The rain had softened by the time Raina Cole stepped under the bridge, but it hadn't stopped. It whispered against the metal beams overhead, a tired rhythm echoing through the hollow space. Police lights pulsed blue and red across the concrete walls, splashing color over puddles and worn graffiti. The air was thick with the smell of wet iron, exhaust, and something else—something metallic and final.
The body lay near the eastern column, half in shadow, half in the cruel light of the floodlamp. Yellow evidence markers surrounded it like a halo of grief. Raina crouched low, her breath fogging the air. She had seen death before—countless times—but this was different. The silence around the scene felt heavy, purposeful.
The victim was young, maybe twenty-two. Her skin was pale, lips slightly parted. Rainwater beaded on her eyelashes. But Raina's attention fixed on the crimson silk ribbon tied around the woman's wrist—tight, deliberate, untouched by mud or blood. It looked freshly tied, a single knot, looped with precision.
That was impossible.
Briggs crouched beside her, coat soaked through, notepad in hand. He was a broad man in his forties, face lined by years of stress and cigarettes. His voice carried a weight she knew well. "Same pattern," he muttered. "No ID, no witnesses, no signs of struggle. Just the ribbon."
Raina didn't reply. She studied the scene carefully—the position of the arms, the angle of the head, the faint trace of something smeared on the wall behind. Her eyes narrowed.
He was careful. But he wanted to be found.
Briggs scribbled something, then said, "You know what this means."
Raina gave a slow nod. "The Ribbon Maker's back."
The words hung in the air like a curse.
She remembered the first time she'd heard that name—a year ago, during the string of killings that had rattled Atlanta. Five victims, all young women, each left in a different district, each with that same scarlet ribbon tied to their wrists. The killer had vanished before they could close in. The case had gone cold, collecting dust in her drawer and haunting her dreams.
And now he was back.
Raina rose slowly, scanning the walls. Rain had turned the graffiti into streaks of color, but one mark stood out—a new one, painted in bright red spray paint. It was a circle with a vertical line slashed through it.
"Briggs," she called softly.
He followed her gaze. "That wasn't here before."
"No," Raina said. "It's still wet."
Briggs frowned. "You think it's a signature?"
Raina shook her head. "No. It's a marker." She took a step back, eyes narrowing as her mind spun. "Last year, each crime scene had a number written somewhere—on the photo, on the wall, on the back of a Polaroid. We thought they were just identifiers."
"And now?"
She looked down at the victim again. "Now I think they're chapters."
Briggs gave her a look somewhere between disbelief and worry. "You're saying he's writing a story?"
"I'm saying he's not random. He's following a pattern, one that means something to him. Something he wants us to read."
A young officer jogged over, breathless and holding up a clear evidence bag. Inside was a half-soaked Polaroid photograph. "Found this by the drainage pipe," he said.
Raina's stomach sank.
Briggs took the bag first, studying the image through the cloudy plastic. "Well, hell," he muttered, handing it to her.
Through the water stains, Raina could just make out the victim's body—perfectly framed, almost artful. And in the blurred reflection on the wet ground behind her, a hooded silhouette.
Her pulse stuttered.
"Get this to the lab," she said, her voice controlled. "I want every pixel of that reflection enhanced."
Briggs nodded, watching her closely. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
But she wasn't. Because behind that hooded figure in the photo, faint but visible, was something else. A house. A familiar one.
Her mother's old house.
Two hours later, dawn crawled sluggishly over the city. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, soft and persistent. The crime scene was nearly cleared, officers packing up, cameras clicking one last time. Raina stood near her car, sipping cold coffee, the taste bitter against her tongue.
Briggs joined her, hands buried in his coat pockets. "You should get some rest. You've been running on fumes."
"I'll rest when he stops," Raina muttered, staring at the bridge.
Briggs hesitated. "You still think this connects to your mom?"
Her jaw tightened. "The first victim was found six blocks from her old workplace. The second near the bus route she used. I stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago."
Briggs sighed. "You know what happens when you make it personal."
She met his gaze, eyes hard. "It was personal the moment he started writing with blood."
For a moment, neither spoke. Rain whispered on the asphalt. Then Briggs said, "We'll find him, Raina. I promise."
"You always promise," she murmured, "and he always stays ahead."
When Raina got home, the city was still gray, rain dripping from rooftops in slow, steady streams. Her apartment smelled faintly of coffee and old books. She hung her jacket, kicked off her soaked boots, and dropped her case file on the desk.
The folder was thick, worn at the corners. The Crimson Trail.
She opened it, flipping through photographs and old reports—five victims, each scene a different part of the city. She traced the map with her finger: one in Midtown, one in Decatur, one near the BeltLine, one in Buckhead, and one near the river. The newest victim's location fit the pattern perfectly.
A spiral.
Each killing had circled inward, closing toward the heart of Atlanta. Toward her.
Raina rubbed her temples, exhaustion creeping through her bones. But her mind refused to stop. The killer wasn't chasing random victims—he was tracing something. Recreating a path.
She reached for her phone, pulling up the old crime scene photos. Each ribbon, each body, each location—he was leaving breadcrumbs. A story told in red.
And if this was a story, then tonight was Chapter Six.
She leaned back, the weight of realization sinking into her chest. The red markings on the wall weren't random symbols. They were page breaks. And the next one would come soon.
Her phone buzzed, startling her. A message from an unknown number:
Do you still tie your ribbons the same way she did?
Her blood ran cold.
The message vanished seconds later—deleted before she could screenshot it.
Raina stared at her phone, her reflection warped in the screen. She could feel it—the killer's eyes on her, watching from somewhere close, perhaps too close.
Outside, thunder rolled again. A single streak of lightning split the sky, followed by silence.
She closed the case file and whispered to no one, "You want me to read your story? Fine. But I'm going to finish it first."
The rain answered with a hiss, washing the city in silver once more.