The shift was finally over. Exhaustion tugged at my limbs as I made my way through the dimly lit parking lot, the cold evening air biting against my skin. The streetlights cast long shadows across the asphalt, their pale glow reflecting off the wet ground from an earlier drizzle. My thoughts drifted to my sons, Liam and Lucas, and the warmth of home waiting for me. I imagined them huddled in the kitchen, maybe trying to surprise me with a homemade dinner. The thought brought a brief smile to my lips.
As I reached for my car door, the harsh ringtone of my phone cut through the quiet. The screen flashed with Director Rogers' name, pulling me back to the present.
"Lily, there's a crime scene at Northern Willow Street. I need you here," his voice was clipped, firm, and left no room for hesitation.
"On my way," I replied, my voice steady as I slipped into the driver's seat. The car's interior was cool, the leather seats smooth against my tired body. I started the engine, the hum of the motor filling the silence. Before pulling out, I called the boys, the familiar beep of the phone bringing a sense of routine amid the chaos. "I might be late for dinner again," I said, guilt lacing my words. Liam's voice on the other end was understanding, but it didn't ease the pain in my chest.
The drive to Northern Willow Street was short, but each minute felt heavy with anticipation. The city lights blurred past as I navigated the quiet streets, my mind already on the case. As I arrived, the scene was a flurry of activity—flashing red and blue lights, the murmur of officers, and the cold stench of something foul lingering in the air. I parked near the curb, the gravel crunching under the tires, and stepped out into the night.
Director Rogers stood by the perimeter, his broad shoulders tense under the weight of the situation. His silhouette was framed by the flashing lights, casting long, ominous shadows on the ground.
"Lily, what we have here is history on repeat," he began, his voice carrying the weight of years of experience. The lines on his face deepened as he spoke, his eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and confusion. " This is a nightmare all over again, the simplest words I can say is David Kart's case all over again ."
I furrowed my brow, the fog of exhaustion lifting slightly as memories of the past nudged their way forward. "Was it the one where a father of two was found dead in their swimming pool, but the cause of death wasn't drowning?" My voice was quiet, almost reflective. "Something attacked him and then threw him in the pool... Those were the most exhausting cases I've had. I hated that I couldn't find justice for the family."
The eerie familiarity of the situation sent a shiver down my spine. Rogers nodded solemnly and gestured towards the crime scene where Molly, our medical examiner, was waiting. She stood by the body, her small frame dwarfed by the towering police officers around her, but her presence commanded respect.
"Molly, talk to me," I said as I approached, my voice carrying a note of authority that I didn't quite feel.
Molly looked up, her face pale under the harsh floodlights. "Lily, this is Maria Cooper, a 39-year-old teacher at Meadow High School," she began, her tone professional but with an undercurrent of unease. "It seems she was heading home from school and was hijacked, but everything is intact including her ID which we were able to use to identify."
My eyes narrowed as I scanned the scene, noting the lack of typical signs of a struggle. "Then what's the problem?" I asked, my voice sharper now, cutting through the tension.
Molly hesitated, then slowly pulled back the drape covering the body. The sight beneath it made my stomach twist—Maria's chest and back were marred by deep claw marks, and her eyes… her eyes were gone, the sockets blackened and raw, as if burned by acid.
"Yikes," I muttered, taking an involuntary step back. The air around us seemed to thicken, the smell of decay mingling with something acrid and chemical. "This justifies my point about humanity's decay."
Molly nodded, her usual confidence shaken. "But Lil, that's not all," she continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper as if the darkness around us might swallow her words. " There are no other signs of physical trauma.The blood samples have been taken for examination . We need an autopsy and more lab tests."
I forced myself to take a steadying breath, my mind racing to piece together the implications. "Update me with anything new," I said, my voice betraying none of the unease I felt.
Molly lingered for a moment, her eyes searching mine. "Hey Lil, what are we dealing with?"
The question hung in the air, the echoes of an unsolved past case reverberating in my mind. "It's déjà vu all over again," I said finally, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "But this time, I'll catch the person responsible."
Later, I drove home in silence, the city's neon lights reflecting off the wet streets, painting everything in shades of blue and purple. When I opened the door to our modest home, the smell of something burning hit me. The kitchen was filled with smoke, the faint beeping of the smoke alarm adding to the chaos. Liam stood by the stove, looking sheepish as he tried to salvage what was left of dinner.
"Hello, Mother," he greeted, a lopsided grin on his face. "I swear the food is edible, aside from the burnt parts."
I laughed softly, shaking my head. "Where's Lucas? Isn't he supposed to help you with dinner?"
"He isn't feeling well, so he went to sleep early," Liam replied, his smile fading into a look of concern.
My heart tightened with worry. I quickly made my way to Lucas's room, the door creaking softly as I pushed it open. The room was dim, lit only by the small lamp on his nightstand. Lucas lay curled under the covers, his face pale, dark circles shadowing his usually bright eyes.
I sat on the edge of his bed, brushing a hand over his forehead. His skin was warm, almost feverish. "Lucas, why didn't you tell me you're sick?" I asked, my voice soft, the motherly concern overtaking the detective in me.
"Mom, it's nothing big. Just exhausted from rugby practice," he mumbled, his voice weak but reassuring.
I sighed, my hand lingering on his brow. "Well, you shouldn't continue if it's leaving you in this state. Take a break."
"It's nothing, just exhaustion. I need sleep, that's all. Don't worry," he insisted, his tone lightening with a small smile.
"Don't start saying I'm nagging. I care about your well-being," I replied, trying to keep the concern out of my voice.
He chuckled, the sound soft but genuine, and for a moment, the room felt lighter. His sea-green eyes, so much like his father's, met mine, and I felt a pang of longing for a past that could never be. Lucas was the spitting image of his father, while Liam had inherited my grey-brown curly hair. Sixteen years had passed since their father left us—sixteen years of raising these twins alone. He never even knew I was pregnant. But now, what mattered was finding this killer before more homicides occurred.
"You have a new case?" Lucas asked, his perceptive gaze cutting through the small talk.
I smiled, though it didn't quite reach my eyes. "How did you know? Are you stalking me?"
"Haha, I wish, but you have those worry lines on your forehead," he teased, his grin widening.
"Yeah, it's this case… I just need justice," I admitted, the weight of the unsolved case pressing on my shoulders like an old, familiar burden.
"Don't worry, you'll solve it. After all, you're the detective in her mid-thirties still looking like she's in her twenties," he said, his tone light, but his eyes filled with genuine admiration.
"Tell me about it. These young rookies still hit on me," I joked, the banter a welcome distraction from the day's horrors.
"Means you still got it," he laughed, the sound filling the small room with warmth.
"Goodnight, my genius number one. Let me help your brother not burn the food," I said, standing up and ruffling his hair.
"Oh, too late. Goodnight, super mom. I promise I'm okay," he replied, his voice fading as he drifted off to sleep.
"I trust you. Love you," I whispered, closing the door quietly behind me.
Back in the kitchen, I cleaned up the remnants of Liam's attempt at dinner and set about preparing breakfast for the next morning, knowing I wouldn't be there when they woke up. The house was quiet now, the only sounds were the occasional creak of the floorboards and the soft hum of the refrigerator. I poured myself a glass of wine, the rich scent of the red liquid filling my senses as I settled at the dining table. I sipped my wine slowly, letting the warmth of the liquid spread through me, but it did little to chase away the chill that had settled deep in my bones. The house, usually so full of life, felt eerily quiet. The faint ticking of the wall clock seemed louder than usual, each second echoing in the silence. My eyes drifted back to the case files spread across the table.
The case from 2024 had been my white whale, the one that got away. I had poured everything into it—long nights, even a piece of my sanity—only to come up empty-handed. What was worse was that i was just a junior detective, i had just found out that i was pregnant when the father just died . And now, it seemed that nightmare was back to haunt me.
My fingers traced the edges of the old photographs, images of the victims long since burned into my memory. The father of two, found lifeless in his swimming pool, his face twisted in an expression of unimaginable terror. The autopsy had revealed nothing definitive; the cause of death remained a mystery, the body devoid of any clear injuries or signs of struggle. It was as if death had claimed him in a way that defied all logic, all science.
And now Maria Cooper. Black stains on the victims clothes, the blackened eye sockets—these were no ordinary wounds. They spoke of something far more sinister, something beyond the realm of human cruelty. The connection between the two cases was undeniable, but the question that gnawed at me was how. How could these seemingly unconnected lives be bound by the same horrific fate?
I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling as if the answers might be written in the cracks above. A memory stirred in the back of my mind, a conversation I had buried deep but never forgotten. It was with an old colleague, now retired, who had dabbled in the darker, more obscure corners of forensic science—areas that most of us dared not touch. He had spoken of cases like these, where the cause of death was so elusive that it bordered on the supernatural.
"Sometimes," he had said, "the explanation lies not in what we know, but in what we refuse to acknowledge."
I had dismissed his words at the time, chalking them up to the ramblings of a man too long immersed in the macabre. But now, I wasn't so sure. Could it be that I had been looking at these cases through the wrong lens? That what I had chalked up to human depravity was something else entirely?
A shiver ran down my spine, and I stood abruptly, pushing the chair back with a loud scrape. I couldn't sit here any longer, trapped in my own thoughts. I needed fresh air, a moment to clear my head.
I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair and stepped outside onto the porch. The night air was crisp, the stars scattered across the sky like diamonds on velvet. The quiet of the suburban street was a stark contrast to the chaos in my mind. I walked to the edge of the porch, leaning against the wooden railing, and stared out into the darkness.
But the stillness didn't last. A rustling noise from the side of the house caught my attention. My senses, honed by years of training, sharpened. I strained to hear, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
"Probably just a wild cat ," I muttered to myself, but even as I said it, I didn't quite believe it.
I stepped off the porch, the cool grass soft beneath my feet as I moved quietly around the side of the house. The moonlight cast long shadows across the lawn, distorting shapes and making every movement seem more ominous. I reached the corner and paused, listening.
There it was again—a soft shuffle, like footsteps.
"Who's there?" I called out, my voice low but firm.
Silence. Then, a sudden blur of movement in the corner of my eye. I turned quickly, my heart pounding, but whatever it was had already slipped into the shadows.
I stood there for a moment, straining to see into the darkness, but there was nothing—no sound, no movement. Just the night, as quiet and still as before. But I knew what I had seen, and it was no raccoon.
I backed away slowly, my senses still on high alert. As I reached the porch, I caught a glimpse of something glinting on the ground where the figure had been. I crouched down, my fingers brushing against something small and metallic. I picked it up, holding it up to the moonlight.
It was a key. Old, tarnished, and heavy in my hand. There was something faintly familiar about it, but I couldn't place it. I turned it over, noting the intricate design etched into the metal—a pattern of interlocking circles, almost like a crest.
A sense of unease settled over me as I pocketed the key and hurried back inside, locking the door behind me. The house felt different now, the shadows longer, the silence heavier. I glanced at the clock—just past midnight. The boys were sound asleep upstairs, unaware of the strange events unfolding outside.
I made my way back to the dining table, the key clutched in my hand. It was cold, almost unnaturally so, and as I placed it on the table next to the case files, a thought occurred to me—one that made my blood run cold.
What if this key wasn't just dropped by accident? What if it was left there for me to find? A message, or perhaps a warning.
I stared at the key, then back at the photographs. The case had taken on a new, terrifying dimension, and I could feel the weight of it pressing down on me. The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming, but there was something else now—a sense that I was being watched, that the past was reaching out to pull me back in.
I poured another glass of wine, my hand trembling slightly as I raised it to my lips. I needed to think, to figure out what this all meant. But one thing was clear: this case was about more than just solving a crime. It was about confronting the shadows that lurked in the corners of my own past.
And as I stared into the darkness outside the window, I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever had been started sixteen years ago wasn't finished yet.
With a sigh, I gathered the files and the key, heading upstairs to my study. I knew I wouldn't sleep tonight. There was too much at stake. As I climbed the stairs, I paused briefly outside Lucas's room, listening to the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing. The boys were safe for now, but I couldn't shake the feeling that this peace was fragile, hanging by a thread.
In the study, I spread the files out on the desk, the key lying at the centre like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit. I needed answers, and I needed them fast. But as I stared down at the photographs, a single, terrifying thought took root in my mind.
What if this case wasn't just connected to the past? What if it was a harbinger of what was yet to come?
The shadows in the room seemed to close in around me as I sat down at the desk, the weight of the key heavy in my hand. Whatever was happening, it was only the beginning. And I knew, deep in my gut, that the answers I sought would come at a price.
The clock ticked on, the minutes slipping away as I delved deeper into the mystery. But as the night wore on, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was no longer alone in this—that something, or someone, was drawing closer with each passing moment.