The Truth

Chapter 1

Nathan Hale used to believe you could tell what a person was or what they wanted just by looking into their eyes.

Years ago, when he was chasing shadows through alleyways and listening to liars whisper through two-way glass, he made a habit of studying people just after they'd done something they couldn't undo. Some cried. Some shut down. Others just sat there, blinking slowly like their brains where buffering the weight of their actions.

It was their eyes. The flicker of fear, of guilt, or sometimes— nothing at all.

But today he wasn't chasing shadows or watching from an interrogation room.

He was in the middle of town.

They had just finished loading the groceries into the back of their SUV on the corner of Evergreen. Population, eight-thousand. Most people still left their doors unlocked, it was a place where time moved a little slower and bad things weren't supposed to happen.

It was Sunday afternoon, five o'clock. The lot was nearly empty, a teenager was sweeping near the front of the store, earbuds in, broom dragging lazily across the concrete. Somewhere nearby, church bells began to chime the hour. The town was winding down for the day.

Nathan closed the trunk with a soft thump. Emily stood close by, one hand gripping her phone, the other shielding the afternoon sunlight from her eyes. She was quiet. Tired, maybe. Distracted.

A shout.

The voice came ragged and raw, bouncing off the buildings like it didn't belong to the world around them.

"Nathan Hale!".

Nathan turned to the voice, shielding his daughter instinctively. His hand reached to the small of his back, where the weight of habit long retired, still lived.

Measured and firm, a man stepped into view between two parked cars. He was walking toward them with controlled urgency. He wore fitted dark slacks, a navy dress shirt, sleeves rolled just past the elbows. Sweat glistened on his brow.

The man was closing in now, fast — thirty feet, twenty.

Emily hadn't moved. She stood frozen two feet behind Nathan. Her eyes widened. Her mouth was slightly open, like she'd been about to say something.

The man stopped. Maybe ten feet away. Close enough to make it personal.

"I need to speak to the girl."

His tone was clipped. Professional. There was something beneath it— something tight. Angry.

Nathan Stepped forward, planting himself between the man and Emily. His eyes narrowed with confusion. Who was this man? What did he want with Emily.

"You've got the wrong car. She's not speaking to anyone." Nathan affirmed.

The man's eyes didn't move. They were steady, locked on Emily.

The man stepped forward, his hand hovering his waistband.

"Sir," Nathan warned, raising one hand. "Back off."

The man continued. Nine feet now. Quick and direct.

Nathan raised his voice. "I said stop!"

Nathans right hand hovered near the small of his back, his fingers curling around the familiar cold steel of his 9mm. It had been years since he'd drawn that gun. His grip tightened. The slide felt smooth beneath his fingers as he eased it out in one fluid motion. Careful but ready.

In a sudden, swift motion, the man reached into his pocket.

He pulled out an object with deliberate speed— just enough for it to catch sunlight. An unforgiving glint of cold metal peaking out.

Nathans breath hitched. Heart pounding.

His finger twitched near the trigger and time slowed.

The man didn't slow. He kept coming.

"Please, stop!" Nathan pleaded.

The man continued. Five feet now.

Fast.

Too Fast.

No time.

Nathan's body moved before his mind could talk him down.

One shot. Clean, echoing. Final.

The Man jerked, staggering mid-step. He collapsed.

The last time Nathan had pulled the trigger was eight years ago.

A cold night in the outskirts of Chicago. Rain drumming down on the cracked pavement, heart hammering in his throat. He'd been chasing a suspect, a twenty-eight-year-old man, desperate and dangerous. Nathan had shouted one warning, then another. When the man raised a gun, there was no time for hesitation.

He carried the weight of taking someone else's life in the quiet. In the way he walked slower now. In the nightmares that come every few months. And now standing in the middle of Wren Street with his gun still warm in his hand and a man lying dead three feet in front of him, Nathan felt the same old weight pressing down on him like wet concrete in his chest. Heavy and suffocating.

Emily let out a sound. A soft broken gasp. Nathan couldn't look at her yet.

He couldn't even breathe.

With his weapon raised, he stepped forward.

The man lay twisted on the pavement, one arm outstretched, the other tucked beneath him.

The mans hand was curled around the glistening metal.

Handcuffs.

Nathans gut turned.

From behind, the memory of his own voice echoed faintly in his head. The man hadn't stopped like he asked. He reached fast. He moved like he meant harm.
He moved like someone with a gun.

His eyes were open. Nathan hated that most of all.

There was something about the stillness— the way the light hit the mans face. The way his chest no longer moved. It was quiet.
It was the kind of stillness that didn't belong in a place like this. Not on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Not in front of a sixteen-year-old girl still too young to understand what killing does to a man.

Nathan stared. His grip on the gun loosened, his arm falling slowly to his side.

Nathan's chest ached.

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Authors Note:

Hey Guys!
I am so excited for this story to progress.
If you have any feedback, please feel free to comment! <3