The hallway sits empty. Both bedroom doors are open, exactly how we left them. Nothing’s out of place in my room. Nothing’s fallen in Alex’s.
“See?” I say, already turning back. “Nothing.”
“Old building,” Alex agrees, but her voice is tight. “Pipes or whatever.”
“Exactly. Pipes.”
We walk back into the living room and stop dead.
The murder board.
Half the photos are on the floor. Magnets scattered across the rug. The dry-erase marker rolled under the couch.
But not everything fell.
Elizabeth Short’s photo—our stand-in for the woman we’re calling Dahlia—is still there. Dead center. Perfectly level. Like someone straightened it while everything else clattered down.
My stomach drops.
“Okay,” Alex says slowly. “So that’s weird.”
“That’s weird,” I agree.
We stand there, staring at it.
“Dylan?” Alex’s voice sounds far away even though she’s right next to me.
“Yeah?”
“How did only her photo stay up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Like... physically. How?”
I force myself to think logically. Rationally. “We didn’t secure the magnets properly. Or we bumped the board when we were moving around. Or?—”
“Dylan.” Alex cuts me off gently. “Look at it.”
I look.
Everything scattered except the dead woman. Perfectly centered. Perfectly level.
“Coincidence,” I say. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“Yeah,” Alex agrees. But she doesn’t sound convinced.
Neither am I.
We kneel down together, gathering the photos and magnets in silence. Dom’s photo is crumpled. The Dahlia club photo landed face-down. The alley photo is under the couch.
But Elizabeth Short’s face stares down at us from the board. Untouched. Watching.
My hands shake slightly as I smooth out Dom’s photo. The ring feels heavier around my neck. Warmer.
Body heat.
Has to be.
