering their unfairness.
As he spoke, Ponyboy let his gaze drift, taking in the details of the room, the way the light flickered from the old bulbs above, the muffled sounds from the station beyond the door, a voice cut through some of the door like arguing was taking place. It seemed like they’re suspect wasn’t quite enjoying being put behind bars.
There was something here—something he was missing. He could feel it, a nagging sensation in the back of his mind, but it was just out of reach. He needed more information, needed to see the crime scene for himself, to walk where Cherry and Bob had walked. Only then would the pieces start to fall into place.
As Mac continued the briefing, Ponyboy’s mind was already racing ahead, mapping out their next steps, preparing for the moment when the small details would start to connect, revealing the truth hidden beneath the surface.
But then, he heard it.
A sharp voice cut through the room like a blade, slicing through the noise and chatter. The sound sent a ringing through Ponyboy’s ears, a sick twist forming in his gut.
“ Back off, man! I ain't done nothing, so get off my case!” The voice was rough, dripping with defiance and anger.
Everyone in the room turned towards the door, even Mac seemed caught off guard by the commotion. Ponyboy stood frozen, unable to make himself turn around. That voice—he knew it too well. It was the same voice that once brought him comfort, the assurance that someone had his back no matter what. But now, that same voice sent a wave of fear crashing through him.
He didn’t need to see the face to know who it was. The voice alone had already told him. The same one that rooted him to the spot as officers brushed past him, rushing to the source of the commotion.
The door creaked open, the sound stretching out as if time itself had slowed. Ponyboy's heart pounded in his chest as he forced himself to turn, his breath catching when he finally met the gaze of their suspect.
Dallas Winston.