The morning sun cut through the blinds of Alex Chen's apartment, striping the hardwood floor in bands of gold and shadow. He was already awake, had been for an hour, sitting at his small kitchen table with a cup of coffee growing cold between his hands. His detective's badge lay on the table beside a half-eaten piece of toast, the metal gleaming in the light.
Three weeks. Three weeks since graduation from the academy. Three weeks since he'd earned the right to call himself Detective Alex Chen.
It still didn't feel real.
Alex stood and moved to the window, looking out over the city as it woke up. His apartment was on the eighth floor of a modest building in the downtown district—close enough to the precinct that he could walk if he wanted, far enough that he could pretend to have a life outside of work. Not that he had much of one. The apartment was sparse, functional. A couch he'd bought from a thrift store. A bed. A desk with his laptop. Books on criminal psychology and forensic science stacked in neat piles against the wall.
He lived alone. Always had, even back in college. It was easier that way. No distractions. No one asking questions about why he came home at odd hours or why he spent his weekends reading case files instead of going out.
Alex checked his watch. 7:15 AM. He needed to leave in ten minutes if he wanted to beat the morning rush.
He grabbed his jacket, his badge, his keys. Locked the door behind him with the same three-check ritual he performed every morning—once to make sure it was locked, twice to make sure he'd actually locked it the first time, three times because habits were hard to break.
The precinct was already buzzing when he arrived at 7:50 AM. Detective Morris was arguing with someone on the phone, his face red. Detective Shaw was eating a breakfast burrito over her keyboard, hot sauce dripping onto her case files. Sergeant Morrison was in her office, door closed, which meant someone was getting reamed out.
Alex's desk was in the corner—the worst desk in the bullpen, naturally. That's what rookies got. But he didn't mind. From here, he could see the entire room, could observe how the more experienced detectives worked, could learn.
"Chen."
He turned to see his partner, Detective James Reeves, walking toward him with two cups of coffee. Reeves was in his mid-fifties, gray hair thinning at the crown, with the kind of face that had seen too much and remembered all of it. He'd been a detective for twenty-seven years and had the closed case rate to prove it.
"Thought you might need this," Reeves said, handing him one of the cups. "You look tired."
"I'm fine." Alex took the coffee anyway. "Thank you."
"Couldn't sleep?"
"Slept fine."
It was a lie. Alex had spent most of the night reading through old case files he'd borrowed from the records room, cross-referencing patterns in burglary cases from the past six months. He'd found something interesting—three different burglaries that all used the same point of entry method, but were attributed to different suspects. Either it was a coincidence, or someone had taught multiple people the same technique, or one person was committing multiple crimes under different aliases.
He was going to mention it to Reeves today. Maybe.
"Morrison wants to see us," Reeves said, nodding toward the sergeant's office.
Alex felt his stomach tighten. "Why?"
"Probably because we're up in the rotation. New case." Reeves took a sip of his coffee and winced. "Or she's finally realized what a terrible mistake it was to partner me with a rookie."
They walked to Morrison's office together. Through the window, Alex could see her sitting at her desk, reviewing something on her computer screen. She looked up as they approached and waved them in.
"Reeves, Chen. Sit."
They sat.
Morrison leaned back in her chair, hands folded over her stomach. She was a compact woman with steel-gray hair and eyes that missed nothing. She'd been a sergeant for fifteen years and had a reputation for being fair but unforgiving.
"We've got a body," she said. "Residential burglary gone wrong. Homeowner came back early, surprised the intruder. Neighbor heard gunshots, called it in. Responding officers found the homeowner dead in his living room."
"Do we have the suspect?" Reeves asked.
"No. He ran. Left the murder weapon behind—a .38 revolver, probably stolen. We've got prints on the gun, DNA from blood at the scene. CSU is still processing." She slid a folder across her desk. "Victim is Robert Feng, forty-seven years old. Accountant. Lives alone in a house in the Riverside district. No criminal record, no known enemies. Wrong place, wrong time."
Alex opened the folder and began scanning the preliminary report. Robert Feng. Divorced three years ago, no children. Worked for a mid-sized accounting firm downtown. By all accounts, a quiet man who kept to himself.
"Witnesses?" Alex asked.
"Just the neighbor who called it in. She didn't see the shooter, just heard the shots around 11 PM last night." Morrison pulled up something on her computer. "Uniforms canvased the neighborhood. No one saw anything suspicious. No cameras on the street."
"What was stolen?" Reeves asked.
"That's the thing—nothing, as far as we can tell. The house wasn't tossed. Jewelry box in the bedroom was untouched, cash in a drawer in the kitchen, laptop on the dining room table. If this was a burglary, the suspect didn't get very far before Feng came home."
Alex looked up from the report. "What time did Feng get home?"
"According to the neighbor, around 10:45 PM. She saw his car pull into the driveway. Fifteen minutes later, she heard the shots."
Fifteen minutes. That wasn't much time. If the burglar had just broken in, they would have been in the middle of searching the place when Feng arrived. But nothing was stolen. Nothing was disturbed.
"Maybe he wasn't there to steal anything," Alex said.
Both Morrison and Reeves looked at him.
"Explain," Morrison said.
"If this was a burglary, we'd expect to see signs of a search. Drawers opened, cabinets disturbed, something. But you said the house wasn't tossed. So either the burglar was interrupted immediately after breaking in, before he could start searching... or he wasn't there to steal anything in the first place."
Reeves frowned. "You think this was targeted?"
"I think it's worth considering."
Morrison studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good. Keep that in mind when you process the scene. The body's still there—ME is waiting for you. Address is in the file." She turned back to her computer, a clear dismissal. "Keep me updated."
They stood to leave.
"And Chen?" Morrison said without looking up.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Don't overthink it. Sometimes a burglary is just a burglary."
"Yes, ma'am."
Outside the office, Reeves clapped him on the shoulder. "Not bad, kid. You've got instincts. Let's see if they're right."
The drive to Riverside took twenty minutes. The neighborhood was upper-middle-class, the kind of place where people kept their lawns manicured and their cars in garages. Robert Feng's house was a modest two-story colonial with white siding and black shutters. Two patrol cars were parked out front, along with the medical examiner's van.
Crime scene tape cordoned off the property. A small crowd of neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk, speaking in hushed tones. Alex could feel their eyes on him as he and Reeves approached the house.
A uniformed officer met them at the door—Officer Martinez, according to his name tag. Young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of eager expression that said he was hoping to make detective someday.
"Detectives," he said, holding up the crime scene log. "Victim is in the living room. ME is inside. CSU finished about twenty minutes ago."
Reeves signed the log, then handed the pen to Alex. Alex signed his name carefully, noting the time: 8:42 AM.
They stepped inside.
The house was neat, almost obsessively so. Shoes lined up by the door. Mail sorted into a small organizer on a side table. No clutter, no mess. The kind of home that belonged to someone who lived alone and liked order.
The living room was to the left of the entrance.
Robert Feng lay on his back near the couch, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He was wearing khaki pants and a button-down shirt, as if he'd just come home from work. Two bullet wounds in his chest, dark stains spreading across the fabric. Blood had pooled beneath him, soaking into the beige carpet.
The medical examiner, Dr. Sarah Patel, was kneeling beside the body. She looked up as they entered.
"Detectives. Give me one second." She finished whatever notes she was taking, then stood. "Two gunshot wounds to the chest, close range. Death would have been quick—one of the bullets punctured the heart. Based on body temperature and rigor, I'd estimate time of death between 10:30 and 11:30 PM last night, which matches the timeline from the 911 call."
"Any defensive wounds?" Reeves asked.
"None. He didn't have time to react." Dr. Patel gestured to the victim's hands. "No bruising, no cuts, nothing under his nails. This was over in seconds."
Alex moved around the room, taking in every detail. The couch was undisturbed. The TV was off. A book lay on the coffee table, a bookmark about halfway through. Everything in its place.
Except for one thing.
"The front door," Alex said. "Was it forced?"
Officer Martinez appeared in the doorway. "No, sir. No signs of forced entry. Lock wasn't damaged, windows are intact. Either the door was unlocked, or the suspect had a key."
Alex exchanged a glance with Reeves. "Did Feng have a cleaning service? Anyone who would have access to his house?"
"We're checking," Martinez said. "Talking to the ex-wife too, see if she still had a key."
Alex walked back to the entrance, examining the door. No scratches around the lock. No tool marks. If someone had picked it, they were good. Very good.
Or they'd been let in.
He returned to the living room and crouched near the body, careful not to disturb the blood pool. From this angle, he could see Feng's face more clearly. The expression was surprised, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. He hadn't expected this.
"Where's the murder weapon?" Alex asked.
Dr. Patel pointed to an evidence bag on the floor near the fireplace. "CSU tagged it. .38 revolver, two shots fired. Prints on the grip."
Alex stood and walked over to examine the bag. The gun was old, worn. Definitely not new. Serial numbers would tell them more—if it was stolen, if it could be traced.
"Anything else?" Reeves asked Dr. Patel.
"Not until I get him on the table. I'll have a preliminary report by tomorrow morning." She began packing up her equipment. "One thing, though. The blood spatter pattern suggests he was shot while standing, then fell backward. The shooter was directly in front of him, maybe six feet away. Not execution-style. Not from behind. Face to face."
Face to face.
That meant Feng had seen his killer.
Alex spent the next hour processing the scene with Reeves. They photographed everything, measured distances, noted angles. The house revealed little—no signs of struggle, no ransacking, nothing obviously stolen. Feng's wallet was in his pocket, credit cards and cash intact. His phone was on the kitchen counter, unlocked.
"Check the call log," Reeves said.
Alex pulled on gloves and picked up the phone. The last call had been at 9:37 PM to a number saved as "Tom Feng"—probably a relative. Before that, a few texts, mostly work-related. Nothing suspicious.
He scrolled through the photos. Pictures of food, a few vacation shots from what looked like Hawaii, some screenshots of news articles. A normal phone belonging to a normal person.
Nothing that screamed "murder victim."
They interviewed the neighbor who'd called it in—Mrs. Patricia Alvarez, seventy-two years old, lived in the house directly to the left. She was shaken but coherent.
"I heard the car pull up around 10:45," she said, sitting in her living room with a cup of tea. "Robert usually comes home late on Tuesdays. He works late those nights, I think. I was in my bedroom reading, and I heard the shots maybe fifteen minutes later. Two loud bangs. I knew right away it was gunshots. You don't forget that sound."
"Did you see anyone?" Alex asked. "Any cars you didn't recognize? Anyone walking on the street?"
She shook her head. "I called 911 immediately. I was too scared to look out the window. By the time the police arrived, if anyone was there, they were long gone."
They canvased the rest of the street, but no one else had seen or heard anything useful. Robert Feng had been a quiet neighbor, kept to himself, rarely had visitors. The picture that emerged was of a man who lived a simple, solitary life.
No enemies. No drama. No reason for anyone to want him dead.
And yet, someone had broken into his house and shot him twice in the chest.
By the time they got back to the precinct, it was past 5 PM. Alex's feet hurt and his head was starting to ache, but he wasn't ready to stop. He opened the murder book they'd started and began organizing everything they knew.
Victim: Robert Feng, 47, accountant, lived alone. No criminal record. Divorced three years ago, no children. No known enemies.
Time of death: Approximately 11:00 PM, November 15.
Cause of death: Two gunshot wounds to the chest from a .38 revolver.
Crime scene: No forced entry, no theft, no signs of struggle. Victim shot face-to-face in his living room.
Evidence: Murder weapon left at scene with prints. Blood evidence. Victim's phone and wallet intact.
Suspects: Unknown.
Motive: Unknown.
Alex stared at the page. There was something here, something he wasn't seeing. The pieces didn't fit together. Why break into someone's house, not steal anything, and then shoot them when they come home? Why leave the murder weapon behind?
Unless the shooting wasn't planned. Unless something went wrong.
"You should go home," Reeves said from his desk. "We'll get the forensics back tomorrow. Prints on the gun will hopefully point us to someone."
"I want to check one thing first."
"Chen."
"Ten minutes."
Reeves sighed but didn't argue.
Alex logged into the department database and pulled up Robert Feng's financial records. Bank accounts, credit cards, investments. Everything looked normal. Regular paychecks deposited, regular bills paid. No large withdrawals, no suspicious transfers.
He checked Feng's employment records. Fifteen years at Morrison & Chen Accounting (no relation to Alex, just an unfortunate coincidence). Good performance reviews, steady promotions. Nothing unusual.
He checked criminal records. Nothing. Not even a parking ticket.
Robert Feng was, by all accounts, the most boring victim Alex had ever seen.
Which made his murder all the more puzzling.
"Find anything?" Reeves asked.
"No. Everything's clean. Too clean."
"People's lives are sometimes just boring, kid. Not everyone has secrets."
"Everyone has secrets," Alex muttered, still scanning through the data.
"That's a cynical worldview for someone your age."
"It's a realistic worldview for someone in our profession."
Reeves chuckled. "Fair enough. Now go home. Get some sleep. Tomorrow we'll get the forensics back, and hopefully, we'll have a lead."
Alex reluctantly logged off and gathered his things. Reeves was right—there was nothing more he could do tonight. He needed to wait for the evidence to come back, for the investigation to move forward.
But as he walked to his car, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something. Something important.
The drive home was quiet. Alex lived alone in his eighth-floor apartment, and he liked it that way. No roommates to worry about, no one to explain his odd hours to. Just him, his thoughts, and his work.
He made himself a simple dinner—pasta with marinara sauce from a jar—and ate it while reviewing his notes on his laptop. The burglary pattern he'd noticed earlier now seemed less interesting compared to the Feng case. A murder was always going to take priority over property crime.
But still, the pattern nagged at him. Three burglaries, same entry method, different suspects. What were the odds?
He made a note to follow up on it when the Feng case allowed.
By 11 PM, Alex was in bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind wouldn't shut off. He kept replaying the crime scene in his head. The neat house. The surprised expression on Feng's face. The gun left behind. No forced entry.
Face to face.
Feng had seen his killer.
So why didn't he run? Why didn't he fight back?
Unless he knew them. Unless he'd let them in.
But then why would someone Feng knew shoot him and leave the weapon behind?
The questions circled in Alex's mind until exhaustion finally pulled him under, and he fell into an uneasy sleep.
He dreamed of empty houses and locked doors and faces he couldn't quite see.
When his alarm went off at 6 AM, he woke with the feeling that he'd forgotten something important.
Something about the case.
Something about Robert Feng.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember what it was.