Chapter 44

Pete Hancock lay sprawled on the carpet, a lifeless marionette with strings cut. His eyes, wide and startled even in death, stared blankly at the ceiling fan circling above like a lazy vulture.

"Who did this to you, Pete?" My voice, barely a whisper, frosted in the chill air as I knelt beside him. The scent of iron tinged my nostrils; it was strong and recent.

A shiver crawled up my spine, not from being cold but from the crawling realization that someone had stood here, in front of Pete, with the intent of ending his life right here and now. My heart thrummed a staccato rhythm against my ribs; each beat spelling out the silent question: Why?

I scanned the room, hunting for a clue, an anomaly in the mundane.

"Who hated you enough to do this or feared you enough to want silence?" I murmured more to myself than to Pete. My mind raced through the possibilities, each more unnerving than the last.

Each tick of the clock overhead punctuated the silence, a countdown to an answer I wasn"t sure I wanted to find.

"Hey! What the heck do you think you"re doing here?"

The sudden yell ripped through the silence, jarring me from my internal inquisition. I spun around to see Detective Ryan barreling into the room, his face a mask of barely contained fury.

"Ryan," I started, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand, his eyes never leaving mine as he closed the distance between us in a few ground-eating strides.

"Answer me!" His voice was a growl, aggressive and demanding. "Why are you contaminating my crime scene?"

I took a step back. It was clear he saw my presence here as a personal affront, a disruption in his domain.

"Detective, I—" My words were calm and measured, but he wasn"t looking for calm.

"Save it!" He was close now, the heat of his anger palpable. "You shouldn"t be here. This is my scene, my case!"

His hands balled into fists at his sides, and I could see the tension coiling in him like a spring. Ryan was a storm personified, a man who believed control was akin to law, and I had just broken his cardinal rule.

"Because, Detective," I said, my voice a stark contrast to his rage, "there"s a pattern you"re missing."

"Pattern? What pattern?" He was inches away now, close enough that I could see the vein pulsing in his temple.

"Every crime scene," I continued, unwavering. "A note with the same words: "You Knew.""

His eyes narrowed, suspicion and interest warring within them. "What are you talking about?"

"Three victims, three notes. They were all found by the techs at the scene of the crimes. Steven's was found on his desk, Nicki's in the trash, and Pete Hancock's half burnt in the ashtray. " My heart raced, but my tone remained steady. "I noticed them when going through the case files myself. You didn't seem to take notice of them, so I did. They're identical messages. That"s not a coincidence."

"Coincidence or not—" he started, but I cut him off.

"Detective, someone is playing a game with us."

"Us?" His laugh was harsh, dismissive. "There is no us. This is my city, my responsibility."

"Then why are they all dead?" I shot back.

"Because—" Ryan faltered for a moment, his certainty wavering.

"Because we"re dealing with a calculated killer," I said, filling the silence he left. "And unless we work together, there will be more bodies."

"More grandstanding," he sneered. "I"ve heard enough. You"re out of your depth here."

"Am I?" I countered. "Or are you just afraid to admit that you need help?"

"Help?" The word seemed to strike a nerve, his posture stiffening.

"Look at the facts, Ryan. The notes, the methodical planning—it screams serial."

"Serial…." The fight seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a reluctant consideration. "If you"re wrong?—"

"But what if I"m right?" I pressed, holding his gaze.

He stared at me, the storm in his eyes churning into something else—a grudging respect, maybe even the dawning realization that I wasn"t just an interloper. I was here because I needed to be—because Pete Hancock, lying cold and still on the floor, wouldn"t be the last unless we put our heads together.

"I don't want you here." He turned to face his officers. "Please, make sure she leaves."

"Wait," I said, my voice slicing through the buzz of radio static and murmured orders. Two uniformed officers halted mid-step, their hands firm on my arms. Detective Ryan"s glare could have cut glass, but I met it without flinching.

"Let her speak," Ryan barked, curiosity overcoming irritation.

I reached slowly into my jacket, watching the officers tense, and pulled out my badge, flipping it open with a practiced flick. "I'm a special agent with the FBI, and I'm allowed to be here."

The room stilled, the weight of my declaration hanging heavy in the air. I saw the shift in their eyes—from dismissal to reluctant respect.

"We know that, but this is not an FBI investigation," Ryan repeated.

"It's about to be. Look at the pattern, Ryan." I stepped closer, lowering my voice to a compelling timbre. "Three victims, three notes, identical words. Three murders make a serial killer."

"Local cases," he countered, but his stance had softened somewhat. "There's no proof they're connected."

"Think bigger," I urged. "These aren"t isolated incidents. They"re pieces of a larger puzzle, and right now, you"re missing the box."

"Convince me," Ryan challenged, crossing his arms.

"Each victim knew something, something critical enough to get them killed. We need to find the connection before there"s another "You Knew" note sitting on your desk."

"Dammit." Ryan"s curse was more resignation than anger.

"This is a serial killer, Ryan. Without a doubt." My gaze didn"t waver. "And that means FBI jurisdiction."

"Special Agent or not, you"ve no right to come here and mess with my case!" Ryan"s voice cracked like a whip through the stillness of the crime scene. He advanced on me, his jaw set and eyes blazing with a fury that was hard to ignore.

"Ryan," I started, keeping my tone level, "you need to listen."

"Listen?" His laugh was hollow and bitter. "To you?"

"Sarah didn"t kill Steven." My words came out crisp and confident in the charged silence.

"Based on what? Your gut?" Sarcasm dripped from every syllable as he glowered at me.

"Based on evidence and patterns that don"t fit her profile." I unflinchingly met his glare.

"Patterns and profiles?" he scoffed, stepping closer—so close that I could see the reddening in his cheeks. "You"re seeing ghosts, Agent."

"Three dead, Ryan. Three notes. One message. This isn"t Sarah"s doing." My finger jabbed toward the body, Pete Hancock"s lifeless form.

"And you"re so sure because?" His stance was confrontational, hands on hips, challenging me to convince him.

"Because she was locked up when Pete and Nicki were both killed. It"s impossible unless she can be in two places at once." The logic was sound, undeniable.

"Nicki was a suicide," he shot back, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

"I'm telling you. This is the work of someone else. Someone calculating. And they"re still out there." I kept my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

"Damn you and your FBI profiling." Ryan"s anger seemed to wrestle with the notion, his brow furrowed.

"Think about it," I pressed on. "The killer is playing a game, and Sarah is just another pawn."

"Or maybe you"re playing me." But now his accusation held less venom, more searching.

"The truth isn"t always comfortable, Ryan. But it"s necessary." I locked eyes with him, willing him to see past his resistance.

"Comfortable?" He snorted, shaking his head. "Nothing about this damn case has been comfortable."

"Then, let"s make it right. Together." My offer hung between us, a bridge over tumultuous waters.

"Sarah"s not our killer," I reiterated. "But the one we want is laughing at us right now, thinking they"ve outsmarted the entire department."

"Outsmarted…." His words trailed off, and for a moment, he seemed lost in thought.

Ryan"s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking like a time bomb. "If there is a serial killer…."

"Then we're wasting precious time," I cut in, urgency sharpening my words.

"This is still my city, my case." His finger jabbed the air between us, a clear boundary. "Until otherwise is told to me, I'm in charge. And I want you to leave this scene. Now."

"You'll regret not accepting my help more," I said. "Gonna make you look like a fool."

"I'll take that chance. Now, please leave."

"As you wish."

The sound of my sneakers echoed through the silent corridor as I made for the exit, the tension from our confrontation still crackling in the air behind me. A shiver ran down my spine—not from fear, but anger. Why was this guy so thick-headed? Why was he so set on Sarah being Steven's killer?

Outside, the sky hung heavy, clouds like dark smudges against the night. A storm was brewing, both in the atmosphere and in the case that lay sprawled out like a twisted puzzle before me. I could feel it in my bones.

"Watch your back, Agent," Ryan called out just as I reached the door.

"Always do," I replied without turning, stepping into the darkness, our unfinished business whispering in the wind.