Chapter 1

His stomach dropped. Maya Chen was someone who texted in all lowercase and used too many emojis. She was the kind of person who brought homemade cookies to the newsroom just because. She was also the first person who'd ever believed in his writing, back when he was a nervous intern with more opinions than experience.

Trevor didn't call back. He got dressed, grabbed his worn notebook from the nightstand, and drove to the precinct with his coffee growing cold in the cup holder.

The station smelled like stale coffee and recycled air. Trevor's boots squeaked against the linoleum as he approached the front desk, his heart hammering against his ribs. The officer on duty looked up, unimpressed.

"I'm here about Maya Chen," Trevor said, his voice coming out faster than he intended. "Detective Rossi asked me to come in."

The officer raised an eyebrow but made a call. A few minutes later, a woman in a perfectly pressed blazer appeared. Detective Isabella Rossi moved like someone used to commanding attention without asking for it. Her dark eyes swept over him once, cataloging every detail.

"Mr. Trevor," she said, her voice flat. "Follow me."

He trailed her through a maze of cubicles and closed doors. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, making everything look washed out and clinical. Rossi led him into a small interview room with a metal table and two chairs. A file folder sat on the table, thick with papers.

"Sit." It wasn't a suggestion.

Trevor sat. Rossi remained standing, arms crossed, her posture rigid.

"Maya Chen was found dead this morning," she said, her tone clinical. "An apparent mugging gone wrong, but there are inconsistencies. Her belongings were intact, wallet still in her bag. No signs of forced entry at her apartment, but the scene showed signs of a struggle."

"Where was she found?" Trevor asked, his pen already moving across the page.

Rossi's eyes narrowed. "I'm not here to give you a story, Mr. Trevor. I'm here because Maya had your number on a sticky note beside her phone. Said you were her emergency contact. I need to know if she mentioned anyone threatening her, any recent conflicts, anything out of the ordinary."

Trevor's throat tightened. Emergency contact. Maya had trusted him with that, and he hadn't even known. He flipped through his mental files, searching for anything that stood out. Maya had been a freelance photographer, always chasing the perfect shot. She'd been working on a project about the city's forgotten corners. She'd been excited about it, cryptic in the way she always was when she was onto something.

"She was working on something," he said slowly. "A photography series. She said it was about the places people overlook, but she was cagey about the details. Kept saying she'd show me when it was finished."

Rossi's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. "Did she mention anyone she was meeting? Any locations she was visiting frequently?"

"Not specifically. She'd text me sometimes, asking if I wanted to grab coffee, but she'd been busy lately. Distracted." Trevor leaned forward. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I'm telling you everything you need to know." Rossi closed the file. "If you remember anything else, call this number." She slid a business card across the table. "And stay out of my investigation, Mr. Trevor. I don't need a journalist asking questions and stirring up panic."

She left him sitting there, the card cold against his palm. But Trevor wasn't the type to stay put. He'd learned early that the truth didn't come to people who waited.

He found Evelyn Reed in the hallway, sitting on a bench with her hands clasped around a worn locket. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her voice was steady when she spoke.

"You're Trevor, right? Maya's friend?"

He nodded, sliding onto the bench beside her. "I'm sorry for your loss. Maya was... she was special."

"She was my sister," Evelyn said softly. "And she was scared. The last time I talked to her, she kept looking over her shoulder. Said she'd found something she shouldn't have."

Trevor's pulse quickened. "Did she say what?"

Evelyn shook her head, her fingers tightening around the locket. "No. She said it was better if I didn't know. That knowing would put me in danger. I thought she was being dramatic. Maya always had a flair for the dramatic." A sad smile touched her lips. "But now..."

"Now you think she was telling the truth."

"I know she was." Evelyn's voice dropped to a whisper. "There were other women, Trevor. I saw it in the news. Two more since Maya. The police say they're unrelated, but I don't believe it. Maya was found near the old warehouse district. The others were found in similar locations, within a few blocks of each other."

Trevor's mind raced. Three women. Three similar locations. The police calling them unrelated felt like a lie wrapped in procedure.

"Do you have their names?" he asked.

Evelyn pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket. "I looked them up. Sarah Jenkins, 28. Linda Park, 32. And Maya." Her hand trembled as she handed him the paper. "I don't know if this means anything, but they all had something in common. They were all in the same photography class three years ago. Maya mentioned it once, said she'd met some interesting people there."

Trevor took the paper, his fingers brushing hers. "I'll look into it. I promise."

"Be careful," Evelyn said, her eyes holding his. "Whoever did this, they're still out there. And they don't want to be found."

He left the station with the paper burning a hole in his pocket. The sky was pale gray, dawn barely breaking over the city. He drove to the warehouse district, his tires crunching over gravel and broken glass. The area was a graveyard of forgotten industry, rusted fences and boarded-up windows. Maya had been found behind a building that used to house a textile factory. Yellow crime scene tape still fluttered in the wind.

Trevor parked and got out, his boots crunching against the ground. He ducked under the tape and walked to the spot where Maya had died. The concrete was stained, the air carrying a faint metallic smell that made his stomach turn. He pulled out his notebook and started sketching the scene, marking every detail—the broken window above, the discarded cigarette butts near the wall, the scuff marks that looked like signs of a struggle.

"You shouldn't be here."

The voice came from behind him. Trevor turned to find a man in a hoodie, his face partially hidden by shadow. He was lean, his posture coiled like he was ready to run.

"And you are?" Trevor asked, his hand instinctively moving to his pocket where his phone was.

"Someone who knows what happens to people who ask too many questions." The man took a step closer. "You're Maya's friend, right? The journalist?"

"That's right."

"Then listen. Maya wasn't the first, and she won't be the last. The person doing this, they're not random. They're sending a message. If you want to stay alive, stop digging."

The man turned and disappeared between two buildings before Trevor could respond. He stood there, heart pounding, the paper with the victims' names still clutched in his hand. He looked down at the names. Sarah. Linda. Maya. Three women. Three lives. And somewhere out there, a killer who was still walking free.

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "You should have stayed home."

Trevor looked up, scanning the rooftops. Nothing moved. But he felt eyes on him, watching, waiting.

He got back in his car and drove away, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was already in too deep. The killer knew who he was. And that meant the game had just begun.