Ashwood, London — Autumn Rain Season
The woods behind St. Clare's Academy breathed secrets. Seventeen-year-old Amara Johnson sliced through them, her Docs crushing amber leaves. She'd chosen this route to avoid Zayn Al-Farsi—rugby captain, school royalty, and her personal nemesis since he'd laughed when she spilled coffee on his designer hoodie. Focus on Ethan, she told herself. Ethan Reed, with his brooding artist's gaze and the way he'd sketched her profile in Lit class, was real romance. Not Zayn's performative charm with his girlfriend Chloe, whose effortless grace made Amara feel like a storm cloud.
Halfway through the thicket, Amara's phone buzzed—a meme from Leo, her 15-year-old brother: "When you hack the school database to change your attendance… and accidentally delete the entire server." She smirked, then froze.
Twenty feet ahead, Zayn stood rigid, his olive skin ashen. "Lost, Johnson?" he called, but his voice lacked its usual arrogance.
"Just avoiding narcissists," she shot back—until the coppery tang hit her. Blood.
They reached the body together. A woman in a torn sunflower dress lay beneath an oak, glassy eyes fixed on the canopy. A plastic pearl button glinted on her collar. Amara's breath seized. Her mother, Detective Lena Johnson, had described crime scenes like this before she vanished three years ago. Zayn fumbled for his phone. "Call 999!"
When sirens shattered the silence minutes later, the body was gone. Only crushed ferns and that button remained.
Ashwood Police Station — 4:03 PM
Chief Evelyn Reed—Ethan's mother, stern in her pressed uniform—drummed her fingers. "Teen imaginations run wild during exams."
"We saw her!" Zayn slammed a fist on the table. "Brown hair, tattoo here—" He tapped his collarbone.
Amara stayed silent, studying the button. Mom found one identical the week she died.
The door burst open. Chloe rushed in, tear-streaked. "Zayn! Mrs. Gable said you left with her!" She glared at Amara. Zayn pulled Chloe aside, murmuring assurances, but his eyes locked with Amara's—a silent pact in the chaos.
Outside, rain slicked the streets. "Meet me tonight," Zayn muttered under an awning. "The old boathouse. We're finding that body."
"Why?"
"Because no one believes ghosts. And your mum…" He hesitated. "My dad worked with her. He still has nightmares about her last case."
Maple Street — 7:45 PM
Home smelled of antiseptic grief. Amara's father, Marcus—a surgeon whose precision couldn't suture loss—chopped vegetables. "Stay away from the woods." But his knuckles whitened around the knife. He knows more than he's saying.
Upstairs, texts lit her screen:
Leo: Police scanners silent. Button's synthetic—cheap, mass-produced.
Farah (Zayn's sis, 19): Z's stress-eating Mum's baklava. Play nice, yeah? 💖
Ethan: You okay? Saw you leave with Al-Farsi. Coffee tomorrow?
Amara's heart fluttered. Ethan cares. But she replayed Zayn shielding her from the corpse's stare, his hand brushing hers. Enemies don't do that.
She opened her mother's cold-case files. Page after page of unsolved deaths, each marked with a twisted helix symbol. Lena's notes: "Symbol ties them all. But who owns it?"
River Thames Boathouse — 11:12 PM
Zayn arrived soaked, hoodie clinging to his rugby-built frame. "Chloe thinks we're having an affair."
"Tell her the truth," Amara challenged. "That you dragged me into a murder investigation?"
He laughed, brittle. "She likes the idea of me. Not the guy who failed French twice." He kicked a rusted anchor. "Your mum got us asylum when we fled Damascus. Dad called her a lioness."
"Was she murdered, Zayn?"
A twig snapped. They whirled, flashlights piercing gloom. Empty—but carved into the rotting wood was a helix, still oozing sap.
Amara's blood iced over. Mom's symbol. Here.
Zayn's phone lit up—Chloe Calling. He silenced it. "We need to tell someone."
"And end up like my mother?" Amara's voice cracked. "We do this quietly."
His gaze met hers, electric. "Partners?"
"Only until we solve this."
"Wouldn't dream of permanence, Johnson."
As she turned to leave, he called out: "Your Ethan… he's hiding something."
Jealousy or intuition? She shoved the thought down. But later, tracing the helix in her journal, she wondered: Why would Hassan Al-Farsi have nightmares about Mum's cases? And why does Zayn's laugh feel like a lifeline?
The woods held their breath. Somewhere, a killer erased tracks. And two enemies—bound by a ghost and a symbol—stepped into a labyrinth where attraction was deadlier than secrets.