SIENNA'S POV
I couldn't stop my hands from shaking as I pressed play on my father's video.
His face filled the screen—older than I remembered, tired, with dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks.
"Sienna," he said, and his voice cracked. "If you're watching this, I'm already dead. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything."
Tears blurred my vision, but I couldn't look away.
"Twenty years ago, I presided over a trafficking case. Thirteen girls were rescued from monsters—businessmen, politicians, cops. People with power." He wiped his eyes. "They paid me to bury the evidence. Seal the records. Make sure no one important ever faced consequences. I took the money, and I destroyed those girls' futures."
My stomach twisted.
"The girls were branded with numbers. Victim one through victim thirteen. Then they disappeared into the system. No justice. No protection. Just... forgotten." His hands trembled on screen. "Someone is killing everyone who failed those girls, Sienna. And I deserve what's coming. But you need to find victim thirteen. She's the key. She's—"
The video cut off.
I sat frozen on my couch, my laptop screen going dark.
My father—the man who raised me to believe in justice—had sold out thirteen children for money.
And now someone was making him pay.
Making all of them pay.
My phone buzzed. A text from Maya: Don't forget dinner tomorrow! I'm not letting you bail. You need a break from all this darkness.
Tomorrow. Dinner with Maya felt like it was happening in a different universe, one where my father wasn't a corrupt judge and I wasn't hunting a serial killer.
But Maya was right. I needed one night to breathe. One night to remember who I was before everything fell apart.
I texted back: I'll be there. Promise.
The next evening, I walked into Romano's Restaurant twenty minutes late. Maya was already at our usual table by the window, waving at me with a huge smile.
"You came!" She jumped up and hugged me hard. "I was worried you'd ghost me."
"I promised, didn't I?" I tried to smile, but my face felt stiff.
We sat down. Maya looked amazing—her black hair was shorter now, cut into a sharp style that made her look tough and professional. Her eyes sparkled with excitement I hadn't seen in years.
"You look terrible," she said bluntly. "When's the last time you slept?"
"What's sleep?" I joked weakly.
A waiter brought us wine. Maya ordered for both of us—the same pasta dishes we'd been getting since we were teenagers sneaking into this place with fake IDs.
"So," Maya said, leaning forward. "I have news. Big news."
"Yeah?" For a moment, I forgot about dead bodies and my father's confession. This was Maya—my best friend since fourth grade. The person who knew all my secrets and loved me anyway. "Tell me everything."
"I got the job!" Her excitement was contagious. "Head of security for Celeste Moreau's national tour. Can you believe it?"
My heart sank a little. Celeste Moreau—the feminist activist who was all over the news. Her "Take Back the Night" tour was drawing huge crowds and violent protests.
"That's... that's dangerous, Maya. People are threatening her. There've been attacks at her rallies."
"I know." Maya's expression turned serious. "That's why she needs someone like me. Someone who'll actually protect her, not just stand around looking tough." She grabbed my hand across the table. "Si, she's doing real work. Helping survivors. Giving voices to women who've been silenced. I want to be part of that."
I squeezed her hand back. "Just promise me you'll be careful."
"Always am." She grinned. "Besides, I've got Luxe Security backing me up. You know, that fancy company that protects billionaires and celebrities? Their resources are insane."
"Luxe Security?" Something about that name tugged at my memory, but I couldn't place it.
"Yeah, their CEO is supposedly this genius billionaire who never does interviews. Super mysterious." Maya sipped her wine. "But enough about my job. How are you holding up? I saw the news about Hale and that investigation."
The wine turned sour in my mouth. "It's a nightmare. Internal Affairs thinks I was helping him run a trafficking ring from prison. I have thirty days to prove I wasn't."
"That's garbage and everyone knows it." Maya's voice went fierce, protective. "You're the one who caught him in the first place. You sacrificed everything to stop him."
"Yeah, well, good deeds don't matter when your name's in the headlines." I took a long drink of wine. "And there's more. My father—"
I stopped. Could I tell her? Could I admit that my father was one of the corrupt officials who'd destroyed children's lives?
"What about your father?" Maya asked gently.
"He's dead." The words came out flat. "Murdered. He's the eighth victim in my serial killer case."
Maya's face went pale. "Oh my God, Si. I'm so sorry. When did this—"
"Last night. And before he died, he left me a confession video." I stared at my wine glass. "He was dirty, Maya. He took bribes to cover up a trafficking case twenty years ago. Thirteen girls were victims, and he made sure no one powerful got punished."
Silence stretched between us. Maya's expression shifted through shock, anger, and something else I couldn't identify. Pain? Recognition?
"Thirteen girls?" she repeated quietly.
"Yeah. The killer is targeting everyone who failed them. That's what the message means—'Thirteen innocents must die for one guilty soul.' I just can't figure out who the guilty soul is."
Maya picked up her wine and drank it all in one gulp. Her hand shook slightly.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Fine. Just... that's horrible." She signaled the waiter for more wine. "Those poor girls. Do you know what happened to them?"
"Records are sealed. They were put into the foster system and basically forgotten." Anger burned in my chest. "My father said victim thirteen is the key to everything, but I can't find any information about her."
The waiter brought our food. We ate in silence for a while, both lost in dark thoughts.
"Hey," Maya said suddenly, reaching across the table to grab my hand again. "No matter what happens with this case or Internal Affairs or anything else—I've got your back. Always. We promised, remember?"
I remembered. We were twelve years old, sitting in Maya's backyard after her parents' divorce. We'd cut our palms with a pocket knife and pressed them together, making a blood oath like kids in movies.
Always protect each other. No matter what.
"I remember," I said, my throat tight. "Same promise. Always."
We finished dinner talking about lighter things—Maya's terrible dating life, a funny movie she'd watched, memories from high school. For two hours, I almost felt normal again.
But when we left the restaurant and hugged goodbye on the sidewalk, Maya held on longer than usual.
"Be careful with this case, Si," she whispered in my ear. "Some truths are dangerous. Some secrets should stay buried."
She pulled back before I could ask what she meant. Then she smiled, waved, and walked to her car.
I watched her drive away, feeling uneasy. Maya had seemed strange when I mentioned the thirteen victims. And that warning about buried secrets—what did she know?
I shook my head. I was being paranoid. This case was making me suspicious of everyone.
The walk back to my apartment took fifteen minutes. The streets were mostly empty, just a few late-night joggers and dog walkers. My mind kept circling back to my father's video, to the thirteen victims, to victim thirteen who was supposedly the key.
I climbed the stairs to my floor, exhausted and ready to collapse into bed.
Then I stopped.
A package sat in front of my door.
Brown paper. No markings. No return address.
Exactly like the one from last night.
My heart started racing. I looked up and down the hallway—empty. Whoever left this was already gone.
I picked up the package with shaking hands and brought it inside. After locking every lock on my door, I carefully opened it.
A flash drive fell into my palm.
Another one.
But this time, there was also a note. Handwritten on plain white paper:
Detective Cross,
You want to know about the thirteen victims? About what really happened twenty years ago?
This flash drive contains the original police reports before they were "edited." Names, faces, evidence your father buried. Everything.
But be warned: Once you see the truth, you can't unsee it. And you might not like what you discover about the people you trust.
Especially the ones closest to you.
Watch the video files. All of them. Pay attention to victim seven.
She's sitting closer than you think.
My hands went numb.
Victim seven? Closer than I think?
I stared at the flash drive, my mind racing. Then I grabbed my laptop and plugged it in with trembling fingers.
The files loaded slowly. Police reports. Photographs. Video interviews with the rescued girls—their faces blurred, their voices disguised.
I clicked on the file labeled "VICTIM 7 - INITIAL INTERVIEW."
A video started playing. A girl, maybe nine years old, sat in a chair too big for her. A blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her face was blurred but I could see her small frame shaking.
"Can you tell us your name?" a detective's voice asked off-screen.
"M-Maya," the girl whispered. "Maya Chen."
The world stopped spinning.
No.
No, no, no.
I clicked on another file. A photograph. The blur filter removed this time, showing the faces of all thirteen victims standing together after their rescue.
And there, fourth from the left, was a nine-year-old Maya.
My best friend.
My Maya.
She'd been victim seven.
She'd been trafficked, used, destroyed by the same ring my father had helped cover up.
And she never told me.
For twenty years, she'd kept this secret.
My phone buzzed. A text from Maya:
Thanks for tonight. I needed that. Love you, Si. Always.
Always.
Our childhood promise echoed in my head.
I stared at the photo of nine-year-old Maya, at the pain in her young eyes, at the number "7" that had been branded onto her wrist.
Then I noticed something else in the photograph.
Standing next to Maya was another girl—victim thirteen. Her face was partially turned away, but I could see dark hair, olive skin, a defiant expression even at nine years old.
I zoomed in on her face.
And my blood turned to ice.
Because I'd seen that face before.
Older now. Different hair. But the same bone structure, the same eyes, the same expression.
I grabbed my phone and pulled up a news photo from today—Celeste Moreau at her latest rally, smiling for cameras, with Maya standing protectively beside her.
The woman Maya was protecting.
The activist everyone called a hero.
I compared the images side by side.
Victim thirteen.
Celeste Moreau.
They were the same person.
My phone slipped from my hands and clattered on the floor.
Maya was protecting the woman who was killing everyone from that trafficking case.
And she had to know.
She had to know what Celeste really was.
Which meant my best friend—the person I trusted more than anyone—was helping a serial killer.