Chapter 2 Daily Life & Doubts
The morning after the alleyway discovery arrived gray and heavy, as if the sky itself carried the weight of the crime Amara Cole had witnessed. The precinct buzzed with the usual noise phones ringing, footsteps echoing across tiled floors, detectives trading clipped words but Amara felt detached, moving through the bustle like a ghost. Sleep had been shallow. The crimson veil over the victim’s face had followed her into her dreams, twisting into her sister’s lifeless features.
She pushed the thought down and walked into the homicide division’s bullpen. Conversations quieted just a little when she entered. It wasn’t respect it was recognition of her reputation. Detective Cole: the relentless one. The one who didn’t quit even when she should have. The one still carrying the shadow of an unsolved family tragedy.
Her desk was buried beneath case files, half-drunk cups of coffee, and photos she didn’t remember printing. A sticky note stuck to her monitor read: Captain wants you. Now.
Amara sighed and squared her shoulders before knocking on Captain Howard’s door.
“Come in,” his voice called.
Captain Howard was a broad man, his hair gone white but his eyes still sharp. He gestured at a chair without looking up from the report he was reading. Amara sat, bracing herself.
“You were first on scene last night,” he said, flipping a page. “What do you have?”
“A male victim, mid-thirties. Stab wounds to the chest, surgical precision. Body staged with a crimson veil draped over the face. Whoever did it wanted to send a message.”
Howard finally looked up. “You sure you’re not reading into this? Veil could be coincidence. A rag picked up from the ground.”
Amara’s jaw tightened. “With respect, Captain, you didn’t see the way it was placed. Deliberate. Ritualistic.”
Howard leaned back, “You know what the brass thinks of you chasing ghosts, Cole. Ever since your sister’s case”
The words hit like a slap, but Amara didn’t flinch. “This isn’t about her. This is about a killer leaving us breadcrumbs. If we don’t move fast, there’ll be another.”
Howard studied her, then shook his head. “Fine. But you’d better get results. I’m assigning Marcus to work with you again.”
The mention of her partner stirred the knot in her stomach. She forced a clipped, “Understood.”
Marcus Hall was already waiting at her desk when she returned. He leaned back in her chair, long legs stretched out, tie loosened like he owned the place. His easy grin didn’t fool her.
“Morning, Amara,” he said. “Heard we’re back together. Like old times, huh?”
“Don’t start,” she muttered, grabbing her chair back. “This isn’t old times. We’re not here to babysit each other.”
His grin faltered, replaced by a guarded look. “Still holding a grudge, huh? You think I let you down.”
“You did,” she snapped. “And I don’t have time to debate it. We’ve got a case.”
The tension hung between them, thick as the dust motes drifting in the sunlight. They’d been through too much together partnership, mistakes, a betrayal she couldn’t quite forgive. Still, Howard had paired them again, maybe hoping their friction would produce results.
Before Marcus could respond, Jordan Reyes appeared, balancing a laptop in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He was younger, mid-twenties, sharp-eyed, perpetually wired on caffeine. His hoodie was wrinkled, his sneakers scuffed, but behind the casual exterior was a mind that could pull data out of shadows.
“Detectives,” Jordan said brightly, “Ran preliminary scans on the victim’s wounds. Whoever cut him knew anatomy. Every stab hit between ribs, avoiding bone. Not sloppy. Precise.”
“Surgeon?” Marcus asked.
“Or someone trained like one,” Jordan replied. “Also, trace fibers on the veil synthetic blend, rare dye. I’ll run a cross-check in textile databases.”
Amara leaned closer. “The veil wasn’t random.”
Jordan hesitated. “There’s more. The victim’s fingerprints matched an old database hit. Guy’s name was Daniel Rhodes. He filed a missing person’s report five years ago… for his younger brother. Brother was never found.”
Marcus frowned. “So our victim’s tied to a prior disappearance. That’s not coincidence.”
Before the conversation could deepen, a uniformed officer rushed up. “Detectives another body. Same setup. We need you on scene.”
The crime scene was across town, behind an abandoned warehouse where broken glass littered the pavement. The air smelled of rust and stagnant water. A perimeter of flashing lights and crime scene tape cordoned off the area.
The body lay beneath a torn tarp. Amara knelt beside it, gloved hands steady despite the churning in her gut. A crimson veil, identical to the first, draped over the victim’s face. This one was a woman, early forties, pale skin marred with deep cuts. The precision of the wounds mirrored the first victim’s.
Her eyes flicked to the ground and froze.
Scratched into the dirt near the body was a symbol: a circle intersected with jagged lines, almost ritualistic.
“Marcus,” she said tightly. “Take a look.”
He crouched beside her, his expression darkening. “That’s not random graffiti.”
Jordan snapped photos, “I’ll run the symbol through pattern recognition. Could be cult-related, could be something else.”
Amara straightened, scanning the shadows around them. The alley felt too quiet, as if the killer lingered just out of sight. Her pulse hammered. Two victims, same signature. The crimson veil wasn’t just a flourish it was the killer’s mark.
Howard would have no choice but to believe her now.
Back at the precinct, Amara locked herself in a briefing room with Marcus and Jordan. Photos of the victims covered the board. The crimson veils glared at her from every angle.
“Two bodies in two nights,” Marcus said grimly. “Both staged. Both precise. This isn’t random violence. We’ve got a serial.”
Jordan’s laptop chimed. “I cross-checked the fibers from the veils. They’re from a discontinued fabric line custom imports. Hard to find. If we track recent buyers, we might narrow suspects.”
Amara felt the weight of it pressing down. Two murders already, and the rhythm suggested more. Her gut told her the killer wouldn’t stop until the message was complete.
But the worst weight wasn’t professional. It was personal. The veil, the staging, the precision they echoed the patterns she’d seen years ago, in the case file she could never close: her sister’s murder. The similarities clawed at her.
Marcus studied her face. “You okay?”
She met his gaze, “Doesn’t matter. What matters is stopping this before we’re picking up another body tomorrow.”
Jordan glanced, he projected the symbol found at the warehouse. “I’ve got nothing concrete yet, but it’s old. Variations pop up in esoteric texts, ritual diagrams, secret societies. Someone wants to be noticed.”
Amara stared at the lines until they blurred. A circle, broken and jagged, like her own fractured memories. A crimson veil, draped like a shroud. Two dead already, more sure to follow.
Daily life in the precinct buzzed outside the briefing room phones, chatter, the grind of endless cases. But in this room, everything had narrowed to one truth:
The Crimson Veil wasn’t just a case. It was a pattern bleeding into her past, and now it was claiming fresh lives.
And Amara Cole was the only one who could stop it.
