Chapter 3

Sarah went to the school and took care of things, then drove back home.

No more reeking dumpsters or fluttering police tape—just perfectly trimmed hedges and a flawless layer of new snow on the Georgian-style mansion.

This was her sanctuary, crafted by her own hands.

I followed behind her, floating through the heavy wooden front door.

Warm air rushed to greet us inside.

The house smelled of expensive cedar candles and roasting meat—cozy and intoxicating.

But I knew I never truly belonged here.

My stepfather, Robert, was sitting on the couch.

"You're back," he said, looking up as Sarah walked in, cold and exhausted.

"Sarah," Robert's voice cut through the domestic calm. He pointed the remote at the TV. "Did you see the news? All the local stations are talking about it."

Sarah didn't even glance up. "Robert, I work the crime scene. I don't need the news."

"No, look at this. They're talking about a serial killer. The media's calling him the 'Raincoat Killer.' They found another body, didn't they?"

On the screen, a bright red breaking news banner flashed: Dismemberment Suspect at Large! Citywide Manhunt Underway! Half the screen was taken up by a sketch of a man in a hooded raincoat, next to a map—the same alley Sarah had just left.

"Yeah, I just came from there," Sarah said, barely interested, pouring herself a glass of vodka at the bar. No ice. "Jane Doe in a dumpster. Probably just another hooker or junkie. Friday night trash collection, as usual."

"They're saying the killer targets young students," Robert's tone shifted from casual to uneasy. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Sarah... Mia isn't home yet."

At my name, Sarah's hand paused midair, glass in hand.

"So?"

"It's been three days," Robert said.

He wasn't the confrontational type—Sarah always ran the show—but even he sounded worried now. "She missed dinner Tuesday. Didn't come home Wednesday. Her room's empty."

"She's eighteen, Robert. Legally an adult," Sarah took a sip of her drink. "She's just sulking. I asked her to help Chloe study for AP History this weekend and she lost it. She's punishing me. She's probably hiding out at some friend's place, waiting for me to beg her to come back. I'm not playing her games."

"But there's a killer out there..." Robert glanced at the window, where the snowstorm pounded the glass. "Maybe we should call around? Just to check?"

Sarah turned her back to the TV, which was now describing the latest victim's grisly fate. "She's always been street-smart. Cold, selfish. She's probably sitting in some greasy diner right now, laughing at how worried we are."

"But what if..." Robert started, but Sarah's icy glare shut him up.

Sarah let out a bitter laugh. "Come on, Robert. Look at her. Mia's just like her rat of a father—she knows how to survive. If she ever did run into the killer, she'd probably scam him out of his wallet. And if something bad happened, she'd run."

I drifted quietly near the ceiling.

Yeah, that's what she always thought.

But, Mom.

This time...

I couldn't run.

...

Three more days passed.

I was like a speck of dust caught in the winter wind, floating through the police station.

Sarah sat at her desk, looking over the Jane Doe file from the Southside case, but her mind was clearly elsewhere—shopping online for a dress for the mayor's charity gala.

It was to celebrate Robert's company going public, but more importantly, to introduce Chloe to the city's social scene.

The phone rang, breaking her concentration.

It was from "The Grind," one of the three places I worked part-time.

Sarah frowned and answered.

"Officer, this is Joe—Mia's manager at the coffee shop." The voice was anxious. "I know you're busy, but this is the third shift Mia's missed. She's never late, let alone a no-show. Is she sick?"

Sarah rolled her eyes, drumming her fingers on the desk. "She's not sick, Joe. She's just acting out. You know how girls are these days—disappear just to avoid chores. Sorry for the hassle."

My soul drifted across the desk, wanting to scream into the phone: Joe! Tell her! Tell her I'm not like she says!

A detective across the room looked up.

He leaned in and spoke into the speaker. "Joe, when exactly did you last see Mia?"

"Uh... let me check the clock-in records." Typing. "Last Friday night. It was payday. She seemed really happy—said she was going to buy an important gift, then changed clothes and left. That was six days ago."

"Six days." Miller's face darkened. "Sarah, this isn't right."

Sarah just snorted, as if her suspicions were confirmed. "It's exactly right, Miller. Payday. She had cash—so that's either her drug money or her ticket to some party. She took the money and ran. She'll crawl back when she's broke."

She spoke into the phone. "Joe, fire her. She needs to learn there are consequences. I'll find her, trust me. When I drag her back, she won't leave the house for the rest of her life."

At that moment, watching my mother's beautiful face twisted with anger, I finally gave up hope.

Mom, when you realize that nameless body you despised was me... what will you do?

Sarah hung up, grabbed her coat and keys. "I need some air. I'll swing by that damn coffee shop, see if I can smoke out that little brat."

She strode out of the station.

Chicago's winter was raw and biting, the sky a dirty gray.

People hurried by on the street. Sarah rounded a corner and stopped at the mouth of an alley.

A man in a dark overcoat was standing there. He wasn't rushing like everyone else—he leaned against the wall, staring straight at Sarah.

His gaze was cold, oily, and mocking—like he was watching a rabbit walk into a snare.

Sarah's instincts flared. She'd put plenty of creeps behind bars, and she hated feeling threatened.

"What are you looking at?" Sarah said, hand on her holstered gun, voice sharp. "You want a ride downtown?"

The man didn't answer—just smirked, then slipped away into the shadows.

"Freak," Sarah muttered, about to follow him for a quick check, when her personal cell started buzzing violently in her pocket.

She yanked it out. The name flashing on the screen sent her rage through the roof.

Mia.

"Ha!" Sarah let out a short, bitter laugh. She stabbed the answer button, not even waiting for a word before letting six days of fury explode.

"Mia Bennett! You finally turned your phone on?! You think this is funny? Do you know how many times Joe called me? You think you can just take your paycheck and disappear? Let me tell you, you better get your butt home right—"

"Sarah..."

The voice on the other end wasn't mine.

Not the timid, eager-to-please voice she was used to.

It was a man's voice.

Sarah froze.

Wind whipped her hair as she stood there, stunned. "...Who is this? Why do you have my daughter's phone?"

"Sarah, don't hang up. It's me, Tom, from forensics."

Sarah's brow furrowed; for a split second, she still didn't put it together, even sounded annoyed. "Tom? What the hell are you doing with Mia? If you're covering for that brat—"

"Oh God, Sarah, listen to me!" Tom's voice dropped, heavy and broken—Sarah had never heard him like this. "We... we just pulled a red suitcase out of the river. There were some scraps of clothing inside. And a waterlogged phone."

Time seemed to freeze. The city noise faded, distant and muffled.

Sarah's hand started to shake, but she clung to her defenses. "So? Kids lose their phones all the time. Probably got stolen and tossed in the river..."

"We recovered the SIM card," Tom cut in, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he couldn't bear to say the words. "We checked the outgoing calls. The last call made from that phone, around the time of the murder..."

I stood in front of Sarah, watching her pupils shrink to pinpoints.

Tom's voice came through the phone, as final as a death sentence:

"No one picked up. But the contact name was—Mom."