The girl with the burned face
The morning was grey, and so was Salem’s mood. Clouds pressed low against the skyline like they were hiding something. She didn’t sleep—she sat up all night rewatching that video on loop, hoping to catch something new in the grain, a sign, a face, anything.
But no.
It always ended the same way:
That masked figure whispering the line that had haunted her since she was thirteen.
“She knows what you did.”
A phrase meant to scare. Or worse, remind.
She arrived at the precinct early. The bullpen was mostly empty. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional distant phone ringing.
Her boots echoed as she walked straight to the Evidence Archives room, keycard already in hand. The tech in charge a sleepy guy named Drew barely looked up as she entered.
“Detective Cole. Early bird today.”
“Need body photos from the Lyra Dean scene,” she said. “Unedited.”
Drew frowned. “That case is sealed under Level 5 clearance now. Media’s sniffing around. Captain said any new photos need direct clearance.”
Salem didn’t break stride.
“Captain can call me if he has a problem. You’ve got five minutes to send those files to my private server.”
She left without waiting for an answer. That was her way. Push first. Ask later.
Back at her desk, she pulled up the high-res crime scene shots on her laptop. Lyra’s body. The mirror. The stitching across her mouth. She zoomed in on the mirror’s corner where the lipstick ended. Just beneath the smear, nearly invisible in the reflection, was a faint fingerprint.
Smudged.
Not usable in court.
But enough for a lead.
She flagged it and sent it to Juno Reyes, the department’s tech analyst. The only one who didn’t ask too many questions—and the only one willing to bend rules for Salem.
Within seconds, her phone buzzed.
JUNO [7:26 AM]:
That print? Not in the system. But I ran it through a black net scanner. One possible hit: a Jane Doe. Burn victim. 2011. Missing person case. File never closed.
JUNO [7:27 AM]:
Want me to pull the hospital records?
SALEM:
Do it. Now.
Salem leaned back in her chair. A burned Jane Doe, possibly tied to a murder staged like a message from her past? It was too much coincidence.
There were no coincidences anymore.
An hour later, Salem drove across town to St. Magdalene Medical Center, where the Jane Doe had been taken years ago. The hospital was underfunded, overworked, and barely holding together. Cracks in the walls. Nurses moving like ghosts.
She flashed her badge at the front desk.
“Detective Cole. I need to see your patient intake logs for June 2011. Burn unit. Female victim. No ID.”
The nurse narrowed her eyes. “That’s a decade back. Not sure we still got that on file.”
Salem’s stare was ice. “Try.”
Five minutes later, she was escorted into a back room filled with dusty cabinets and a single flickering light overhead.
The nurse handed her a single paper file, yellowed with age. “All we had.”
Salem flipped it open.
Patient: Jane Doe #11-066.
Age (estimated): 20-24.
Injuries: Third-degree burns over 60% of body.
Facial structure damaged. Vocal cords partially destroyed. Communication limited.
Notable markings: Scar on left wrist resembling a crescent.
Salem froze.
The crescent scar.
Camille had one, too. A self-harm scar, curved like a moon. She used to say it reminded her that everything came in cycles.
She kept flipping.
“Patient became violent during recovery. Drew blood on one nurse. Kept repeating same phrase over and over:
‘She left me there. She burned me alive.’”
Salem’s mouth went dry.
She turned to the final note in the file.
“Patient escaped medical custody on July 12, 2011. Disappeared without a trace.”
Escaped.
And gone.
Salem closed the file slowly, fingers trembling now.
Camille didn’t die in 2003.
She survived the fire.
She came back in 2011. Burned, scarred, and full of rage.
And now?
She was done hiding.
Later that day, Salem stood outside the burned ruins of the Hawthorn Home for Girls. The building was condemned years ago. The city never rebuilt it. Just left it to rot like a secret everyone agreed not to speak of.
She pushed the rusted gate open. The air smelled like mildew, ash, and time.
Inside, the old walls leaned like they were tired of standing. Charred wood. Sooted windows. Shattered memories.
She climbed the creaking staircase carefully. Each step sounded like a warning.
Third floor. West wing.
Camille’s old room.
She stood in the doorway. The roof had partially collapsed, letting in beams of light. In the corner, beneath a half-burned bed frame, she saw it:
A makeshift shrine.
Photos. Dolls. Pieces of jewelry. Burned fragments of fabric.
In the center, a framed photo uncannily preserved. Five girls smiling.
Salem. Camille. The others.
Each face scratched out with a nail.
Except one.
Camille’s.
Beneath it, in black marker:
“She left us. But I never left her.”
Salem turned slowly, every nerve alert.
And there, scratched into the inside of the doorframe, was a fresh carving.
“You survived, Salem. But you didn’t save us.”
Her heart pounded.
A sound behind her.
She spun, gun raised.
Nothing there.
Just a gust of wind through the broken windows, howling like laughter.
Back at her apartment that night, Salem sat in total darkness.
The files. The shrine. The whispers. All pointed to one truth:
Camille had survived.
She had come back.
And she was done waiting.
There was a knock at the door.
Not a loud one.
Just soft, calculated taps like someone who knew exactly how to get her attention.
She opened it without hesitation, gun at her side.
But there was no one there.
Only another envelope. This one smaller. Red wax seal shaped like a crescent.
She tore it open.
Inside was a photo.
A girl, no older than eight. Blonde hair. Pale skin. Dressed in a pink nightgown.
Tied to a chair.
Eyes wide. Mouth taped shut.
A caption writt
en in ink below:
“Your past is innocent. But your future bleeds.”
No signature.
No threat.
Just a promise.
And Salem knew exactly what it meant.
Camille had taken a child.
And now the countdown had begun.
