The call came at 7:15 the next morning.
I hadn't slept.
I'd spent the night cleaning up the mess in my bedroom, counting what was missing, trying to remember every detail of the figure on the fire escape. But the details wouldn't stick. Every time I closed my eyes, the face—or the lack of one—kept slipping away. Like trying to hold smoke.
I'd changed the locks. All three of them. I'd pushed my dresser against the window. I'd checked the closet three times. At 3 AM, I finally gave up on sleep and sat on my kitchen floor with my mother's necklace in my hands—still in the box, still untouched—and tried to remember her voice.
I couldn't.
That hurt more than anything.
At 7:15, my office phone rang. Not my cell. The landline I kept for business, the one listed on my website under "Forensic Psychological Consulting."
I almost let it go to voicemail.
But I thought about the text. "They're going to offer you the case. Take it."
I picked up.
"Dr. Leah Cross."
"Dr. Cross, this is Eleanor Vance. I'm legal counsel for Ethan Blackwood."
Her voice was sharp. Professional. The kind of voice that had been used in courtrooms and boardrooms and probably made junior associates cry.
"I'm aware this is sudden," she continued, "but Mr. Blackwood's defense team would like to bring you on as a consultant. We need a psychological evaluation, and your name came highly recommended."
"By who?"
A pause. Just long enough to feel deliberate.
"By someone who believes you have... unique insights."
My stomach turned.
"Dr. Cross?"
"I'm here."
"I can have a car sent to your office by noon. Mr. Blackwood's first court appearance is tomorrow morning. We need to move fast."
Don't touch the knife.
The warning echoed in my head. But so did something else. Ethan's voice. "Find her."
"Send the car," I said.
Eleanor Vance was not what I expected.
I'd pictured someone older. Grayer. The kind of lawyer who wore suits from the 1980s and smelled like cigarettes and spite.
Eleanor was thirty-two. Maybe thirty-three. Blonde ponytail. Yoga pants under her blazer. She met me in the lobby of Blackwood Tower—which was somehow still open for business, employees shuffling past with hollow eyes—and shook my hand like she was trying to crush my bones.
"Thank you for coming."
"I haven't said yes yet."
"You will."
She led me to an elevator. Private. The kind that required a key card and a retinal scan and probably a blood sample. The doors closed, and we started moving up.
"Mr. Blackwood is innocent," Eleanor said. No preamble. No small talk. Just the facts, delivered like a closing argument.
"Everyone says that."
"Everyone isn't paying me seven figures to prove it."
I looked at her. "Why do you believe him?"
She was quiet for a moment. The elevator kept climbing. Floor numbers flashed by—20, 25, 30.
"Because he looked me in the eye and told me he didn't do it. And I've spent fifteen years watching guilty people lie. I know what it looks like. The micro-expressions. The tells. The way their eyes shift when they think they're being clever."
"And Ethan?"
She met my gaze. "He didn't blink."
The elevator stopped at the 37th floor. The doors opened onto a conference room that cost more than my entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A table that could seat twenty. A wall of monitors showing security footage, crime scene photos, and a single paused frame of Ethan being handcuffed.
Waiting for us was a man I didn't recognize.
He was tall. Late forties. Dark hair going gray at the temples. He wore a suit that probably cost more than my car, and he was studying me with the intensity of someone who knew more than he should.
"Dr. Cross. I'm Jonathan Hale. Lead investigator for the defense."
We shook hands. His grip was warm. Steady. The kind of grip that was supposed to make you feel safe.
It didn't.
"You have a reputation," Jonathan said.
"Good, I hope."
"Interesting." He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "I've read your papers. The ones about memory reconstruction and trauma responses. You have a unique perspective on how people process violence."
"I've studied it."
"You've lived it."
I went very still.
Eleanor glanced between us, clearly confused. Jonathan just watched me, waiting.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.
"Of course you don't." He turned to the monitors. "Let me show you what we're dealing with."
The security footage was damning.
I'd seen snippets on the news, but seeing the full, unedited version was different. The time stamp in the corner read 9:02 PM. Ethan entered the building through the private entrance. He was alone. He walked to the elevator. He pressed the button for the 40th floor—Marcus's office.
At 9:05, the elevator doors opened. Ethan stepped out. He walked down a hallway. He entered Marcus's office.
At 9:47, Ethan left the office. His shirt was covered in blood. His hands were shaking. He walked back to the elevator. He left the building. He drove himself to the police station and turned himself in.
"No attempt to flee," Eleanor said. "No attempt to hide the evidence. He called his own lawyer on the way to the station and said, 'I need help. Something happened. I didn't do it, but something happened.'"
"Something," I repeated. "Not someone."
Jonathan nodded. "That's the problem. In his initial statement, he said he walked in and found Marcus already dead. Then, during the second interview, he changed his story. Said there was a woman. Said she was standing behind Marcus when he fell."
"Why would he change his story?"
"That's what we're hoping you can tell us."
I looked at the paused footage. Ethan's face, frozen mid-step, caught in the glare of the hallway lights. His expression was strange. Not angry. Not scared.
Confused.
Like he was trying to remember something that kept slipping away.
"What about the locket?" I asked.
Eleanor and Jonathan exchanged a look.
"Off the record," Jonathan said slowly, "the locket is... unusual. It doesn't match any known jewelry from the victim or his family. No serial numbers. No maker's marks. The only thing inside is a small photograph."
"What kind of photograph?"
Jonathan reached into his briefcase and pulled out a evidence photo. He slid it across the table.
I looked down.
The locket was open. Inside, tucked behind a tiny piece of glass, was a photograph of a woman. But her face was obscured—burned, somehow, or chemically damaged. Only her eyes remained.
Eyes I recognized.
Because I saw them every morning in the mirror.
"Dr. Cross?" Eleanor's voice was distant. "Are you all right?"
I forced myself to breathe. "Who is that?"
"We don't know. The photograph was deliberately damaged. But we're running it through every database we have. Facial recognition might still pick up something from the bone structure."
It wouldn't. I already knew it wouldn't.
Because the woman in that photograph was my mother.
I excused myself to the bathroom and stood over the sink, gripping the edges of the counter so hard my knuckles turned white.
Think, Leah. Think.
My mother had been dead for sixteen years. She had no connection to Marcus Thorne. No connection to Ethan Blackwood. No connection to any of this.
Except.
Except the symbol.
I'd seen it in the crime scene photos. Carved into the handle of the murder weapon. Small. Almost invisible unless you knew what to look for.
The same symbol I'd seen in my nightmares since childhood. The same symbol my mother had drawn over and over in the months before she died, filling notebooks with it, whispering about protection and danger and "you'll understand when you're older, Leah."
I'd thought she was sick. Unstable. My father had told me she was struggling with her mental health, that the symbol meant nothing, that I shouldn't worry.
But my father had lied about a lot of things.
I splashed water on my face. Checked my gloves—still on, still intact. Took three deep breaths.
When I walked back into the conference room, I was calm. Or pretending to be.
"I'll take the case," I said.
Eleanor's shoulders relaxed. Jonathan's eyes narrowed.
"One condition," I added. "I want to see the murder weapon."
"The knife is in police custody," Jonathan said. "We can't just—"
"Then get it out."
Silence.
Eleanor looked at Jonathan. Jonathan looked at me.
"That's not how the legal system works, Dr. Cross."
"I'm not asking for permission. I'm telling you what I need. If you want my help, you'll find a way."
I don't know where the steel in my voice came from. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the photograph of my mother's eyes staring at me from inside a dead man's locket.
Jonathan studied me for a long moment. Then he smiled. A real smile this time. Sharp and dangerous and almost impressed.
"I like her," he said to Eleanor.
"I'm not sure that's a good thing," she replied.
I left Blackwood Tower at 2 PM with a contract in my bag and a target on my back.
The rain had stopped, but the sky was still gray. The streets were crowded with lunchtime traffic. I should have felt relieved. I had the case. I had access. I was one step closer to the truth.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched.
I looked over my shoulder as I walked. Nothing. Just commuters and tourists and people trying to get through the day.
I crossed the street. Checked again.
A man was standing outside a coffee shop. Dark coat. Dark hat. His face was angled away from me, but something about the way he stood—too still, too patient—made my skin crawl.
I turned the corner. Walked faster.
When I looked back again, he was gone.
But the feeling wasn't.
My phone buzzed.
"Did you take the case?"
Unknown number. The same one from yesterday.
I typed back: Who are you?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
"Someone who wants to keep you alive."
Then tell me what's going on.
"Touch the knife. You'll understand. But be careful, Leah. Once you see the truth, they'll know you saw it."
They? Who are they?
"The faceless ones. The ones who've been watching you since you were twelve years old."
I stopped walking.
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
"Your mother tried to stop them. That's why she died."
The words blurred in front of me. I blinked. Blinked again.
"Don't make the same mistake she did."
The messages stopped.
I tried calling the number. It rang once. Twice. Then a recorded voice: "The number you have dialed is no longer in service."
Gone.
Just like the figure on the fire escape.
Just like the face I couldn't remember.
I didn't go home.
I went to Ava's.
My sister lived twenty minutes away, in a part of the city that still had trees and front porches and neighbors who waved at each other. She was the opposite of me in every way. Loud where I was quiet. Warm where I was cold. She hugged people without thinking about it, touched shoulders and squeezed hands and lived her life without gloves.
She didn't have to be careful.
She didn't see what I saw.
"Leah?" She opened the door before I could knock. Her hair was wet—she'd just gotten out of the shower—and she was wearing an oversized sweatshirt that said "I'm Fine, I'm Just Watching Forensic Files Again."
"Ava."
"What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I stepped inside. The warmth hit me first. Then the smell of coffee and cinnamon and something baking in the oven. Normal. Safe.
"I need to tell you something," I said.
She closed the door. Locked it. Turned to face me with an expression I rarely saw on her face—serious. Worried.
"You're scaring me."
"I'm scaring myself."
I told her everything. The arrest. The phone call. The break-in. The photograph of our mother hidden inside a dead man's locket. The symbol carved into the murder weapon.
Ava listened without interrupting. That was how I knew it was bad. She never listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she was quiet for a long time.
Then she said: "You're going to touch the knife, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Even though someone told you not to?"
"Because someone told me not to."
Ava crossed the room and took my hands—gloves and all—and held them tight. "I'm coming with you."
"Ava—"
"I'm not asking, Leah." Her voice cracked. "I lost Mom. I'm not losing you too."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her it was too dangerous, that she had no idea what we were dealing with, that I couldn't protect her if things went wrong.
But I looked at her face—her stubborn, beautiful, infuriating face—and I couldn't say no.
"Okay," I whispered.
She pulled me into a hug.
And over her shoulder, through the kitchen window, I saw a figure standing on the lawn.
Watching.
Smiling.
Face shifting like smoke in the wind.
By the time I blinked, they were gone.
TO BE CONTINUED...