Chapter 2

The drive home was quiet. The house was dark when I pulled up to the corner, I was lucky enough to have my apartment right on the road then the porch light flickered on. Inside, the AC hummed, a gentle noise against the quiet hum that was always inside me. I kicked off my shoes, the day’s weight just dropping off. There’s a certain kind of rightness to it all. The world’s full of messed-up people, full of folks who hurt the weak. Someone’s gotta do something about it.

David

The precinct air always smelled the same: old coffee, stale smoke, and that sharp, fake lemon cleaner. Even at past midnight, it clung to you. Rain was hammering the windows, a steady drum against the low hum of the fluorescent lights. Down the hall, someone was still typing, clack-clack-clack. I just stared at the corkboard in my office. It was a damn mess. Pictures of dead men, red string going nowhere, a bunch of notes that didn't add up to anything. Victim number four.

Tommy Jenkins. Found crammed in a back alley, behind some crummy dive bar. Just a single, clean stab wound to the chest. No witnesses. No sign of a fight. Just… quiet. Like the killer was a ghost. Tommy, he wasn't exactly a saint. Low-level drug dealer, yeah, but he was mostly known for being a real piece of work with women. His ex had a restraining order. Heard whispers about him roughing up girls who owed him cash. I remembered him, actually. A few months back, a domestic call. Woman had a black eye, but she wouldn’t press charges. He stood there, smirking, like he knew we couldn't touch him. Now, someone else had.

"Anything, Dave?" Ben, my partner, mumbled. He was leaning against the doorframe, looking like he hadn't slept in a week, nursing a cold cup of coffee. I was pretty sure I looked the same to others.

"Nothing new, Ben," I sighed, dragging a hand over my stubbly face. "Same M.O. Clean as a whistle. No forced entry, no struggle. Just... lights out. Like the others."

The others. That’s what was really eating at me. Four victims in six months. All men. All with a record. Not just any record, either. Every single one was a dirtbag. The first guy, a youth soccer coach, got investigated for touching kids, but nothing stuck. Second one, a landlord known for harassing women, hinting at rent-free living if they played along. Third was a bar owner, notorious for slipping stuff into women's drinks and going after little girls. And now, Tommy Jenkins.

"It's almost too neat, right?" Ben said, pushing himself off the frame. "Like someone's doing house cleaning. And doing a damn good job of it."

"Too damn good," I agreed, the words tasting like old pennies. "No forensics. No prints, no DNA, nothing. It's like they just poof into thin air after they do the deed."

My stomach was doing flips. It wasn't just the missing evidence. It was the pattern. The type of victims. It felt personal. Like a twisted revenge. But who? We talked to everyone. Ex-girlfriends, spouses, angry neighbors, even some of the victims' victims. Nothing. No one had the guts, or the skill, to pull this off so flawlessly.

"Weapon?" Ben asked.

"Coroner says a single-edged blade. Precise. Like a hunting knife. Clean stab. Not much blood at the scene, which means they either moved the body, or the killer’s just that good at keeping things tidy." I tapped the photo of Jenkins's dead eyes. "No defensive wounds. Means they didn't see it coming, or they were out cold."

"Or they knew their killer," Ben said, his voice flat.

I nodded slowly. That thought was always there, scratching at the back of my mind. These guys, for all their bad habits, weren't soft. They were tough. Thought they were untouchable. For someone to get that close, strike like that, and vanish without a trace… it took planning. And maybe, yeah, a connection we weren't seeing.

The rain kept coming down, just like my frustration kept building. This case was getting under my skin. Every lead went cold; every theory hit a brick wall. The media was starting to chew on it, calling for answers, making us look like fools. Some papers even whispered about a "guardian angel," which was a sick joke considering these dirtbags.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling through messages. One from my partner. The one that is completely outside this messy world, the one who kept me sane. A text from earlier: "Long day at the shelter. Thinking of you. Don't work too late."

There was an instant smile on my lips. She was a breather from the ugly truth of this job. She’s a school counselor, volunteers at a women's shelter. All about helping people, putting broken pieces back together. The total opposite of the crap I deal with every day.

Gracie. Her name alone brought a quiet calm to the chaos that usually lived in my head. When I thought of her, it was always her smile first. It wasn't one of those big, flashy grins, but something softer, more gentle. It reached her eyes, crinkling them at the corners, and somehow managed to make the worst days feel a little lighter, like a warm ray of sun cutting through the gloom. It was a smile that promised understanding, no matter how lost I felt.

Her eyes were the next thing that always drew me in. They were a deep, calm brown, like good, rich coffee. They held a quiet warmth, and a stillness that always soothed my wired nerves. When she looked at me, I felt truly seen, truly heard, without having to say a word. There was a peaceful depth to them, a kind of knowing that made me feel safe, like she understood parts of me I didn't even understand myself. I used to think that stillness meant a gentle soul, a quiet strength. Now... now I just don't know what it meant.

Her hands were always busy, whether she was working on a piece of knitting, or just tracing patterns on my arm when we were just talking, or making me a cup of tea. They were slender, with long, artistic fingers, always graceful. They never fidgeted, never seemed restless, even when my own mind was racing. Just the brush of her hand on my cheek could quiet the storm brewing inside me.

She had this way about her, a quiet strength that didn't need to shout. She wasn't loud or flashy, but she had a presence that filled a room, mostly for me. She just made everything feel... okay. Her hair, a rich, dark brown, often framed her face in soft waves, sometimes tucked behind an ear, sometimes falling around her shoulders. It made her look both gentle and a little mysterious, a mystery I thought was slowly, lovingly, unraveling.