I know violence will never disappear from this world. Humanity’s been tearing itself apart since the beginning of time. But every time I stand in the aftermath of it, I can’t stop asking: what fractures inside a person that makes them cross that line? What hunger, what void convinces them they can strip the life out of another human being?
The alley reeks of hot metal, piss, and rot—so sharp it settles on my tongue, clinging in my throat. Red and blue strobes from the cruisers bleed across graffiti-tagged brick, flashing off shattered bottles, glinting glass, and trash that litters the narrow passage. Fast-food wrappers and crushed cans grind beneath my boots with every step I take toward the carnage waiting at the end.
“Elcot,” I call, my voice low and steady, despite the way my stomach knots.
He’s stationed near the far wall, posture rigid, one hand resting on the butt of his weapon like he’s waiting for something else to lunge out of the dark. He doesn’t look at me at first, doesn’t take his eyes off the bodies sprawled at his feet. Like if he doesn’t blink, he won’t have to accept what he’s seeing.
“Perez,” he finally answers, his tone clipped and professional. “Scene’s secured. CSU and a detective are en route.” His throat works with a hard swallow, betraying what he doesn’t want me to see. He feels the weight, too.
I force myself forward, my eyes sweeping the alley. The first victim, male, maybe early twenties, is sprawled only a few feet to my left. His gray t-shirt is shredded, stained nearly black, spiderwebs of blood blooming across his chest. His face is contorted, frozen in the last moment his body failed him. His pale lips are parted, his teeth streaked with red, dried blood pooling at the corners of his mouth like he drowned in his own breath.
The second victim is farther down, slumped against the graffiti-smeared brick. A girl. Petite, no older than him. Her sundress is torn and clings to her frame, the once-bright yellow fabric now blackened with blood. A bullet tore her calf apart, the muscle mangled, and blood congealed thick around her ankle, staining her white Vans a deep crimson. Her head tilts against the wall, hair spilling like a macabre halo across the brick. Thefaint bruises circling her throat are fresh enough to stand out beneath the harsh light, proof that her death wasn’t quiet.
The silence hangs heavy, broken only by the occasional static crackle from our radios and the low hum of traffic bleeding in from the street, a reminder that the world is still moving outside this space.
“Who called it in?” I ask, voice low.
“Anonymous tip,” Elcot answers. “Dispatch said they left no name and that the call came from a burner. All they gave was the location and said that a murder occurred.”
I grit my teeth. Anonymous tip my ass. I guarantee the killer called it in. Why be anonymous about it if you weren’t the one who committed the crime or felt you’d be suspected of it?
Before I can voice my thoughts, the low growl of a van cuts through the suffocating silence. A white CSU vehicle rolls to a stop, headlights flooding the scene before they snap off. Doors slam, and three techs step out, lugging heavy kits and camera cases. They duck under the tape, and gloves snap into place, their motions automatic, practiced.
“About damn time,” Elcot mutters, but I catch the faint drop of tension in his shoulders as they arrive.
The team fans out quickly, efficient in their movements. One sets up portable floodlights that bleach the alley in harsh white, stripping shadows from every corner. Another snaps cameras together, shutters clicking in rapid bursts, each flash burning the victims into momentary still frames. Evidence markers drop beside trash and pools of blood. Swabs dip into dark stains. Bags crinkle as gloves gather anything that doesn’t belong.
I step aside, giving them room to work, but my eyes keep tracking every move.
One tech kneels beside the male victim, methodically working over him. They measure the depth of the wounds, swab the streaks of blood crusted on his cheeks, camera popping witheach adjustment. Then, another burst of flash reveals something in his left hand—a crumpled wad, clutched tight in rigor-stiffened fingers.
“What’s that?” I ask, crouching closer, nodding toward it.
“Not sure. Let’s see,” the tech says as he works carefully, prying each finger loose until he pulls the object free—a wad of paper, tacky with semi-dried blood.
I pull out a pair of gloves from my pocket and slide them on as the tech gently starts unfolding the paper. The paper sticks to itself, nearly tearing as he unfolds it, but he manages to flatten it before slipping it into an evidence bag.
He seals it, then hands it over.
I grasp it between my thumb and index finger and examine it.
Blood has smeared most of the ink, but enough remains for me to piece together what was intended. I slide my duty phone out of the pocket of my vest and open the camera. Lying the bag across my knee, I snap a photo, then read the message.
She may not have been my first, but she will be my last.
The message slams into me like a gut punch. My stomach twists, breath catching in my throat. Whoever wrote this isn’t taunting. They’re confessing. Claiming. Promising.
And worse… there’s a part of me that feels like I know who “she” is.
I ease my truck into a spot outside Raelynn’s building, the dash clock glowing just past 12:45. The lot is a patchwork of sleeping cars and long, thin shadows; the only sound when I cut the engine is the faint tick of cooling metal and the distant hum of atransformer. For a beat, I sit there, hand on the wheel, watching the thin slit of light under Raelynn’s blinds. She texted back that she was up, but that little notification of hers doesn’t calm the coil in my chest. If anything, it tightens it — dread with an edge of purpose.
I know this visit isn’t just to hold her; it’s because the alley and the smeared handwriting are still stuck under my skin.
Finally, I step out, boots hitting the pavement. The night air is cool, brushing over the sweat at the back of my neck as I stride up the narrow path toward her building. Most of the windows are dark, the whole complex sunk in silence, but hers spills a sliver of yellow light through the blinds, a quiet beacon that pulls me forward. When I reach her door, I can’t help the faint curve of a smile tugging at my mouth. She’s added more decorations, and we’re not even halfway through September yet. Yellow crime scene tape crisscrosses the frame, fluttering lightly with the breeze. Plastic spiders cling to the cotton webs she hung weeks ago. Where the pumpkins used to sit, she’s propped up a makeshift body—a black trash-bag torso stuffed with old bottles and rolled paper, duct-taped in a laughable approximation of mortality. It’s dark and cheeky and exactly the kind of thing Rae would do to mock the world into submission.
I knock, my knuckles brushing against the tape.
The deadbolt slides back almost immediately, and the door opens. Raelynn stands in the frame, lit by the warm glow inside. Her hair is damp, still dripping at the ends, leaving dark spots on the shoulders of her purpleThe Nightmare Before Christmassleep shirt. The oversized fabric hangs loose, brushing her thighs, and the matching black shorts barely peek out from beneath the hem. They ride high on her hips, short enough that when she shifts, a glimpse of bare skin flashes at the curve of her ass. The sight alone makes my pulse jump, my carefully built composure threatening to unravel right there on her doorstep.
