Ezra Knox's Arc

Chapter 1 of 11

Ezra Knox crouched by the ruined wall before sunrise, fingers cold against wet paint. The mural was gone. Six years of this work, and someone kept erasing the dead. They had a name in their head, a suspect they hadn't said aloud. But the paint here was still tacky, finished only hours ago — and their suspect had been nowhere near the city last night. Ezra sat back on their heels. The name in their head went quiet. They were going to have to start over. They stood and looked at the wreck of it. Bright streaks dripped over the brick. Chunks of plaster lay broken in the dirt. The face they had painted last week — a boy, sixteen, gone too soon — was buried under sloppy color. Ezra pulled a granola bar from their pocket and didn't open it. Whoever did this was someone they hadn't been watching. Someone new. Ezra took out their phone and started a fresh list of names. Across the way, the small log tavern sat dark, its painted sign still. Ezra had spent three nights tucked behind it with a folding chair, a thermos, and a clear view of the wall. They had watched the wrong place for the wrong person. Ezra pocketed the phone and crossed to the chair. They folded it up and carried it home. The watch was over. Tomorrow they would start a new one, and this time they would not guess. At the curb, Ezra stopped and pulled a folded flyer from their back pocket. It showed a girl in a black lace gown, a red rose in her hair — a costume ball poster their suspect had been hired to paint sets for, three towns away, last night. Ezra had carried it for days, hoping to throw it out. Now it was proof. They smoothed the paper, tucked it into their notebook, and kept walking. The list in their head was empty. That, at least, was honest.