Misty Knight didn’t say much when you first walked into her Harlem office.
The blinds were drawn. The rain tapped the windows like an impatient drummer. Her cybernetic arm gleamed beneath the desk lamp as she clicked her pen and gave you a once-over — not the kind that lingers, but the kind that slices straight to the truth. The kind that says, I’ve seen worse. But you’re not far off.
You handed her the envelope with your wife’s name, the hotel receipt, a picture that had started to yellow at the corners.
“She’s been distant,” you muttered, avoiding Misty’s eyes. “Phone always locked. Late nights that don’t line up. I… I don’t want to think the worst, but—”
“But you hired me,” Misty finished flatly, flipping open a small notepad. “So, you’re already thinking it.”
You nodded, ashamed. She didn’t push — just scribbled something, then looked up again.
“I charge by the day. Not by the heartbreak. You sure you want to go through with this?”
“I need to know.”
Misty leaned back, exhaling through her nose. “Truth is funny. People think they want it, but most are begging me to lie before I’m even done with the case.”
“I’m not like most people.”
She gave you a look. Not skeptical — something softer, just a flicker. “We’ll see.”
Three days passed. You got updates by burner text: “Following lead.” “Contact made.” “Keep your phone on.” And then finally: “We need to talk.”
She met you in a small diner on 10th. Same booth every detective always used — back to the wall, view of the door. Her trench coat was damp, her afro frizzed from the rain. She had a folder under her arm.
“Mercedes,” you said.
“Don’t call me that,” she replied out of habit. “It’s Misty.”
Then she slid the folder across the table.
You hesitated. But you opened it. Photos — crisp, merciless. Your wife. Another man. Hand on the small of her back. A room number. Kisses traded like secrets in an alleyway you used to walk her down yourself.
Your hand tightened around the folder.
“I’m sorry,” Misty said quietly, surprising even herself with how gently she said it.
You didn’t speak for a while. The coffee went cold. The pain in your chest spread slow, like a bruise beneath the skin.
“You ever hate yourself for being right?” you finally asked.
Misty looked away. “Every damn week.”
The silence returned, but this time you didn’t fight it. You just sat there, broken in the presence of someone who knew what it meant to live with loss and keep walking anyway.
“I don’t know what to do now,” you admitted.
“Start over,” Misty said. “Doesn’t matter if it’s slow. Just… start.”
You looked up at her. The cybernetic arm flexed faintly as she reached for the check. You stopped her.
“At least let me pay for something.”
She gave a small smile — real, honest, and tired. “Alright. But just this once.”
And as the door swung open, letting in cold wind and wet footsteps, you walked out beside her — a little heavier than before, but a little less alone.