Bella's POV
The crime scene tape flutters in the wind like a warning.
I duck under it, my badge already out. Luis is right behind me, muttering about how he hates photographer studios because they always smell like chemicals.
I hate them for different reasons.
"Detective Hartley." A young officer approaches, nervous. "The body's in the main studio. Fair warning—it's pretty brutal."
"I've seen worse." I push past him.
That's not entirely true. I haven't seen worse. But I've become very good at pretending nothing bothers me.
The studio is massive—white walls, expensive camera equipment, lighting rigs hanging from the ceiling. And in the center, on the floor, is Jeremy Walsh.
I recognize him immediately, even though five years have passed. Same sharp nose, same thin lips, same hands that photoshopped fake evidence that destroyed my life.
Except now those hands are frozen in death, reaching toward nothing.
And carved into his chest, deep and precise, is the letter "R."
My vision blurs for a second. I grip my notebook so hard the edges cut into my palm. The pain helps me focus.
"Detective?" Luis touches my shoulder. "You good?"
"Fine." I crouch next to the body, forcing myself into detective mode. Study the evidence. Don't think about revenge. Don't think about justice. Just observe.
The cuts are clean. Surgical, almost. Done with a very sharp blade by someone who knows anatomy. Jeremy was alive when it happened—there's too much blood for it to be postmortem. He suffered.
Good, a dark voice in my head whispers. He deserves to suffer.
I shove that thought away violently. I'm not that person. I'm a detective. I find killers. I don't celebrate death.
Even when the victim destroyed me.
"Time of death?" I ask the medical examiner.
"Approximately 2 AM. He's been dead about six hours." The examiner, a woman named Dr. Park, points to defensive wounds on Jeremy's hands. "He fought back. There's skin under his fingernails—we'll run DNA."
"Security footage?"
"Wiped." A tech guy calls from the corner. "Someone hacked the system and deleted everything from midnight to 4 AM. Professional job. They knew what they were doing."
Of course they did. This wasn't some random killing. This was planned. Executed perfectly.
Luis kneels beside me, examining the "R" mark. "What do you think it means? Reaper? Revenge?"
Before I can answer, a voice behind us says, "Neither."
I don't have to turn around to know who it is. I'd recognize Damien Crowe's voice anywhere.
He walks into the crime scene like he owns it, wearing a suit that probably costs more than my annual salary. Two police officers try to stop him, but he flashes some kind of special access badge.
"Mr. Crowe," I say coldly, standing up. "This is an active crime scene. You can't just—"
"Your Captain gave me clearance." He stops a few feet away, his gray eyes locked on mine. "And you're wasting time with wrong theories."
"Excuse me?"
He points to the "R" carved in Jeremy's chest. "That's not a letter. It's a signature. The killer is claiming responsibility. Announcing their presence."
"How do you know that?" Luis asks suspiciously.
"Because it's the same mark that was on my parents' bodies fifteen years ago." Damien's voice is calm, but there's something dark underneath. "The killer called himself 'The Reckoning.' He said he was cleaning up the city—removing people who escaped justice through money and connections."
My heart pounds. "Your parents were victims? Not criminals?"
"They were philanthropists who exposed corruption." His jaw tightens. "And they died for it. The killer was never caught. The case went cold after six months."
"So you think this is the same person?" I ask. "After fifteen years?"
"Or a copycat." Damien walks closer to the body, studying it with disturbing intensity. "The technique is identical. Same blade type, same depth, same angle. Whoever did this studied the original murders carefully."
"Or was taught by the original killer," Luis suggests.
Damien nods slowly. "That's possible."
I look down at Jeremy Walsh's frozen face. A question burns in my throat. I shouldn't ask it. It reveals too much. But I need to know.
"Do you know who this victim is?" I ask Damien carefully.
"Jeremy Walsh, 45, professional photographer." Damien's eyes meet mine, and there's something knowing in them. "He specialized in... creative photography. Photoshop, editing, fabrication."
He knows. Somehow, he knows Jeremy is connected to my past.
"He made fake evidence?" Luis asks, surprised. "Is that what you're saying?"
"I'm saying he had a reputation for helping people destroy their enemies using doctored photos." Damien never looks away from me. "He ruined lives for money. Made innocent people look guilty. A lot of powerful people wanted him dead."
Including me.
The thought hits me like ice water. I had motive to kill Jeremy Walsh. I had reason to want him dead. And now he is dead, and I'm the lead detective on the case.
If anyone connects me to this victim, I'm done.
"Detective Hartley?" Dr. Park calls from across the room. "You need to see this."
I walk over, grateful for the distraction. Dr. Park holds up an evidence bag containing a black card with silver lettering.
"We found this in the victim's hand," she explains. "He was clutching it when he died."
I read the card, and my blood turns to ice:
"Justice for the forgotten. One down, eleven to go."
"Eleven more?" Luis breathes. "There are going to be eleven more murders?"
"It's a hit list," Damien says quietly, appearing beside me. "The killer isn't done. This is just the beginning."
I stare at the card, my mind racing. Jeremy was one of twelve. Who are the other eleven?
Then it hits me.
Twelve people destroyed my life five years ago. My father, Marcus, Vivian, Jeremy, the lawyer, the judge, the witnesses, the reporters, the university dean, the business partners who abandoned me...
Twelve people total.
"Oh God," I whisper.
"What?" Luis asks. "Bella, what is it?"
I can't tell him. Can't tell anyone. Because if I'm right—if this killer is murdering everyone who destroyed me five years ago—then I'm either the next victim...
Or I'm the primary suspect.
I look up and find Damien watching me with those intense gray eyes. He knows. I can see it in his face. He knows exactly what I just realized.
"Detective Hartley," he says softly, "we need to talk. Privately."
"No." I step back. "Whatever you think you know—"
"I know everything, Bella." His voice drops so only I can hear. "I know who these victims are. I know why they're dying. And I know you didn't kill them."
"How?" My voice shakes. "How do you know that?"
He leans in close, his breath warm against my ear.
"Because I know who did."
The world tilts.
Before I can respond, before I can demand answers, Luis's phone rings. He answers it, and his face goes white.
"We have another body," he says, his voice hollow. "Same M.O. Same 'R' mark."
"Who?" I ask, dreading the answer.
"Patricia Moore. Found dead in her home twenty minutes ago."
Patricia Moore. The woman who testified against me in court. The woman whose lies helped convict me in the public eye.
Two murders in one night. Both people from my past.
I turn to Damien, and the question explodes out of me:
"Are you killing them?"
His smile is cold and dangerous.
"If I was, Detective, would I tell you?"