The morning light filtered through the blinds in thin, golden lines. Mira sat on the edge of her bed, phone still clutched in her hand. The voicemail from last night played again in her mind — not because she had replayed it (though she had), but because it wouldn't leave her alone.
> "You have seven days before the Red Door opens. If you fail again, thousands will burn."
Seven days.
But how could she count down to something she didn't understand?
She exhaled sharply and stood, pacing the length of her bedroom. Her apartment was small — a studio with a partitioned kitchen and a fold-down desk that doubled as a dining table. It was functional, orderly. Everything had its place. That was the only way she could live without the walls closing in.
Still, this morning felt different.
Something about the message — the voice, the warning — felt like it had cracked open a door in her mind that wasn't meant to be opened.
She walked over to her desk and pulled out the notebook she'd used last night. On the first page, she'd written:
> *Red Door*
> *Seven Days*
> *Fail Again*
> *Carly Voss*
Now, under the harsher light of day, it looked absurd. Like scribbles from someone losing their grip.
But then she remembered.
There had been a drawing.
She hadn't imagined it.
After reading the news alert last night, she had gone back to the living area, intending to distract herself with case files or research. Instead, she found it — folded neatly on top of her laptop. A child's sketch, done in crayon.
She had stared at it for a long time.
Flames. Smoke. A figure standing in front of a red door.
Now, she reached for the drawer where she had placed it after scanning it with shaking hands.
It was gone.
She froze.
The drawer was empty.
She checked the other drawers. The shelf above her desk. The floor. Nothing.
Mira turned in a slow circle, pulse rising.
Someone had been here.
Or maybe she was finally losing her mind.
She pressed a hand to her temple, trying to steady her thoughts. No. She needed to focus. Panic wouldn't help. Logic would.
Maybe she had misplaced it.
Maybe she never actually saw it.
Except she knew what she saw.
And now, it was gone.
---
### 🔍
By mid-morning, Mira was dressed and out the door.
She told herself she was just going for a walk. Clearing her head. But her feet carried her toward the city center, past coffee shops and bookstores, until she reached the edge of the industrial district.
The fire had happened two nights ago.
A woman named Carly Voss had died inside an abandoned warehouse downtown.
The article had said it was arson. No suspects. No witnesses.
Mira had read enough reports to know how often those phrases masked deeper truths.
She stopped outside the crime scene tape fluttering in the wind.
The building was skeletal now — blackened beams reaching toward the sky like frozen screams.
A few people passed by, glancing at the ruins. One took a picture. Most kept walking.
Mira stepped closer.
She wasn't supposed to be here. Not officially. Not as a consultant. Not even as a civilian.
But she needed to see it.
To feel it.
She crouched near the perimeter, eyes scanning the scorched ground.
That's when she saw it.
Half-buried in the ash and debris.
A piece of paper.
Burned at the edges.
Her breath caught.
She glanced around quickly, then ducked under the tape and retrieved it.
She unfolded it carefully.
More crayon.
A child's hand.
A house engulfed in flames.
And again — the red door.
This time, though, there was something else.
A word scrawled beneath the image.
Not in crayon.
In pen.
Written in neat, looping script.
**"Find me."**
Mira's stomach twisted.
She looked around again, heart pounding.
Whoever left this wanted her to find them.
Or wanted her to stop.
She shoved the paper into her coat pocket and backed away, suddenly aware of how exposed she was.
As she turned to leave, movement caught her eye.
Across the street.
A figure watching her.
A man.
He wore a dark jacket, collar up, face half-hidden behind mirrored sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just watched.
Then, slowly, he raised a hand.
Not a wave.
A signal.
Before she could react, he turned and disappeared around the corner.
Mira didn't follow.
She ran.
---
### 🧠
Back in her apartment, she locked the door and leaned against it, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
She pulled the paper from her pocket and laid it flat on the table.
Next to it, she placed the notebook.
She wrote:
> *Child's drawings appearing at scenes.*
> *Same imagery. Same handwriting.*
> *"Find me."*
She tapped her pen against the page.
Lena.
The girl from the café.
She had drawn something similar yesterday. Flames. A door.
And now, another drawing — at the site of a murder that hadn't happened yet when she heard the voicemail.
Coincidence?
No.
Mira grabbed her tablet and searched for anything related to Lena.
She typed in the name. Scrolled through pages of missing persons, old cases, local news.
Nothing.
Frustrated, she tried searching for "children's drawings at crime scenes."
A few academic papers came up. Psychological profiling techniques. Symbolic behavior in serial killers.
She clicked one.
Skimmed.
Then stopped.
There it was.
> "In some documented cases, children's drawings have appeared at or near crime scenes involving trauma-linked victims. These drawings often contain symbolic representations of memory, guilt, or dissociation."
Dissociation.
She closed the browser.
Her fingers hovered over her phone.
Daniel Cho.
If anyone could help make sense of this, it was him.
She dialed.
Three rings.
Then his sleepy voice answered.
"Mira?"
"I need your help," she said.
"What's wrong?"
"I think I'm being followed."
A pause.
"Again?"
"No," she whispered. "This time… it's different."
Another silence.
"Where are you?"
"My apartment."
"I'll be there in twenty."
Click.
She sat back, staring at the paper.
**"Find me."**
Whoever left this wanted her to look.
And she would.
Even if it led her somewhere she wasn't ready to go.
---
Daniel arrives, skeptical as always — until he sees the drawing. He runs a quick analysis and finds something impossible: the handwriting matches a file from ten years ago. A cold case. A missing child. And the same phrase: *"Find me."*
Mira knows she has to meet Jonah Rourke.
Even if he thinks she's crazy.
Even if she's starting to wonder if he might be right.