Caleb Stone didn't look like a man who once sold millions of books.
His beard had grown uneven, flecked with gray in places that suggested he'd stopped caring where the razor landed. He sat in the interview room with his hands clasped tightly together, knuckles white, eyes unfocused—like someone who'd been pulled out of a dream he didn't want to be awake for.
Detective Mara Ellison watched him from the doorway for a moment before stepping in.
"You know why you're here," she said, taking a seat across from him.
Caleb let out a low, humorless breath. "I saw the patrol cars outside my house. I figured it wasn't about a book signing."
She slid the evidence bag across the table. The torn page.
Caleb's expression changed—first recognition, then horror.
"Chapter thirteen," he whispered. "You found her posed like this?"
Mara nodded. "Exactly like it."
He shoved a hand through his hair. "Detective Ellison, I haven't written anything in three years. I barely leave the house. You think I staged a murder to match one of my own books?"
"I think someone wants us to believe you did."
Caleb looked up sharply. For the first time, genuine fear flickered in his eyes.
"Is it happening again?" he murmured.
"Again?" Mara asked.
Caleb hesitated, jaw tightening. "My sister. Ten years ago. She went missing… and her things were found staged. Arranged. Like a message." He swallowed hard. "The case went cold."
Mara leaned forward. "You think the same person might be responsible?"
"I think," he said, voice barely steady, "that whoever did this knows my stories better than I do."
A knock came at the door. Dr. Evelyn Hart stepped in, her expression grave.
"Mara," she said, "you need to hear this."
Mara excused herself and followed Evelyn into the hallway.
"The autopsy," Evelyn said quietly. "There's something off."
"Off how?"
"The girl wasn't drowned. She was killed somewhere else and placed by the water after rigor had set in." Evelyn paused. "And there's more."
She handed Mara a small sealed bag. Inside was a sliver of thick paper—cream-colored, old, expensive. The corner of a photograph.
Mara frowned. "Where was this?"
"Inside the victim's jacket lining. Hidden. Deliberately."
Mara studied the faint edge of an image: a railing… stone… and a dark coat sleeve.
Not the victim's.
Evelyn continued, "The material is at least 10 years old. Maybe older. And Mara—"
"What is it?"
"That photograph isn't just old. It matches the type of paper used in those instant prints your department found when Caleb's sister disappeared."
A cold ripple ran through Mara.
"Someone wanted us to connect the cases," she said slowly.
"No," Evelyn corrected.
"Someone wanted you to."
Mara stared at the fragment of the photograph. A chill settled in her chest, heavy and deliberate.
Whoever staged the murder scene was pulling her into something personal—something old, unfinished, and dangerous.
Down the hallway, inside the interview room, Caleb Stone sat alone, hands around his coffee cup, staring blankly at the wall.
And Mara suddenly had the sickening sense that she wasn't interviewing a suspect.
She was interviewing the next target.