The radio went dead as soon as the words left the speaker. Leo stood there, the heavy velvet curtain still gripped in his white-knuckled fist. The silence that followed was worse than the laughter. It was the kind of silence that lived in the corners of his childhood home—thick, judgmental, and cold.
"Leo." Alex's voice was steady, a low anchor in the rising tide of Leo's adrenaline. "He's gone. If he was behind the glass, he's halfway to the treeline by now."
Leo didn't lower his gun immediately. His chest heaved, his black mullet damp with sweat despite the drafty chill of the Sterling mansion. "He mentioned the floorboards, Alex. He mentioned my father. How does some random psycho know about the floorboards in a house I haven't lived in for ten years?"
"We focus on what we have," Alex said, stepping closer. He didn't touch Leo—he knew better—but his presence was a physical weight that forced Leo back to the present. "We have a dead family and a legacy signature. The floorboards can wait until we talk to the survivors."
Leo exhaled sharply, holstering his weapon with a metallic snap. "Survivors. Right. The older sister. She wasn't at the party."
They left the ballroom, stepping over the threshold of a nightmare and back into the cold reality of the Sterling estate. The air outside was thick with the smell of wet asphalt and the hum of a dozen idling engines.
The victim's family wasn't just wealthy; they were a pillar of the city's dwindling high society. The eldest daughter, Elena Sterling, was being held in a detached guest house near the gardens. She had been at a university gala when the massacre occurred, saved by a schedule conflict.
When they entered the guest house, the atmosphere changed from gore to grief. Elena sat on a minimalist leather sofa, wrapped in a grey police blanket that looked cheap against her silk dress. She wasn't crying. She was staring at a glass of water on the coffee table as if she were trying to shatter it with her mind.
Leo sat across from her, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He didn't do the "gentle detective" routine. He didn't have the patience for it.
"Miss Sterling," Leo began, his voice raspy. "I'm Detective Leo. This is my partner, Alex. I know what tonight is, but I need you to look at me."
She didn't move.
"Elena," Leo said, his tone sharpening. "My mother died when I was young. I know the feeling of a house suddenly becoming too quiet. But if you don't talk to me, the person who made your house quiet stays free. Do you understand?"
Alex, standing by the door, narrowed his eyes. It was a classic Leo move—using his own trauma as a whetstone to sharpen someone else's.
Elena finally looked up. Her eyes were hollow. "My father had enemies. Business rivals. People he'd ruined in the market. But no one who would do… that. No one who would touch Julian."
"Did he ever mention the year 1988?" Leo asked.
She frowned, a flicker of genuine confusion breaking through the shock. "1988? My father was in boarding school then. Why?"
"Did you see anyone strange around the property lately? A gardener who didn't belong? A delivery driver who lingered too long?"
"No," she whispered. "But Julian… he found something yesterday. In the garden. He thought it was a gift. He wouldn't tell me who gave it to him. He just laughed and hid it in his room."
Leo stood up abruptly. "Why wasn't this in the initial sweep?"
"Because he's a ten-year-old boy, Detective! He was always hiding things!" Elena's voice finally broke, the grief bubbling over into a jagged sob.
Leo turned to Alex. "Check the kid's room. Every inch. If there's a precursor ball, I want it."
Alex nodded and vanished into the hallway. Leo stayed with Elena for another ten minutes, but his mind wasn't on her anymore. It was on the photo he'd received. The reflection in the silver platter. The killer had been in that room with them. He had watched them discover the body.
A knock at the door interrupted them. It was a junior officer, looking pale. "Detective, you need to come outside. The press found out about the Sterling boy. It's getting ugly."
Leo cursed under his breath. He left Elena with the officer and marched toward the main gates.
The scene at the edge of the property was a riot in the making. The media had breached the perimeter. Flashbulbs went off like a strobe light, blinding and aggressive. Reporters were screaming questions, their microphones thrust forward like spears. Behind them, a crowd of civilians had gathered—angry, terrified people who had lost faith in the police weeks ago.
"Detective Leo! Is it true the Smileball was inside the cake?"
"Is the city safe for our children?"
"Why haven't there been any arrests?"
Leo felt the heat rising in his neck. He hated the noise. He hated the way they turned a tragedy into a spectacle.
"Back off!" Leo shouted, his voice booming over the crowd. "This is an active crime scene. Clear the road!"
A reporter from a local tabloid stepped directly into Leo's path, her camera light shining straight into his piercing green eyes.
"The public has a right to know, Detective. Or are you just as incompetent as your father was twenty years ago?"
Something snapped.
Leo grabbed the woman's microphone and shoved it down, his face inches from hers. "My father has nothing to do with this. You want a story? Here's a story: A ten-year-old boy is lying on a marble floor with his throat cut because people like you care more about a headline than a lead. Now get out of my face before I charge you with obstruction!"
The crowd erupted. Someone threw a plastic bottle that bounced off Leo's shoulder. The officers at the line began pushing back, but the tension was a powder keg.
"Leo."
The voice was quiet, but it cut through the din. Alex was standing a few feet behind him, holding a small evidence bag. He looked undisturbed by the chaos, his dark red eyes scanning the perimeter with a predatory stillness.
Leo took a deep breath, forcing his hands to unclench. He turned his back on the screaming press and walked toward his partner. "Did you find it?"
"In the boy's toy chest," Alex said, holding up the bag.
Inside was another yellow ball. But this one was different. It wasn't painted with a smile. It was blank, except for a single word written in black marker: WATCH.
"He's been meeting with the kid," Leo whispered, his stomach churning. "He gave him the ball as a 'secret' to keep from his parents. He was playing with him before he killed him."
Alex didn't respond. He wasn't looking at the ball. He was looking up.
His gaze was fixed on the roof of a dilapidated apartment building across the street from the Sterling estate. The building was ten stories high, its fire escapes rusted and sagging.
"Alex?" Leo asked, noticing the shift in his partner's focus.
"On the ledge," Alex said softly. "North-west corner."
Leo followed his gaze. At first, he saw nothing but the grey silhouette of a chimney. Then, a figure moved. It was a man, dressed in a dark, shapeless coat. He was standing on the very edge of the roof, looking down at the chaos of the press and the police.
Even from this distance, the posture was unmistakable. He wasn't hiding. He was spectating.
"Is that him?" Leo's hand went to his holster.
"He's too still," Alex observed, his mind already calculating the distance and the flight time it would take to reach the roof. "He's waiting for something."
The figure raised a hand. It was a slow, mock-regal wave.
"Hey! Stay where you are!" Leo shouted, though he knew it was useless. He started to run toward the building, pushing through the wall of reporters. "Alex, get the back exit! Don't let him drop!"
Leo sprinted across the rain-slicked street, his heart hammering against his ribs. He burst through the front doors of the apartment building, his boots pounding on the stairs. He didn't wait for the elevator; it was too slow, a death trap in a city this old.
By the time he reached the fifth floor, his lungs were burning. By the eighth, his vision was tunneling. He was a workaholic, muscular and fit, but the sheer verticality of the chase was draining.
He reached the roof access door on the tenth floor and kicked it open.
The roof was empty.
The wind howled between the brick vents. A few discarded soda cans skittered across the gravel. Leo ran to the north-west corner, his gun drawn, peering over the ledge.
"Where is he?" Leo screamed into the wind.
Down below, he saw the top of their unmarked police cruiser. Alex was standing by the driver's side door, looking up.
Suddenly, a flash of bright yellow caught the light.
The figure hadn't vanished; he had dropped to a lower ledge or a fire escape just as Leo reached the top. Now, from somewhere in the shadows of the ninth floor, an object was tossed out into the open air.
It fell in slow motion.
A bright yellow rubber ball, plummeting through the grey mist of the city.
Leo watched from the roof, helpless, as the ball gathered speed. It wasn't aimed at the ground. It was aimed with surgical precision.
The ball struck the windshield of the police cruiser with the force of a brick. The glass didn't just crack; it shattered inward in a spiderweb of violence, which shouldn't be possible as it was a rubber ball. Unless, it had something like a rock inside it. As the ball bounced off the dashboard and rolled into the street, Leo saw what was painted on this one. It wasn't a smile. It was a pair of bleeding red eyes that looked exactly like Alex's.
Leo looked down at Alex, who hadn't flinched as the glass exploded inches from his face. Alex reached down, picked up the ball, and looked directly up at Leo on the roof. His expression remained unreadable, but his fingers were trembling.