Rain fell in thin, silver lines over Blackwater Reserve, hissing against the pines and puddling in the soft earth. Detective Mara Vey crouched beside the body, careful not to disturb the pale circle of leaves around it. Even in early October the woods were cold this far out.
The victim lay supine, eyes open, lips drawn back in an almost-smile. The teeth were gone. Every single one. The jaw gaped like a letter missing its vowels. Around the neck a chain of black ribbon dangled like broken violin strings.
Mara had been on the force twelve years, homicide for seven. Nothing unnerved her anymore—except this. Second body in three weeks, same condition. She flicked her pen, jotted notes, and tried not to look at the empty gums.
Her partner, Detective Harris, sloshed through the mud. "Second one, same M.O.," he muttered, squatting down. "No prints again."
"They left a signature," Mara said, pointing to the ribbon. "Color's slightly different. First one was crimson."
Harris grimaced. "We're not calling him that yet."
"'The Hollis Ripper'? The press already is."
"Yeah, well, the press isn't ankle-deep in swamp muck."
Something about the scene nagged at her. Pine needles swept aside in a spiral, like a snail shell. She took a photo.
"Victim?" she asked a uniform nearby.
"Jonah Beck," the officer said. "Forty-four. High school teacher. Wife reported him missing two days ago."
"Another teacher," Maramurmured.
Harris glanced up. "What?"
"First victim was a teacher too. Same district."
He scribbled. "Why take the teeth?"
She didn't answer. Removing them carefully, without breaking the jaw—this was ritual.
---
At the precinct that night Mara pinned photos to her board: two victims, two spirals, two ribbons. Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
"Detective Vey," a man's distorted voice said. "He took the teeth because you left them behind."
Her grip tightened. "Who is this?"
"You know me." Click.
She traced the call—nothing.
---
The next morning she drove to Jonah Beck's school. Students filed off buses, their chatter bright against the gray morning.The next morning she drove to Jonah Beck's school. Students filed off buses, their chatter bright against the gray morning.
Principal Darrell met her. Tall, bald, eyes wary. "Jonah was beloved here," he said. "Taught history fifteen years."
"Any threats? Conflicts?"
"None. Though…" Darrell hesitated. "Last week he said he'd seen a man following him. A smile but no teeth."
A chill crawled up her spine. "Description?"
"Tall, wore a hood."
She opened Beck's desk drawer and found an envelope marked "Detective Vey." Inside: a Polaroid of Mara herself, taken from across the street outside her apartment. Under it: Spiral, next move.
She closed it quickly, tucking it into her jacket.
---
Back at the precinct, she showed Harris. "This was in Beck's desk."
He frowned. "Why would he have a photo of you?"
"Maybe someone planted it."
Harris rubbed his temples. "First your number, now your photo…"
"We're not telling the captain yet," Mara said.
"You're making this personal."
"It is personal."
---
That night Mara drove home along Hollis Street. Her stairwell smelled of damp concrete. On her apartment door an envelope was taped. Inside: a single human tooth, polished white, black ribbon tied around its root.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She answered with a shaking hand.
"Chapter One ends where it began," the voice said. "In the woods. Come alone." Click.
---
She locked her apartment, drew her service weapon, and drove to Blackwater Reserve. Headlights sliced through mist. At the trailhead her phone buzzed again—a map pin deep inside the woods.
She followed the trail, flashlight bobbing. The night was damp and full of insects. At the coordinates stood a clearing with a dead oak.
A spiral carved into the tree's trunk, grooves fresh. In the center of the spiral someone had nailed another photograph—of a child's bedroom. On the back: Do you remember?
Her flashlight flickered. She turned slowly, feeling eyes on her. A figure stood at the edge of the clearing—tall, hooded, unmoving.
"Police! Show your hands!" she called.
The figure didn't move.
She advanced, boots crunching leaves. "Hands where I can see them!"
The hood tilted. A low laugh, like wet gravel. Then the figure bolted.
Mara chased, branches whipping her arms. She fired once, missed. She heard the splash of a stream, then silence. On the far bank she found a tooth glinting in the mud. She bagged it, breath fogging.
When she turned back, the spiral on the tree was gone—as though it had never been carved.
---
She stumbled back to her car, soaked and trembling. As she started the engine, her dashboard radio crackled—though it was off.
"You came," the voice whispered through the static. "Welcome back."
Then the radio died.
---
Back at her apartment she sat in the dark, staring at the evidence bags on her table: two murders, two sets of teeth, and the third—fresh—too small, like a child's.
A memory flickered: she was twelve in a foster home, another girl whispering about "the man with the ribbons."
Her phone buzzed again, a text from the unknown number: Tomorrow we start the real story.
---