SIENNA'S POV
I burst through the doors of the Riverside Hotel with my gun drawn.
The lobby was empty except for a sleepy desk clerk who jumped at my entrance. "Ma'am, you can't—"
"Police!" I flashed my badge. "What floor is room 412?"
"Fourth floor, but—"
I was already running for the stairs, taking them two at a time. My lungs burned. My legs screamed. But Maya was in danger and I couldn't be too late. Not again. Not after failing to save my father.
My father.
The image of his body flashed through my mind—crumpled and broken, his blood spelling out that terrible message. The man who'd raised me to believe in justice had sold thirteen children for money. And now he was dead because of it.
Did he deserve to die?
I didn't know anymore.
Fourth floor. I sprinted down the hallway, checking room numbers. 408. 410. 412.
Maya's voice came from inside, raised and angry. "I don't care what the threat said! We're not running. Celeste has a speech tomorrow and—"
I pounded on the door. "Maya! It's Sienna!"
The door flew open. Maya stood there in jeans and a t-shirt, her hair messy, exhaustion written across her face. Behind her, Celeste Moreau sat on the bed with a laptop, looking completely calm.
"Thank God." Maya pulled me inside and locked the door. "Did you see anyone suspicious in the hallway? The threat came twenty minutes ago and—"
"You're both fine?" I asked, looking them over for injuries.
"We're fine. Paranoid, but fine." Maya ran a hand through her hair. "Sorry for freaking out. It's just been a long day and that message was so specific. It knew our room number, Si. How did they know our room number?"
I wanted to tell her everything. About Celeste being victim thirteen. About the confession that she'd given the traffickers names. About how "they both have to pay" might mean Celeste was planning to hurt her.
But Celeste was watching me with those dark, intelligent eyes. Calm. Calculating. Like she knew exactly what I was thinking.
"Can I talk to you alone, Maya?" I asked.
"Anything you need to say, you can say in front of Celeste." Maya's loyalty was fierce. "She's my client and my friend."
"It's okay," Celeste said softly, her voice warm and kind. The voice of someone who spent years learning how to make people trust her. "You two clearly need to catch up. I'll be in the bathroom."
She walked past me, and for just a second, our eyes met. Something passed between us—an understanding. A challenge.
She knew that I knew.
When the bathroom door closed, Maya grabbed my hands. "Okay, what's really going on? You look terrible."
"My father's dead, Maya." The words came out flat. "He's the eighth victim."
Her face went pale. "Oh my God. Si, I'm so sorry. When did—"
"Tonight. I found him in his study with the same bloody message on the wall." I squeezed her hands harder. "But before he died, he left me a video confession. About the trafficking case from twenty years ago."
Maya went very still. "What about it?"
"He took bribes to cover it up. To seal the records and make sure no one powerful got punished. Thirteen girls were victims, and he helped destroy their chance at justice." I watched her face carefully. "Did you know?"
"Know what?"
"That you were one of those thirteen girls."
The color drained from Maya's face. She pulled her hands away from mine and stepped back. "How did you—"
"Someone sent me the original police files. I saw your interview, Maya. Victim seven. You were nine years old." Tears burned my eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I didn't want you to know!" Her voice cracked. "I didn't want anyone to know. That part of my life—what they did to me—it doesn't define me. I rebuilt myself. I became strong. And I didn't want you looking at me with pity every single day."
"I would never—"
"Yes, you would." She wiped her eyes roughly. "Everyone does. Once people know you're a victim, that's all they see. Poor Maya. Broken Maya. Maya who needs to be protected and handled carefully." She shook her head. "I didn't want that from you. You're my best friend. The one person who treats me normal."
Guilt crashed over me. All these years, Maya had carried this secret alone. While I was complaining about my problems, she was living with trauma I couldn't imagine.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry for what happened to you. And I'm sorry my father was part of covering it up."
"Your father was a coward." Maya's voice was hard. "But he wasn't the worst. The worst was the person who gave them our names in the first place."
My stomach twisted. "What do you mean?"
"One of the girls told the traffickers which kids to target. She made a deal—give them names and they'd treat her better." Maya's hands clenched into fists. "She pointed them toward me. Toward the others. We were just kids, Si. Kids nobody would miss. And she sold us out to save herself."
"Do you know which girl it was?"
Maya's expression went dark. "Victim thirteen. Elena Russo. She disappeared from the system at fourteen. Probably couldn't live with what she'd done." She looked toward the bathroom where Celeste was hiding. "Sometimes I wonder if she's even still alive."
The bathroom door opened.
Celeste stepped out, and something in her expression told me she'd heard every word. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Maya, you should see this."
She held up her laptop. On the screen was a news alert:
BREAKING: Internal Affairs Recommends Detective Sienna Cross for Immediate Suspension—Evidence of Conspiracy with Serial Killer
My world tilted.
"What?" I grabbed the laptop and read faster. Anonymous source. Evidence that I'd been covering up clues. Protecting the killer. My conversations with people mysteriously disappeared from police records. My movements matched several crime scenes at suspicious times.
Someone was framing me.
"This is insane," Maya said, reading over my shoulder. "Si would never—"
My phone rang. Captain Torres.
I answered with shaking hands. "Captain, I just saw the news. This is a setup. I haven't been—"
"Cross, where are you right now?" His voice was cold. Professional. The voice of a captain talking to a suspect, not a detective.
"Following a lead on the death threats against Celeste Moreau."
"You need to come to the station immediately. Internal Affairs wants to question you."
"Captain, please. Someone's trying to frame me. Just like they framed me with Hale's prison operation. Can't you see the pattern?"
Silence. Then: "The evidence is pretty damning, Sienna. Security footage shows you at Judge Martinez's building the night before he was murdered. You were seen near the lawyer's penthouse hours before his death. And your fingerprints were found at three different crime scenes in places you claim you never touched."
"That's impossible. I was careful. I followed protocol—"
"Did you?" Torres asked quietly. "Or have you been so focused on proving yourself that you've crossed lines you shouldn't have crossed?"
The accusation hit like a physical blow.
"I didn't kill anyone," I said firmly. "And I'm going to prove it. But I need time."
"You're out of time. Come to the station now, or I'll issue a warrant for your arrest."
He hung up.
I stood frozen, the phone still pressed to my ear. Everything was falling apart. My father was dead. I was being framed for serial murder. And my best friend was protecting the woman who might be orchestrating all of it.
"Sienna?" Maya touched my arm gently. "What did he say?"
"They think I'm the killer." I looked at her, then at Celeste. "Someone's been setting me up. Planting evidence. Making it look like I'm involved."
Celeste's expression was sympathetic, but her eyes were calculating. "Who would want to frame you?"
"I don't know. Someone with access to police files and crime scenes. Someone who—"
My phone buzzed. Another text from the unknown number that had been sending me information:
Your partner Marcus is setting you up. Check his financials. He's been taking money from Hale's associates for months. He's the one planting evidence against you. And he's not working alone.
I stared at the message, my mind reeling.
Marcus? My partner? The one person at the station who'd defended me, supported me, made me think I could trust again?
"Si?" Maya's voice sounded far away. "You okay? You look like you're going to pass out."
I texted back with shaking fingers: Who's he working with?
The response came immediately:
Look at the file labeled "CONSPIRATORS" on the flash drive. All the names. All the connections. Your father was just the beginning. There are thirteen people who need to pay for what happened to those girls. Eight are already dead. Five more to go. And victim thirteen won't stop until all debts are paid.
Including her own.
Another message appeared:
Celeste Moreau plans to die after she kills everyone responsible. She's already taken the first dose of slow-acting poison. In seventy-two hours, she'll be dead. And Maya will be blamed for failing to protect her.
Unless you stop her first.
I looked up at Celeste, who was watching me with that same calm expression.
"Is something wrong?" she asked innocently.
Everything was wrong.
My father was a corrupt judge who'd sold out thirteen children.
My best friend was victim seven, keeping secrets for twenty years.
Celeste was victim thirteen, the girl who'd betrayed them all and was now seeking atonement through murder.
My partner Marcus was framing me for the killings.
And I had seventy-two hours to stop a woman who was already dying from poison she'd taken herself.
"Maya," I said carefully, "I need you to come with me. Right now. We need to talk privately."
"I can't leave Celeste unprotected—"
"I'll be fine," Celeste said smoothly. "You two clearly have important things to discuss. Go ahead. I'll lock the door and won't let anyone in."
Maya hesitated, looking between us.
"Please," I said. "Trust me. Just this once."
Finally, Maya nodded. "Okay. Let me grab my jacket."
As she turned away, Celeste caught my eye. She smiled—a small, sad smile that said she knew exactly what I'd figured out.
Then she mouthed two words: Help me.
Before I could respond, Maya was pulling me toward the door. "Come on. Let's go somewhere we can actually talk."
We stepped into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind us.
And that's when I heard it—a soft beeping sound coming from inside the hotel room.
Maya heard it too. "What is that?"
I knew that sound. I'd heard it at bomb training exercises.
A timer.
"GET DOWN!" I screamed, tackling Maya to the floor.
The explosion tore through room 412, sending fire and smoke billowing into the hallway.
And somewhere in the chaos, I heard Celeste Moreau laughing.