Stitch's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

Stitch stared at the pressed pages by lamplight. The first part of the name fit Finn Shakes. But it fit others too. Three men on the docks shared that start. Accuse the wrong one, and the real killer walked free. He needed more than half a name. He needed proof. At dawn he went to the docks. He kept his cap low and watched the men work the morning haul. He studied their hands, their gear, the way each man moved. The dead woman had written about her killer. He hoped her words matched something he could see. The tables near the fish stalls were crowded. Dockhands set their tools down while they ate. Stitch drifted past the long wooden table and looked without seeming to look. Knives. Hooks. Coiled rope. Then one glove, dropped alone on the planks. He bent and picked it up. Leather, worn soft, covered in bold tattoo-like markings in red and green. He had seen those same markings before. On the last page from the river, the woman had sketched the killer's hand. She had drawn the pattern of a marked glove. Stitch's pulse jumped. Half a name meant nothing. This meant everything. He turned the glove over and matched each loop and swirl to the drawing in his memory. It fit. "That's mine." Finn Shakes stood at the table's end. His eyes twitched to the glove, then to Stitch's face. His hand shook as it reached out. "Give it here." Stitch did not move. "She drew this," he said. "The woman from the river. She drew your hand before you killed her." Finn's face went pale. For one breath he looked ready to run. Then he lunged across the table and grabbed for the glove. Stitch stepped back and held it high. Other dockhands looked up. A fish fell off a crate. "He killed her," Stitch said, loud now. "The pages name him. This proves it." Finn froze. Every man on the dock had stopped. They stared at him, at his shaking hands, at the guilt plain on his face. He could not grab the glove with all of them watching. He could not run without proving the words true. "You've got nothing," Finn said. But his voice cracked. "I've got your hand," Stitch said. He held the glove against the memory of the drawing one last time. The match was perfect. The half name was Finn. The marked glove was Finn. No other man on these docks wore it. Finn backed away. His eyes darted to the river, to the alleys, to the men closing in. Then he turned and ran. He shoved through the crowd and vanished down the waterfront. Stitch let him go. He closed his fist around the glove. He had the name now, and the proof to match it. But Finn was loose and desperate, and he knew Stitch held the thing that would hang him.