Chapter 2

He called Sarah again at seven. She answered on the first ring, her voice clipped and professional. "I was about to call you. Get down here."

The precinct hadn't changed in the three years since Leo had retired. Same beige walls, same flickering fluorescent lights, same smell of burnt coffee and stale paperwork. Sarah met him at the front desk, a folder tucked under her arm, her dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that made her look younger than her forty-two years.

"I shouldn't be doing this," she said, leading him past the bullpen to a small interview room. "Captain finds out I'm feeding you case files, he'll have my badge."

"Then don't let him find out." Leo sat down at the metal table. "What did you get?"

Sarah slid the folder across the table. "Elena Vasquez's full file. Autopsy, crime scene photos, witness statements. And I pulled the old Maria Torres file from archives."

Leo opened the folder. The photograph of Elena Vasquez stared up at him, the same one that had been in the envelope. He turned to the next page—the crime scene report. "No forced entry. No signs of struggle. She was killed somewhere else and moved to the warehouse."

"That's what the ME said. Cause of death: strangulation. The charm was placed after death, tied around her neck with surgical precision." Sarah sat across from him, her hands folded on the table. "There's something else. Elena Vasquez wasn't her real name. She changed it two years ago. Her birth name was Elena Reyes."

Leo looked up. "Why would a waitress change her name?"

"That's the question. I ran a background check. She had a restraining order against an ex-boyfriend, but it expired eighteen months ago. No criminal record, no debts, no obvious reason to hide."

Leo flipped through the Maria Torres file. The similarities were unmistakable—same age, same build, same occupation, same method. But Maria had been found in an alley behind the diner where she worked, not in a warehouse. And there had been no message on the wall.

"The killer escalated," Leo said. "Eight years ago, he left her in an alley. Now he's staging them in specific locations, leaving notes. He's showing off."

"Or he's trying to get your attention." Sarah leaned forward. "Leo, I ran the phone number that texted you. It's a burner, turned off after the message was sent. But the tower ping shows it originated near your old neighborhood."

Leo's jaw tightened. "He's watching me."

"He knows where you live. He knows about Maria Torres. He knows you retired carrying that case like a weight." Sarah paused. "What else does he know?"

The question hung in the air. Leo had no answer.

He spent the next hour going through both files, line by line. Maria Torres had worked at a diner on Twelfth Street, the same street where Elena Vasquez had been employed. Both women had been twenty-four years old. Both had been found with a crescent moon charm. But there was one detail in Elena's file that wasn't in Maria's: a photograph of a young girl, maybe six years old, tucked into Elena's wallet when her body was discovered.

"Who's the kid?" Leo asked, holding up the photo.

Sarah took it, studying it. "We don't know. No one matching that description came forward. The photo was old, creased, like she'd carried it for years."

Leo stared at the image. The girl had dark hair and serious eyes, and she was holding a small stuffed rabbit. Something about her expression struck him—not happy, not sad, just watchful. He turned the photo over. On the back, written in faded ink, were two words: Sofia, age 6.

"Sofia," Leo murmured. "Elena was holding onto a picture of a little girl named Sofia. Maybe a daughter, maybe a sister."

"We checked missing persons. No Sofia matching that description in the system. But Elena did have a younger sister who died when she was a child. Car accident, twelve years ago. The sister's name was Sofia Vasquez."

Leo's pulse quickened. "So Elena kept her dead sister's photo in her wallet. That's not unusual. But why would the killer leave it in her belongings? Why not remove it?"

"Maybe he wanted us to find it."

"Or maybe he wanted me to find it." Leo set the photo down. "Sarah, I need to see Elena's apartment."

Sarah shook her head. "It's been processed. The landlord is already showing it to new tenants."

"Then I need to talk to the landlord. And I need to find out if anyone named Sofia has been reported missing in the last week."

"I can do that. But Leo—" Sarah's voice dropped. "You need to be careful. The killer sent you a threat. He knows where you live. If you start poking around, you're going to draw his attention."

"He already has my attention." Leo stood up, closing the folder. "I'm not going to sit around waiting for him to make good on his promise."

Sarah sighed, but she didn't argue. She handed him a slip of paper with Elena's last known address. "The landlord's name is Mr. Kowalski. He's expecting you."

Leo was halfway to the door when his phone buzzed. Another text from the unknown number. He read it, and the blood drained from his face.

DID YOU ASK ABOUT SOFIA YET, DETECTIVE? SHE'S WAITING FOR YOU.

Sarah saw his expression. "What?"

Leo turned the phone toward her. She read the message, her eyes widening.

"He knows we found the photo," she whispered. "How?"

Leo looked around the bullpen. Detectives tapped at keyboards, officers filed reports, a clerk carried a stack of folders past the water cooler. Any one of them could be watching. Any one of them could be the killer.

"He's inside the department," Leo said, his voice low. "Or he has someone who is."

He pocketed the phone and walked out, ignoring Sarah's calls to wait. The game had just become more dangerous, and Leo knew exactly what the killer wanted: to make him dance like a puppet on a string. But if Sofia was real, if she was out there, Leo had no choice but to follow the trail.

Even if it led straight into a trap.