SIENNA'S POV
"That video is fake."
I slammed my fist on Ghost's computer console, making the screens shake. We'd been analyzing the footage for three hours—three hours of watching myself murder my best friend over and over again.
"I know it's fake," Ghost said calmly, fingers flying across keyboards. "The question is whether we can prove it before every cop in the city comes hunting for you."
"How long do we have?" Damien asked from where he stood by the window, watching the sunrise paint Ashford in gold and red.
"Based on the media explosion? Maybe six hours before Captain Torres gets a warrant." Ghost pulled up news feeds showing my face plastered across every channel. "The public wants blood. They want justice for Maya Chen, decorated veteran and beloved bodyguard, murdered by corrupt Detective Cross."
Bile rose in my throat. "Is Maya actually dead?"
"Unknown." Ghost switched to traffic cameras near the warehouse. "No ambulance arrived. No body was removed. Either she's still in there, or someone moved her before police secured the scene."
"We need to go back," I said immediately. "Search the warehouse ourselves before—"
"Before you walk into an obvious trap?" Damien turned from the window, and exhaustion lined his face. Neither of us had slept. "Sienna, whoever created that video wants you at that warehouse. Wants you caught at the scene of the crime with evidence all around you."
"Then what do you suggest?" Rage and fear and helplessness churned inside me. "I just sit here while my best friend might be dying? While the whole city thinks I'm a murderer?"
"No." His silver eyes locked onto mine with fierce intensity. "You do what you do best—you investigate. You find proof that video is fake, expose whoever's framing you, and clear your name."
"And how exactly do I investigate when I can't go anywhere without being arrested?"
Damien's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and something flickered across his face. "Ghost, I need you to handle the video analysis. Sienna and I are going out."
"Going where?" I demanded.
"The police station."
I stared at him. "Are you insane? That's literally the worst place I could go right now!"
"Which is exactly why no one will expect it." He grabbed his jacket. "You need to access the evidence room—see what Marcus has been planting to frame you. And you need to do it before Torres locks everything down as part of your arrest warrant."
"That's suicide."
"That's smart." Damien moved closer, and suddenly we were inches apart. "Trust me, Detective. I've been three steps ahead of this game for twenty-three years. I know what I'm doing."
The problem was, I did trust him. Despite every logical reason not to, despite knowing he'd been protecting a killer, despite the danger he represented—I trusted Damien Kade more than I'd trusted anyone since Captain Hale destroyed my life.
"Fine," I said. "But if this gets me killed, I'm haunting you forever."
"I'd expect nothing less."
Twenty minutes later, Ghost dropped us three blocks from the police station. I wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, my hair tucked up, trying to look like anyone except Detective Sienna Cross, wanted murderer.
"The shift change is in five minutes," Damien said, checking his watch. "That's when security is most relaxed. We slip in through the east entrance, take the service stairs to the evidence room, and get out before anyone notices."
"And if someone does notice?"
"Then we improvise." He said it like getting caught breaking into a police station was no big deal.
We moved through the station's parking garage, staying in shadows. My heart hammered so hard I was sure everyone could hear it. Every cop I saw made me want to run.
Then I saw Marcus.
My partner stood by his car, phone pressed to his ear, and even from a distance I could see the tension in his shoulders. He was arguing with someone, his voice too low to hear but his gestures sharp and angry.
"Wait here," I whispered to Damien, and moved closer before he could stop me.
"—don't care what Torres says!" Marcus's voice rose suddenly. "The video is too clean. Too perfect. Someone's setting her up, and if we arrest Sienna before we verify—" He listened, then cursed viciously. "I don't work for you. I work for the truth. And if you try to force this arrest, I'll blow the whistle on everything. Hale, the trafficking ring, all of it."
He hung up and slammed his fist on the car roof.
I stepped out of the shadows. "Marcus."
He spun around, hand going to his weapon, then froze when he recognized me. A dozen emotions crossed his face—shock, relief, fear, anger.
"Sienna." His voice cracked. "Jesus Christ, what are you doing here? There's a warrant out for your arrest!"
"I didn't kill Maya."
"I know." He said it with such certainty that something tight in my chest loosened. "That video is fake. Has to be. I've worked with you for six months—you're not a killer."
Tears burned my eyes. After everything—after being framed, hunted, turned into a fugitive—my partner believed me.
"Who were you talking to?" I asked.
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Captain Torres. He wants you arrested immediately, no investigation, no verification of the video. He's being pressured from above—politicians, media, everyone wants this case closed fast and ugly."
"Someone's pulling strings."
"Someone always is." He moved closer, his expression intense. "Sienna, you need to disappear. Leave the city. Change your name. Because they're not just coming after you for Maya's murder—they're going to pin all eight original murders on you. The knife we found in your apartment? They're saying it has DNA from three victims. Your fingerprints are at every crime scene. Even your own father's murder."
My stomach dropped. "That's impossible. Someone planted—"
"I know," Marcus interrupted. "I've been trying to prove it for weeks, but the evidence is too good. Whoever's framing you has resources, access, and a twenty-year plan." His hand caught my arm, gentle but urgent. "Please, just run. Let me handle this from the inside. I'll find proof you're innocent."
"I can't run." I pulled away. "Maya needs me. The real killer is still out there. And I'm not letting corrupt cops destroy my life again."
"Then at least be careful who you trust." Marcus glanced over my shoulder, and his expression hardened. "Especially guys like Damien Kade."
I turned to see Damien standing at the edge of the parking garage, watching us with cold calculation.
"You're spending a lot of time with him," Marcus continued, voice low and worried. "Be careful, Si. Billionaires like Kade don't help fugitive cops out of kindness. They have agendas. Leverage. Things they want in return."
"He's helping me find the truth."
"Is he? Or is he using you to accomplish something else?" Marcus squeezed my shoulder. "I know you have trust issues after Hale. I know it's hard to let people in. But Damien Kade is dangerous—more dangerous than you realize. His company has been investigating that trafficking ring for years. He has files, evidence, connections to people he shouldn't know. Why?"
Because his parents were murdered investigating the same case, I thought but didn't say. Because he's spent twenty-three years building an empire to destroy everyone responsible.
Because he's just as broken as I am.
"I appreciate your concern," I said instead. "But I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" Marcus's eyes searched mine. "Because from where I'm standing, you're one step away from losing everything. Your career. Your freedom. Your life. And Damien Kade is leading you straight off that cliff."
Something in his voice made my instincts scream. Not the words themselves, but the tone—almost like he was warning me away from something specific.
"Marcus, what aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing." He stepped back, professional mask sliding into place. "Just be careful. And if you need help—real help, not whatever game Kade is playing—call me. I'm on your side, Sienna. I've always been on your side."
He walked toward the station, leaving me standing in the parking garage with doubt eating away at my certainty.
Damien appeared beside me. "What did he want?"
"To warn me about you." I watched Marcus disappear through the station doors. "He thinks you're using me."
"I am using you." Damien said it so bluntly I flinched. "I'm using your detective skills to find evidence. Using your access to police resources. Using your connection to Maya to get closer to the truth." He moved to face me directly. "But I'm also protecting you. Keeping you alive. Trying to prove your innocence. So yes, I'm using you—but you're using me too. That's called partnership, Detective."
He was right, and I hated how his honesty made me trust him more instead of less.
"Come on." I headed for the service entrance. "Let's get this over with before I change my mind."
We slipped into the station during shift change, exactly as Damien predicted. The corridors were chaotic with cops coming and going, no one paying attention to two more people in the crowd.
The evidence room was in the basement, guarded by a single officer who was more interested in his phone than security. Damien created a distraction—knocked over a coffee pot in the break room—while I used my old badge to access the room.
Inside, rows of metal shelves held tagged evidence from hundreds of cases. I found mine quickly—boxes labeled with case numbers for all eight murders.
My hands shook as I opened the first box.
The bloody knife Marcus had mentioned was there, sealed in an evidence bag. According to the tag, my fingerprints covered the handle. Victim four's blood stained the blade.
But I'd never seen this knife before in my life.
I photographed everything, documenting the evidence that was destroying me. Crime scene photos I'd never taken. Witness statements I'd never given. A journal supposedly found in my apartment detailing plans to kill each victim.
Someone had built an entire case against me—months of fabricated evidence designed to prove I was a serial killer seeking revenge for my father's corruption.
"Find anything useful?" Damien's voice came from the doorway.
"Everything here proves I'm guilty." I showed him the journal. "This handwriting—it's close to mine but not quite right. Someone practiced writing like me for weeks to create this."
"Which means whoever's framing you has access to your real handwriting. Your apartment. Your entire life." He photographed the evidence with his phone. "Who has that level of access?"
I thought about it. My colleagues at the station. My captain. My partner—
My partner.
Marcus, who'd been so supportive after Hale's betrayal. Who'd encouraged me to trust again. Who'd defended me to everyone while simultaneously having access to every part of my life.
Marcus, who'd just warned me about Damien with an intensity that felt desperate.
Marcus, who'd been on the phone arguing about the video being too perfect, almost like he knew it was fake because he'd helped create it.
"No," I whispered. "It can't be—"
"What?" Damien moved closer.
"Marcus." The name tasted like poison. "He has complete access to everything. My apartment key for emergencies. My schedule. My handwriting samples from shared paperwork. He's been my partner for six months—long enough to study my patterns, learn my habits, gain my trust."
"You think he's the one framing you?"
"I think—" I stopped, brain racing through every interaction with Marcus since I'd been assigned to the murders. His support. His patience. His perfect timing whenever I needed help.
Too perfect.
"We need to go," Damien said suddenly, hand on my arm. "Now."
"What? Why?"
"Because someone just triggered the evidence room alarm." He pulled me toward the exit. "And I'm betting it wasn't an accident."
We ran.
Behind us, doors burst open. Shouts echoed through corridors. Heavy footsteps thundered in pursuit.
"Stop! Police!"
We flew up the service stairs, taking them three at a time. Burst through an emergency exit into the parking garage just as patrol cars screeched to surround us.
I stopped short, hands raising instinctively.
Ten officers pointed weapons at us. Captain Torres stood at the center, his face hard with disappointment.
"Detective Sienna Cross," he said formally. "You're under arrest for the murder of Maya Chen and conspiracy to commit seven additional murders. Put your hands behind your head."
"Captain, I didn't—"
"Save it for your lawyer." Torres nodded to his officers. "Take her."
They moved forward with handcuffs ready.
Then Marcus appeared, running from the station. "Captain, wait! I need to show you something!"
Torres held up a hand, stopping his officers. "What is it, Webb?"
Marcus held out his phone, breathing hard. "I've been analyzing the warehouse video. It's a deepfake—sophisticated digital manipulation. I found the source code embedded in the file metadata. Someone used AI to put Sienna's face on another person's body."
Hope flared in my chest. "See? I told you I was being framed!"
But Torres wasn't looking at me. He was looking at his phone, which had just buzzed with a message. His face went pale.
"What?" I demanded. "What is it?"
Torres turned his phone toward me.
A new video was playing. This one showed me—the real me, in clothes I was wearing RIGHT NOW—walking into the evidence room. Taking the knife. Planting my own fingerprints. Deliberately contaminating evidence.
"That's impossible," I breathed. "That just happened five minutes ago. There's no time to create a fake video—"
"Unless you're not being framed," Marcus said quietly. His voice had changed. Gone cold. "Unless you really are guilty, and you've been playing us all along."
I spun to look at him. At my partner. My friend. The man I'd been starting to trust.
And I saw it in his eyes—triumph.
"Marcus?" My voice cracked. "What did you do?"
"My job." He pulled out handcuffs, moving toward me with the other officers. "I've been investigating you since the first murder, Sienna. Building evidence. Watching you destroy yourself. And now I finally have everything I need to put you away forever."
"You're working for Hale." Damien's voice was ice. "How much is he paying you to frame her?"
Marcus smiled—cold and cruel and nothing like the supportive partner he'd pretended to be. "Hale didn't pay me. He made me a promise: help destroy Sienna Cross, and he'd give me evidence about what really happened to my sister twenty years ago."
My blood froze. "Your sister?"
"Victim number eleven." Marcus's expression twisted with old pain and fresh hatred. "She was one of the thirteen girls trafficked in that ring your father helped cover up. She killed herself when she was sixteen because the system failed her. Because corrupt cops and judges decided money was more important than justice."
Understanding crashed over me. "You've been helping the real killer."
"I AM the real killer." Marcus said it calmly, like admitting he preferred coffee over tea. "I've spent twenty years planning this. Infiltrating the police force. Getting close to you. Making sure every person responsible for my sister's death paid the price."
"Including Maya?" I demanded. "She was a victim too!"
"She was complicit." His voice turned vicious. "Elena Russo gave the traffickers her name. Maya knew that and still protected her. Still called her a survivor worthy of redemption. So yes, including Maya."
Damien moved to stand beside me. "Maya isn't dead, is she?"
"Not yet." Marcus checked his watch. "But she will be in approximately three hours when the poison I injected finishes shutting down her organs. And there's nothing you can do to stop it."
"Where is she?" I lunged toward him, but officers grabbed my arms. "MARCUS, WHERE IS MAYA?"
"Somewhere you'll never find her in time." He snapped the handcuffs on my wrists, leaning close to whisper: "You were so easy to manipulate, Sienna. So desperate for someone to trust after Hale broke you. I've been controlling your entire investigation from day one—feeding you evidence, directing your suspicions, making sure you never looked at me."
"Captain Torres—" I appealed to my captain desperately. "He's confessing! He's admitting he's the killer!"
But Torres wasn't listening. He was staring at Marcus with dawning horror as more pieces clicked into place.
"The warehouse video," Torres said slowly. "You created both versions—the one showing Sienna killing Maya, and the one showing her tampering with evidence."
Marcus smiled. "Among others. I've been documenting Detective Cross's 'guilt' for months. Every crime scene photo, every piece of evidence, every witness statement—all carefully constructed to frame her as a serial killer seeking revenge for her father's corruption."
"Why?" The word tore from my throat. "Why frame me? Why not just kill the people responsible and disappear?"
"Because you're the daughter of Judge Raymond Cross—the man who signed the order sealing my sister's case. The man who took bribes to let traffickers walk free." Marcus's eyes burned with zealot intensity. "Your father destroyed my family. So I decided to destroy his legacy. His daughter. Everything he ever cared about."
"My father is already dead!"
"Yes, and you'll spend the rest of your life in prison knowing you couldn't save him. Couldn't save Maya. Couldn't stop me." He turned to Captain Torres. "Book her. Lock her up. And make sure everyone knows that Detective Sienna Cross, daughter of corrupt Judge Raymond Cross, is a murderer just like her father was a criminal. The whole family line, rotten to the core."
Torres looked sick, but he nodded to his officers. "Do it."
They pulled me toward a patrol car while I screamed and fought and begged them to listen.
Damien tried to intervene, but more officers surrounded him. "Let her go! Webb is the killer—he just confessed!"
"Mr. Kade, you're also under arrest for aiding a fugitive." Torres's voice was heavy with regret. "I'm sorry, but you interfered with an active investigation."
As they shoved me into the patrol car, I watched Marcus walk back into the station like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just confessed to serial murder. Like he hadn't just condemned my best friend to die from poison.
"MAYA!" I screamed against the window. "SOMEONE FIND MAYA!"
But no one was listening.
The patrol car pulled away from the station, taking me toward lockup and trial and life imprisonment for crimes I didn't commit.
I twisted to look back at Damien, who stood surrounded by officers but not yet cuffed. Our eyes met across the distance.
He mouthed two words: Trust me.
Then my phone—tucked in my pocket where Marcus hadn't thought to search me—buzzed with a text.
Unknown number: You asked the wrong questions, Detective. Marcus isn't victim eleven's brother. He IS victim eleven. And the person you're trying to save isn't Maya at all.