Chapter 32

     It was the poet who brought me back. Not literally, of course—I’d been drifting long before he showed up. But his case, his problem, it was what made me realize I wasn’t done. Not yet. Not while there were still gaps to fill, still mysteries that twisted beneath the surface like knots in a rope.

     I hadn’t wanted to take the case. Too abstract, too cerebral. I was used to straightforward problems—someone missing, someone dead, someone hiding a truth they didn’t want anyone to find. But this... this was different. It wasn’t about money or betrayal, not at first glance. It was about words. And if there’s one thing I’d learned over the years, it’s that words are just as dangerous as bullets. Maybe more so.

     The poet’s name was Julian Fen. He wasn’t famous, not in any way that mattered. A small-time scribbler who floated around the edges of the literary world, popping up at open mics and underground readings where people snapped their fingers instead of clapping. He didn’t look like much—thin, wiry, with a mop of unkempt hair and eyes that were always darting around, like he was afraid someone might be watching him. He was right to be afraid.

     He came to me on a Wednesday, I remember that much. It was raining, and I’d just lit a cigarette when he knocked on my office door. I didn’t get many clients back then—most people had given up on me by then, thought I was washed up, burned out. Maybe I was. But Julian didn’t seem to care about any of that. He had a problem, and he thought I could help.

     "Mr. Jangler?" he asked, his voice soft, uncertain.

     "That’s what the door says," I replied, taking a long drag on my cigarette. "What do you want?"

     He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I need your help. It’s... it’s about something I wrote."

     That caught my attention. People didn’t usually come to me with writing problems. "Go on," I said, leaning back in my chair.

     Julian fumbled with the papers in his hands, pulling out a crumpled sheet and laying it on the desk in front of me. "It’s a poem. I... I think it’s a clue."

     I raised an eyebrow. "A clue to what?"

     He looked up at me, his eyes wide with something like fear. "I think someone’s going to die."

     That was all it took. I was hooked. I leaned forward, taking the paper from his hands. It was a short poem, no more than a few lines, but there was something unsettling about it. The words were jagged, sharp, like teeth waiting to bite down on something—or someone.

     "The poet brought a made digit to toothier meshes under," I muttered, reading the first line aloud. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

     Julian swallowed hard. "I don’t know," he admitted. "But I think... I think it’s about me. I’ve been getting these notes, these messages, and they all lead back to this poem."

     I stared at him for a long moment, trying to make sense of what he was saying. A poem as a clue? It didn’t make sense. But then again, neither did half the things I dealt with. The world was full of gaps, of spaces between what people thought they knew and what was really going on underneath. And if there was one thing I was good at, it was filling in those gaps.

     "You think someone’s using your poem to send a message?" I asked, tapping the paper with my finger.

     Julian nodded, his face pale. "I don’t know who, but... it’s like they’re playing a game with me. Like they want me to figure something out before it’s too late."

     I sat back in my chair, the weight of the situation settling over me. "And you think it’s going to end with someone dead?"

     Julian didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the poem, his eyes tracing the words like they were a riddle he couldn’t quite solve. "I don’t know," he said finally. "But I can feel it. Something’s wrong."

     Toothier meshes under.

     I could feel it too. There was something darker lurking beneath the surface of this case, something that went beyond the simple words on the page. The poem was a clue, sure, but it was also a trap—a net waiting to catch something, or someone, in its teeth.

     "What do you want me to do?" I asked, folding the paper and tucking it into my pocket.

     Julian hesitated again, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides. "I want you to help me figure out what it means. Before it’s too late."

     I lit another cigarette, the smoke curling up into the dim light of the office. "All right," I said. "But understand this, Julian—poems are just like people. They say one thing, but they mean another. If we’re going to figure this out, we’ll have to dig deep. And you might not like what we find."

     He nodded, his face pale but determined. "I’m ready."

     I wasn’t so sure. I’d dealt with cases like this before, ones that seemed small, almost insignificant, until they spiraled out of control. And something about Julian’s poem, about the "made digit" and the "toothier meshes under," made me think this was going to be one of those cases.

     "All right," I said, standing up and grabbing my coat. "Let’s go dig."