Chapter 3

Leo crossed the street and climbed the steps to the front door. The buzzer for the landlord was marked with peeling tape. He pressed it and waited.

A voice crackled through the intercom, thick with an accent. "Yes?"

"Mr. Kowalski? My name is Leo Maddox. Detective Sarah Chen called about Elena Vasquez's apartment."

The door buzzed open without another word.

Leo climbed two flights of stairs, his knees reminding him of every year he'd spent on the force. The hallway smelled of boiled cabbage and old carpet. Mr. Kowalski stood in the doorway of the second-floor apartment, a heavyset man in his sixties with a suspicious squint.

"You're the detective?" Kowalski asked, looking Leo up and down.

"Retired. I'm helping with the case."

Kowalski grunted and stepped aside. "Not much left. Police took everything that mattered. I'm supposed to clean it out by Friday."

The apartment was small—a living room, a kitchenette, a door that likely led to a bedroom. The walls were bare except for the outlines where pictures had been removed. The carpet showed the ghost of furniture that had been taken away. It smelled like dust and lemon cleaner.

"She kept to herself," Kowalski said, leaning against the doorframe. "Paid rent on time. Never any trouble. I was surprised when the police showed up."

"Did she have visitors?"

"Not many. A woman came by sometimes. Maybe twice a month. Young, dark hair. They'd talk for a while, then she'd leave."

Leo's pulse quickened. "Did you get a name?"

"No. But I saw her once in the hallway. She was carrying a bag, like she'd brought food. Elena called her Sofia."

Sofia. The name from the photograph. The sister who was supposed to be dead.

"Are you sure?" Leo asked.

"I'm old, not deaf. She said, 'Thanks, Sofia, you didn't have to.' Clear as day."

Leo pulled out his phone and showed Kowalski the photograph of the young girl from Elena's wallet. "Is this her? The woman who visited?"

Kowalski squinted at the screen. "No. That's a child. The woman was older, maybe mid-twenties. But the eyes—same shape. Could be the same person, grown up."

Leo pocketed the phone. "When was the last time you saw this Sofia?"

"Week before Elena died. Maybe two days before. She came by, but Elena wasn't home. She knocked for a while, then left."

"Did she seem upset?"

"Hard to say. She was in a hurry. Kept looking over her shoulder, like she was worried someone was following her."

Leo's mind raced. A living Sofia, visiting her dead sister's apartment. That meant the car accident twelve years ago might not have killed her. Or it meant someone was using her identity. Either way, it was a thread he could pull.

"Mr. Kowalski, did the police interview you about this visitor?"

"They asked if Elena had guests. I told them about the woman. They said they'd look into it."

But Sarah hadn't mentioned a living Sofia in the case file. Either the information hadn't made it to her, or someone had buried it.

Leo thanked Kowalski and left, his footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. Back in his car, he sat with the engine off, staring at the building. The killer knew he'd find this. The text had come minutes after he'd seen the photograph. That meant someone was watching him, maybe even following him.

He checked his phone. No new messages. But the silence felt heavier than the threats.

He drove to the diner where Elena had worked, a place called The Night Owl on the corner of Twelfth and Main. It was the kind of diner that never closed—fluorescent lights, cracked vinyl booths, the smell of grease and coffee. A bell jingled as he walked in.

The place was nearly empty. A cook stood behind the counter, wiping a grill with a rag. A waitress sat at a booth, folding napkins. She looked up when Leo entered and gave him a tired smile.

"Sit anywhere you like, hon."

Leo slid into the booth across from her. "I'm not here to eat. I'm looking into Elena Vasquez's death."

The waitress's smile vanished. She set down the napkin, her hands suddenly still. "You a cop?"

"Retired detective. I just want to ask a few questions."

She glanced toward the cook, then back at Leo. "I already talked to the police. I don't know anything."

"You worked with her, right?"

"Yeah. She was a good waitress. Quiet. Kept to herself."

"Did she ever mention a woman named Sofia?"

The waitress's eyes flickered. "Sofia? No. Never heard that name."

But the flicker told Leo she was lying. "Are you sure? Because I have a witness who says a woman named Sofia visited Elena regularly."

The waitress pressed her lips together, then sighed. "Look, Elena had a friend. A woman she'd meet after shifts. She never gave me a name. But she seemed scared of her, not happy to see her. Like she owed her something."

"Scared how?"

"She'd get quiet, nervous. One time she said, 'She knows things about me. Things I can't escape.' I asked what she meant, but she clammed up."

Leo wrote this down in his notebook. "Did Elena ever mention a child? A little girl?"

"No. But she had a picture in her wallet. Showed it to me once. Said it was her sister, but she didn't want to talk about it."

"Her sister who died?"

The waitress shook her head. "She never said she died. She said her sister was gone. Those were her exact words. 'Gone.'"

Leo thanked her and left, the bell jingling behind him. Outside, the street was dark, the only light coming from the diner's neon sign. He stood on the sidewalk, the cool air settling around him.

Gone. Not dead. Gone.

He pulled out his phone and called Sarah. It rang four times before she answered.

"I'm at Elena's diner," he said. "She had a visitor named Sofia. A living woman, not a ghost. And the waitress says Elena was scared of her."

There was a pause. "Leo, I checked the sister's death certificate myself. Sofia Vasquez died in a car accident twelve years ago. The records are sealed, but they're solid."

"Then someone's using her name. Or the records are wrong."

"Or the killer is setting you up."

"Maybe. But I'm following this thread."

Sarah sighed. "Be careful. I'll dig into the death certificate, see if anything's off."

Leo hung up and started walking toward his car. Halfway there, his phone buzzed. A text from the unknown number.

YOU'RE GETTING WARMER, DETECTIVE. BUT YOU'RE LOOKING IN THE WRONG DIRECTION. SOFIA ISN'T THE ONE YOU SHOULD BE WORRIED ABOUT. SHE'S THE ONE WHO WILL LEAD YOU TO ME. COME TO THE PARK ON ELM STREET. BRING THE PHOTOGRAPH. COME ALONE.

Leo's heart hammered. The killer was inviting him. Daring him.

He got in his car and drove toward Elm Street, the photograph of young Sofia on the passenger seat beside him. The streets were empty, the city quiet under a moonless sky.

The park was small, just a patch of grass with a swing set and a bench. Leo parked at the curb and got out, the photograph in his hand. The place was deserted. A single streetlamp cast a pool of light over the bench.

He walked to the bench and sat down, waiting. The wind rustled the leaves. A dog barked in the distance.

Then he saw it. Tucked under the bench, a small stuffed rabbit. The same one from the photograph.

Leo picked it up. Attached to its collar was a note, written in the same neat handwriting as the messages on the walls.

YOU FOUND THE TOY. NOW FIND THE GIRL. SHE'S WAITING FOR YOU AT THE OLD WAREHOUSE ON HARBOR STREET. COME NOW, OR SHE WON'T BE ALIVE MUCH LONGER.