The house was still. Too still.
Aubrey closed the door behind her with a trembling hand, her heart still racing from the chaos of the day. Her keys clattered onto the table, the sound far too loud in the silence of her home. The little apartment that had always felt like refuge now felt like a hollow shell, a container for echoes she could no longer silence.
She walked stiffly to the sink, turned the tap on, and splashed cold water onto her face. Her reflection in the glass of the kitchen window looked blurred, her eyes hollowed by fear and sleeplessness. The water ran down her cheeks like tears she hadn't given herself permission to shed. She leaned forward, gripping the sink so tightly her knuckles whitened.
Her chest rose and fell too quickly. Her throat was tight. She wanted to scream but no sound came.
When she finally pulled herself away from the sink, her damp hands left streaks across the counter. She stumbled to the couch, collapsing into it as though her body couldn't carry the weight of her own confusion.
And then the voices began.
At first faint, like whispers caught in the pipes, then louder—pressing, suffocating.
"Your mom died, and you're first in line to that glamorous Maison salon she owned."
A mocking female tone.
Another, sharp, accusatory:
"My uncle was murdered by your accomplice. You think you're clean? You're not."
A third, almost desperate:
"Where did you take my dad? Even if you had him killed—tell me where you buried his corpse!"
She pressed her palms against her ears, but the voices were inside her skull, vibrating through her nerves.
Another voice, dripping condescension:
"Your mom was just a maid for the Halverns. A gold-digger who clawed her way to the top. Too greedy. Maybe she even had Theodore Halvern killed."
The words clanged in her mind like broken bells, exaggerated, unreal yet unbearable. Aubrey's breath hitched as her stomach turned over.
Her mother—a maid? For the Halverns?
Her nails dug into her scalp. "That's not true… it's not true…"
But doubt wormed its way into her. She had never been told this. Marlene Wynter, her mother, who had raised her on tales of hard work and catering jobs at tech firms—had hidden this entire part of her life?
Her thoughts spun. Who was that woman at the cemetery? Why did she accuse me like she knew me? Like she believed I killed her uncle and disappeared her father?
The questions struck like hail.
And how did she know about the Maison Salon? Only I… and the cops knew that. How could she?
Aubrey shook her head violently, as though the motion could dislodge the thoughts. But they burrowed deeper.
She thought of the killer's riddle—the one left behind like a taunt.
"What is bought with silver, but costs a soul?
What seems to make one person whole,
While ensuring another's story is never told?
To save the hand that took the fee,
You must speak this truth to me."
The answer had been "lie." Caleb said so. The detectives said so.
But… Aubrey stared at the ceiling, her chest tight.
It didn't feel like it only pointed to her mother's lie about her job. It was bigger. Something older, heavier. Something tied to secrets Aubrey hadn't even glimpsed yet.
Her hands shook as she stood and drifted into her mother's room.
The laptop sat on the desk, its lid closed, innocuous, ordinary. Aubrey sat before it and lifted the lid. The machine stirred awake with a gentle hum.
Password required.
She typed her birthday. Rejected.
Her mother's birthday. Rejected.
Their shared years. Rejected.
Her throat burned as frustration built. She almost slammed the lid shut. But then—Caleb's face came to her mind. Him kneeling at the grave, tears falling. The sight of him broken, raw.
She typed his name: Caleb Saye.
Rejected.
Her lips trembled. Her mother, when Aubrey was little, had a habit. A little quirk: she never wrote "my dear" in full in emails or sticky notes. She always abbreviated it. MD. She would even giggle, whispering, "Goodnight, MD," when tucking Aubrey in.
Aubrey's breath caught. She pressed the keys.
MDCaleb.
The screen blinked. Loading.
The desktop opened.
Her mother's files stared back at her.
Aubrey froze, her face draining of color, then flushing red, then paling again as her eyes scanned what was on the screen. Shock rippled across her features. Her lips parted slightly, as though a sound might come, but none did.
She leaned forward, rigid, unblinking, staring—
Cut.
---
The shift to Crestwood Police Headquarters was sharp, clinical.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the walls painted in a sterile gray that seemed to strip life out of anyone who lingered too long. Caleb stood in the briefing room with Nia and Owen, tension tight in his jaw.
Across the table, a lab specialist—Dr. Whitford, a thin man with horn-rimmed glasses—clicked through files on a large monitor.
Owen broke the silence. "There was another murder. Before Karan Mehra. Not reported widely. Not officially tied to the string."
He tapped a folder and slid a photo across the table. The glossy image showed a young woman, her features delicate, her eyes bright even in still life.
"Eszter Váradi. Hungarian. Influencer, designer, engineer. Worked with Halvern Consortium's AI-automation division."
Caleb's brow tightened.
"She was found stuffed in a sack, left by the woods outside town. Weeks before Karan. Quietly cleaned up in reports. But it's the position she held that matters."
Nia leaned forward. "She wasn't just an influencer. Eszter was an engineer. She created a piece of technology the Halvern Consortium was desperate to control. A compact AI-guided irrigation system. Portable units—like sleek white towers with drone extensions—that read soil nutrients in real time and release tailored water and minerals with absolute precision. Agriculture transformed overnight in pilot sites."
Her hands moved as she explained, passion cutting through her professionalism. "Farmers reported sixty percent higher yields in months. Investors poured in—some local, most foreign. Halverns fronted it. But… there was a court case. Eszter accused them of trying to steal her blueprint outright. Patent war. She was under immense pressure."
Owen whistled. "Then she winds up in a sack, dumped like trash. Real suspicious."
He angled his eyes toward Caleb. "What do you think, Lieutenant?"
Caleb's expression didn't change, but inside his chest a storm churned. Owen's tone—it always carried a bite. Did he know? Did he suspect the deals Caleb had run with Halverns in shadows?
Owen pressed, leaning back. "Because to me, it smells rotten. A girl fights Halverns in court, refuses to hand over her work, ends up dead. Classic."
"Stay on the facts," Caleb said curtly.
The lab specialist cleared his throat. "Speaking of facts—here's what we found."
On the screen: DNA analysis charts. Graphs, colored bands, percentages.
Dr. Whitford pointed. "Two samples on Eszter's body. One's hers. The other… unidentified. Male. But this—" he highlighted a row— "matches a profile from four years ago. The Everthorne Campus murders."
Nia leaned closer. "The Azaqor killings."
Caleb's stomach clenched.
Dr. Whitford nodded. "Yes. But note—this DNA doesn't match Lucian Freeman, the current suspect. It's from the unsolved batch. Same killer… or same accomplice."
The silence was heavy.
Nia finally spoke. "Which means… either Lucian's a fall guy, or the real Azaqor is still out there."
Caleb exhaled sharply through his nose. His hands curled into fists.
"And look at the pattern," Nia continued, almost breathless. "The victims aren't random. Everthorne students tied to Halverns projects. Eszter, in direct conflict with them. Even Victoria Lockridge—her death exposed that sex trafficking ring. And the whistleblower, Hefts Veldman, who claimed Lockridge's ring was owned by Halverns—killed herself before testifying. Captain Cassandra herself ruled it suicide, but…"
She hesitated.
Owen cut in smoothly. "But no one bought that. Not really. It stank."
His eyes flicked to Caleb, daring him to disagree.
Nia pressed on. "And now Marlene Wynter. Aubrey's mother. Could it all connect? Halverns, Azaqor—"
"It wasn't the Halverns!" Caleb snapped. His voice thundered, startling both of them.
Nia's eyes widened. She had never seen him lose composure. "Lieutenant…"
"It was the Azaqor killer. Period. Don't drag Halverns into every damn thing!" His breath was ragged.
Owen leaned back, smirking faintly. "Relax, Lieutenant. Nia's just hypothesizing. You're acting… how do I put it… like the deceased was your woman or something."
The words were acid.
Caleb moved before he could stop himself. He shoved Owen against the wall, forearm pressing into his chest. His teeth clenched, eyes burning.
Nia froze. Her mind raced: He's unravelling. Caleb Saye. The man I thought was iron. I've never seen him this mad.
The room's tension snapped when the door banged open.
"Lieutenant Saye! Enough!"
Captain Lily Cassandra stormed in, her presence slicing the air. Sergeants followed at her heels.
"Step away from him! Now!" Her voice cracked like a whip.
Caleb hesitated, then released Owen, stepping back. His jaw worked furiously.
Owen smirked, brushing his shirt. As the sergeants dispersed, he leaned close enough for only Caleb to hear. His whisper was poison.
"You know, old man… one of these days you'll lose everything. Your little facade will peel away. And I'll be there. Smiling. Watching."
For a flicker of a second, Caleb saw it—Owen's grin, sharp, cruel. But then it was gone. Neutral face again. Had he imagined it?
Caleb's chest tightened.
"Lieutenant. My office. Now." Lily's tone left no room for argument.
---
In her office, Lily paced like a caged predator. Caleb stood, silent, the anger still simmering beneath his skin.
"Things are ugly," Lily snapped.
Caleb's brow furrowed. "Define ugly."
"The feds are circling. We ignored the Halverns' dirt for too long. Victoria Lockridge's ring, the whistleblower suicide, all of it. They think we're compromised. Slate's under fire. The mayor's breathing down my neck. And now Karan Mehra's murder?"
She spun toward him, eyes sharp. "If the feds connect Karan to Halverns—and to us—it's over. Our little arrangement. Our careers. Everything."
Caleb's voice was low. "So what's the move?"
"We silence loose ends. But it's complicated."
"Why?"
"Karan had family. A brother—Arjun Desai. A niece—Rhea Desai."
She shoved photos onto the desk.
Caleb's eyes fell on Arjun's picture. His breath caught. Recognition flared.
Lily noticed instantly. "You know him."
Caleb's mouth opened. He wanted to answer. To deny, to explain—he didn't know which.
But his phone buzzed. He glanced down.
Aubrey Wynter.
The name flashed across the screen like a blade.
Lily leaned over, saw it, her jaw tightening. "Answer it."
---