Chapter 2: Dangerous Visions

The warehouse reeked of motor oil and death. Mike Torres lay in the center of the empty space, positioned exactly like David Chen—arms crossed, eyes closed, single clean stab wound to the chest. If not for the blood, he could have been sleeping.

"Same killer," Blake said, crouching beside the body. "No question."

I pulled on gloves, my hands already tingling with the psychometric energy I'd been fighting all day. "How long has he been dead?"

"Coroner estimates four to six hours," Sarah replied, joining us near the body. "Security guard found him around midnight during routine patrol."

I nodded, studying the scene. Torres had been moved here after death—there wasn't enough blood for the killing to have happened in this spot. The killer was organized, careful, and getting bolder.

"Agent Morrison." Blake's voice carried a note of concern. "You should see this."

He was standing near a support pillar where someone had spray-painted words in red letters: SHE'S NEXT.

My stomach clenched. "Personal message or generic threat?"

"Given that Torres had your business card, I'd say personal." Blake's eyes were hard as he studied my face. "Any idea why someone would target you?"

Because they know what I can do. The thought hit me like a physical blow. For three years, I'd been careful to keep my abilities hidden, using them only when absolutely necessary and never in front of witnesses. But if someone had discovered my secret...

"I've put away a lot of criminals," I said instead. "Could be anyone looking for revenge."

Sarah snorted. "Kate's made more enemies than a tax collector. Remember the Morrison case?"

I winced. Six months ago, I'd brought down a human trafficking ring by following psychometric visions from evidence. Officially, I'd cracked it through "intuitive investigative work." Unofficially, I'd touched personal items belonging to victims and experienced their memories.

Blake raised an eyebrow. "Morrison case?"

"Family name," I explained, uncomfortable with his interest. "Pure coincidence."

"Kate's being modest. She broke that case wide open when everyone else hit dead ends." Sarah's pride in my accomplishment made guilt twist in my chest. If she knew how I really solved cases...

"I just got lucky with a witness," I lied.

We spent the next hour processing the scene, but my mind kept wandering to the message on the pillar. She's next. Not "you're next" or "Morrison's next"—the killer knew I was a woman. They were watching me, learning about me.

The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it made me angry.

Blake worked methodically, photographing everything, bagging evidence with the precision of someone who'd done this a hundred times. But I caught him glancing at me when he thought I wasn't looking, like he was waiting for something.

"Agent Blake," I said finally. "How long have you been with the Bureau?"

"Eight years. Started right out of Quantico." His smile was practiced. "You?"

"Five years. What brought you to Seattle?"

"Special assignment. Director Wilson requested me specifically for this case."

That stopped me cold. Wilson had requested Blake before Chen was even murdered. Which meant either Wilson had incredible foresight, or he knew something about these murders that he hadn't shared.

"What kind of special assignment?" I pressed.

Blake's smile faltered for just a second. "The Bureau's been tracking a pattern of ritualistic murders across the country. Your Chen case fits the profile."

"How many murders?"

"Seventeen in the past year. All investigators or researchers, all positioned the same way, all working cases involving missing persons with unusual circumstances."

Seventeen murders. The number hit me like a sledgehammer. This wasn't about David Chen or Mike Torres specifically—they were just the latest victims in a much larger hunt.

"What kind of unusual circumstances?" I asked.

Blake exchanged a look with Sarah, then seemed to make a decision. "The missing persons all had documented paranormal experiences. Psychic phenomena, unexplained abilities, that sort of thing."

My blood turned to ice. Lisa Park wasn't just missing—she was missing because she had supernatural abilities. And the investigators who'd tried to find her were being killed to keep her location secret.

"You're saying someone is hunting people with paranormal abilities?"

"I'm saying someone is eliminating anyone who might find them first."

The warehouse suddenly felt too small, too exposed. I needed air, space, time to think. But as I turned toward the exit, my hand accidentally brushed against a piece of debris near where Torres had been positioned.

The vision hit me like a freight train.

Mike Torres, backing away from a figure in dark clothing. "Please, I won't tell anyone. I'll drop the case." The figure advancing, silver knife catching streetlight. "You've seen too much." Torres falling, the killer checks his pulse, then carefully positions his body with ritualistic precision.

But it was the killer's face that made me gasp out loud. Young, ordinary, forgettable—except for the eyes. Cold, fanatical, completely without mercy. And something else that made my skin crawl: the killer had been smiling throughout the murder.

"Kate!" Sarah's voice sounded far away. "Kate, what's wrong?"

I blinked back to the present, realizing I was on my knees beside the debris pile. Blake was crouched next to me, his hand on my shoulder, his face tight with concern.

"I'm fine," I said, struggling to stand. "Just felt dizzy for a second."

Blake's eyes narrowed. "When's the last time you ate?"

"This morning." It was a lie—I'd been too nervous about meeting my new partner to stomach breakfast. But I couldn't explain that I'd just experienced Mike Torres's murder firsthand.

"We should call it a night," Sarah suggested. "Crime scene's processed, coroner's taking the body. Nothing more we can do here."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The vision had shown me the killer's face, but more importantly, it had shown me something else: the killer had been looking for something specific on Torres's body. Something small enough to fit in a pocket.

As we walked toward our cars, I replayed every detail. The killer had searched Torres's jacket, his pants pockets, and even his shoes. They'd been frustrated, angry when they didn't find what they were looking for.

"Agent Morrison." Blake's voice made me jump. "Can I give you some advice?"

"Sure."

"Be careful. Whoever killed Torres left that message for a reason. They want you scared."

"I don't scare easily."

Blake's smile was grim. "That's what worries me. Scared agents are cautious agents. Fearless agents end up dead."

As I drove home to my apartment, Blake's words echoed in my mind. He was right about the danger—two investigators were dead, and someone had painted a threat directed at me on a warehouse wall. But he was wrong about the fear.

I wasn't scared. I was furious.

Someone was hunting people like me, people with abilities they couldn't explain or control. They were killing anyone who got too close to the truth. And now they'd made it personal by targeting investigators, by threatening me.

My apartment felt different when I walked in—not ransacked or disturbed, but wrong somehow. I checked every room, every closet, every possible hiding place. Nothing was missing, nothing was moved.

But on my kitchen counter sat a single white envelope with my name written in block letters.

Inside was a photograph of me leaving the Chen crime scene that morning, taken from across the street. On the back, someone had written: Stop looking, or join them.

I stared at the photo, my hands shaking with rage instead of fear. They'd been in my apartment. They'd touched my things, violated my space, and left me a threat in my own home.

But they'd also made a mistake. By breaking in, they'd left traces of themselves behind. And I was going to find every single one.

I pulled on gloves and carefully lifted the envelope, opening my mind to whatever psychometric impressions it might hold.

The vision that followed changed everything.

Male hands placing the envelope on my counter, moving carefully through my apartment, studying family photos, and reading mail on my desk. But it wasn't the invasion that shocked me—it was the face I glimpsed in the reflection of my bathroom mirror.

Agent Ryan Blake.

My partner, the man Wilson had specifically requested for this case, had been in my apartment. He'd left me the threatening note. He'd been watching me long before we ever met.

As the vision faded, one question burned in my mind: was Blake working with the killer, or was he something much worse?

Either way, I was on my own.