The night was warm, sticky, the kind of night that clung to skin.
Lydia Hart stumbled out of the club at 1:37 a.m., her laughter slurred, her lipstick smudged. The bass still pounded in her head, a rhythm that made her sway on her heels as she fumbled for her phone.
"Taxi, taxi—" she mumbled, flagging down the first one that slowed.
The driver leaned over, cap low, his face shadowed by the streetlight. "Where to?"
She barely looked up, too drunk to care. She mumbled her address, climbed inside, and slumped against the seat, eyes half-closing.
The car didn't move. Not yet. The driver just sat there, watching her.
"Long night?" his voice was calm, too calm.
She forced a weak smile. "Yeah. Just… take me home."
The lock clicked. Not from her side.
Her fogged brain didn't catch it until the engine started, and the taxi pulled away—but not toward her street.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. She tried to focus, tried to dial, but his hand shot back, fast, ripping it from her fingers.
"Relax," he said, voice low. "We'll take a little detour."
Her drunken haze evaporated into terror. She clawed at the handle, but it was jammed. She screamed, the sound muffled by the bass of the city night.
The car turned off the main road, swallowed by darkness.
No one saw her again alive.
The station air was thick with silence, broken only by the hum of the overhead lights. The photo lay flat on the desk, the smiling face note beside it, mocking Hale every time his eyes landed on it.
Ruiz paced, restless. Sammie leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his smirk razor-sharp. Hale sat stiffly, fists clenched on the desk as though holding himself back from breaking something.
"How did you get this photo?" Sammie's voice sliced through the room.
"I told you—I found it in a package at my door." Hale's tone was flat, controlled, but there was an edge beneath it.
"Funny," Sammie said, pushing off the wall. "The killer writes to you. Sends you the clues. The bodies fall right after you get them. Almost like he wants you to play along."
Ruiz stepped in, bristling. "Watch it, Sammie. Hale's been breaking his back on this case."
But Hale lifted a hand, stopping Ruiz cold. His eyes locked on Sammie. "What exactly are you implying?"
"I'm not implying," Sammie said, his voice calm but loaded. "I'm asking. Do you know the killer? Have you been protecting him? Because this doesn't make sense otherwise."
Hale rose from his chair slowly, the weight of his anger filling the space. "You think I'd sit here, read these letters, and watch women die for fun?" His voice cracked, part fury, part exhaustion. "You think I'm the monster behind this?"
The room thickened. Ruiz moved in between them, one hand on Hale's chest.
"Enough. Both of you."
But Hale shoved Ruiz's hand aside, his glare locked on Sammie. "Say it straight, Sammie. Don't dance around it."
Sammie tilted his head, smiling like he'd won something. "I don't know. That's why I'm watching you. That's why I'll keep watching."
Hale's jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the desk. For a moment, the silence roared louder than any shouting could.
Then Ruiz, quieter now, tried to cut through the heat. "What matters is the girl. Whoever she is… she doesn't have time for this pissing contest."
As if on cue, Hale's phone buzzed on the desk. He grabbed it. A missing persons alert.
Lydia Hart. 22. Last seen leaving a club at 1:30 a.m.
Hale's blood ran cold.
The photo on the desk. The smiling note. The timing.
She was already gone.