Detective Hale had begun to notice a strange rhythm to his days. Wherever he went, Dr. Paul seemed to appear — not by design, but by coincidence. At the precinct cafeteria, at a corner bar after long hours, even at a quiet restaurant when Hale slipped away for late-night coffee.
It should have unnerved him, but it didn't. Paul had a way of making the world seem less heavy. They talked easily — sometimes about the case, sometimes about nothing at all. Hale, who rarely trusted anyone, found himself speaking more freely than he intended.
Paul never pushed. He listened, nodded, offered a thoughtful comment here and there.
"You're not alone in this, Hale," he said once, his tone steady. "If you ever need help, I'll be there."
For a man drowning in a case that made less sense by the day, those words were a small lifeline.
---
But at the station, another pair of eyes lingered too long. Sammie.
The new detective had made it his mission to quietly study Hale. Every move, every file, every lead Hale pursued — Sammie was there, watching. He hadn't said the words out loud yet, but Ruiz could feel it: Sammie suspected Hale of something.
The letters from the killer only deepened that suspicion. They always came to Hale. Before or after each murder, never failing, never late.
Sammie asked himself the same question over and over: Why him?
---
The case dragged on, week after week. Leads crumbled, witnesses recanted, evidence turned to smoke. The press tore into the department daily, headlines screaming about incompetence, corruption, fear. The Chief hovered like a blade at Hale's throat.
The exhaustion was bone-deep. Hale barely slept. He barely ate. And every night, the faces of the dead came back to him. Allison. Claire. Their families.
---
Then, one evening, a package was waiting at his apartment door.
Plain. Brown. No markings.
Hale's pulse quickened before he touched it. He carried it inside, set it on the table, and carefully tore it open.
Inside lay a single photograph — a young woman, no older than twenty-two, her smile wide, her eyes bright with the kind of joy the city hadn't yet stolen.
Taped to the photo was a simple note. A circle, drawn in thick black ink. Two dots. A smile.
That was all.
Hale's chest tightened. He knew what it meant. Another murder. Another woman.
He shoved the photo into his jacket and bolted out the door, driving through the empty streets to the station. His hands gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles burned.
"Find her," he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "We don't have time."
The room froze. Ruiz leaned forward to grab the photo, but Sammie was faster. He lifted it slowly, studying the girl's smiling face, the simple inked circle taped beside it. Then he looked at Hale.
And smiled.
"How did you get this, Hale?" Sammie asked evenly, too calm. "Why was it sent to you? Again."
Hale's jaw tightened. "What do you mean, how? It was at my door. Same as the others."
"Yeah, but why you always?" Sammie's tone sharpened now, suspicion edging in. "Do you know something you're not telling us? Maybe who the killer is?"
Ruiz straightened, fury sparking in his eyes. "That's enough, Sammie. Don't start—"
Hale raised a hand, stopping him cold. His own voice was low, steady, but it carried the weight of a storm.
"Wait. You're saying I know the killer? That I've been protecting him? Is that what you're accusing me of?"
Sammie shrugged, his smirk never fading. "I don't know. I'm just asking the questions nobody else seems willing to."
For a moment, silence drowned the room. Ruiz's hands curled into fists. Hale's eyes locked on Sammie's, dark with a promise of violence.
The misunderstanding hung heavy in the air, thick and dangerous.
Somewhere out there, another girl's life hung in the balance.
And inside the precinct, the team meant to save her was already tearing itself apart.