Alex's alarm went off at 5:30 AM. He was already awake.
He'd spent most of the night tossing and turning, his mind running through scenarios. Raymond Cruz as the killer. Cruz working with someone else. Cruz being framed just like Daley. None of it quite fit.
By 6:00 AM, he was in his car, driving toward the suburbs where Katherine Martinez lived. The streets were quiet, the city still half-asleep. Morning fog clung to the ground, making everything look ghostly and uncertain.
Katherine Martinez's house was a modest single-story ranch in a quiet cul-de-sac. The lawn was well-maintained, flowers blooming in neat beds along the walkway. A silver sedan sat in the driveway. Lights were on in what looked like the kitchen.
Alex parked down the street and watched. He felt slightly ridiculous—sitting in his car at 6:30 AM, surveilling a retired teacher who probably had nothing to do with any of this. But his instincts told him to be here. To make sure she was safe.
At 6:45, the front door opened. Katherine Martinez stepped out, wearing a jogging outfit and carrying a water bottle. She was a petite woman with short gray hair and an energetic stride. She locked her door, did a few stretches on her porch, then headed down the street at a brisk walk.
Alex waited until she was out of sight, then pulled out his phone and called Reeves.
"This better be important," Reeves answered, his voice thick with sleep.
"I'm at Katherine Martinez's address. She's alive, looks healthy. She just left for what looks like a morning walk."
There was a long pause. "Chen, it's not even seven in the morning."
"I know. I just wanted to make sure she was okay."
"By stalking her?"
"By verifying she's not in immediate danger."
Another pause. Alex could hear Reeves moving around, probably getting out of bed. "Did Morrison approve surveillance?"
"No. This is just me."
"Of course it is." Reeves sighed. "Okay, listen. You can't just camp out in front of a civilian's house without cause. If she calls it in, you'll be in deep trouble. Come to the precinct. The warrant for Cruz's lockbox should be approved by nine. We'll search it together, and if we find something that justifies protection for Martinez, we'll do it officially."
"What if something happens before then?"
"Then we deal with it. But you can't protect someone based on a hunch, Chen. You know that."
Alex did know that. But it didn't make the knot in his stomach go away.
"Okay. I'll head in now."
"Good. And Chen? Get some coffee. You sound like hell."
Alex stopped at a coffee shop on the way to the precinct. The place was nearly empty, just a few early risers getting their caffeine fix before work. He ordered a large black coffee and a bagel he probably wouldn't eat, then sat by the window and pulled out his notebook.
He'd been keeping detailed notes on every case since the academy—a habit his instructors had drilled into him. Not just the official reports, but his own observations, questions, theories. Things that didn't make it into the formal documentation.
He flipped to the Robert Feng case and started writing:
Questions:
Why frame Marcus Daley specifically? Why not just make it look like a random killing?What connects Feng to the other marked locations?Why leave the murder weapon? To ensure Daley would be implicated?Timeline: Feng killed Nov 15. How long had Cruz been planning this?Motive: What did Feng do to deserve this?
That last question bothered him most. Everything about this case suggested premeditation. The framing, the execution, the lack of robbery. This wasn't random violence. Someone wanted Robert Feng dead for a specific reason.
But what reason? Feng's life was an open book—no enemies, no scandals, no skeletons in his closet that Alex could find.
Unless he was looking in the wrong places.
Alex pulled out his phone and started a deeper search into Feng's past. College records, previous employment, social media from ten years ago. Anything that might reveal a connection to someone like Raymond Cruz.
He was so absorbed in his research that he didn't notice someone approaching his table until they spoke.
"Detective Chen?"
Alex looked up. A woman stood there, maybe thirty-five years old, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and worry lines around her eyes.
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry to bother you. I saw your badge when you paid." She gestured to his belt, where his detective shield was clipped. "I'm Sarah Feng. Robert's sister."
Alex immediately stood. "Ms. Feng. I'm so sorry for your loss. Please, sit down."
She slid into the chair across from him, gripping her coffee cup like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
"The police told me someone was arrested," she said. "Marcus Daley. They said his fingerprints were on the gun."
"We're still investigating," Alex said carefully. "Mr. Daley is a person of interest, but we're exploring all possibilities."
"Do you think he did it?"
Alex studied her face. She deserved honesty, but he also couldn't compromise the investigation. "I think your brother's death wasn't random. Someone planned this carefully. We're working to understand why."
Sarah's eyes filled with tears. "Robert was the kindest person I knew. He never hurt anyone. After the divorce, he just... kept to himself. Worked hard, stayed out of trouble. Who would want to kill him?"
"That's what we're trying to figure out. Can I ask you a few questions? It might help."
She nodded, wiping her eyes.
"Did your brother ever mention anyone threatening him? Any problems at work, any disputes with neighbors?"
"No. Nothing like that. He barely talked about work. Said it was boring—just numbers and spreadsheets."
"What about his divorce? Any issues there?"
"It was amicable. Helen—his ex-wife—moved to Portland two years ago. They don't even talk anymore, but there was no bad blood. They just... grew apart."
"Did Robert have any hobbies? Places he frequented? People he spent time with?"
Sarah thought for a moment. "He liked hiking. Went out to the state park most weekends. And he volunteered sometimes at the public library, helping with their tax prep program during tax season. That was about it. He was a homebody."
Alex made notes. Library volunteer work. Tax preparation. Nothing that screamed motive for murder.
"What about further back?" Alex asked. "Did Robert ever mention anything from his past? Old conflicts, accidents, anything unusual?"
"Not really. We grew up in Oregon, moved here when Robert got his accounting degree. Our parents passed away years ago. Robert was just... normal. A normal guy living a normal life." Her voice broke. "Why would someone do this to him?"
Alex didn't have an answer for her. At least not one that made sense yet.
They talked for a few more minutes. Sarah gave him her contact information and promised to send him any old photos or documents that might be relevant. Alex watched her leave, shoulders hunched under the weight of grief, and felt the familiar frustration of not having answers.
By the time he reached the precinct, it was 8:30 AM. Reeves was already at his desk, looking more alert than he had any right to be.
"Talked to Morrison," Reeves said as Alex approached. "Warrant's approved. CSU finished processing Cruz's apartment overnight. We can search the lockbox now."
"Did they find anything else?"
"Not much. Clean apartment, minimal possessions. Guy lives like he's ready to bolt at any moment. But the map with those three locations is definitely interesting to Morrison. She wants us to figure out what connects them."
They headed to the evidence room where Cruz's lockbox had been logged. The evidence technician brought it out, along with the warrant and the tools to open it.
"Combination lock," the tech said. "You want us to drill it or try to crack it?"
"Crack it," Alex said. "If there's anything delicate inside, drilling could damage it."
The tech nodded and pulled out a stethoscope-like device. It took him fifteen minutes of careful work, but eventually, the lock clicked open.
Inside the box were three items:
A burner phone, turned off.
A small leather journal, filled with handwritten notes.
And a photograph.
Alex pulled on gloves and carefully removed each item. He turned on the burner phone—it had 30% battery remaining and no password protection. The call log showed only three numbers, all outgoing calls made in the past month. The text messages were empty.
"Run these numbers," Alex said, handing the phone to Reeves.
He turned his attention to the journal. The handwriting was neat, precise, almost obsessive. Pages of notes, dates, times, locations. He flipped through slowly, his heart rate increasing with each page.
Robert Feng - 742 Riverside Drive. Routine: leaves for work 7:45 AM, returns 10:45 PM on Tuesdays. Divorced, lives alone. Alarm system, code unknown. Three windows with accessible entry points.
Katherine Martinez - 156 Maple Grove Court. Routine: morning walks at 6:45 AM, grocery shopping Thursdays. Lives alone. No alarm system. Back door lock is old, easily bypassed.
Warehouse - 2847 Industrial Way. Property owned by Meridian Holdings. Security patrol every 4 hours. Blind spot near loading dock.
Alex's blood ran cold. This wasn't just surveillance. This was a hit list.
"Reeves," he said quietly.
Reeves looked up from the phone. "What?"
Alex showed him the journal. "Cruz wasn't just marking locations. He was planning multiple targets. And Katherine Martinez is one of them."
"Christ." Reeves grabbed his phone. "I'll call Morrison, get protection on Martinez immediately. You keep reading."
Alex flipped through more pages. More notes, more surveillance details. But it was the last entry that made his stomach drop:
Phase 1 complete. Feng eliminated. Frame held. Moving to Phase 2.
Phase 1. Phase 2.
This wasn't about one murder. This was about multiple murders, carefully planned and executed.
And Robert Feng was just the beginning.
Alex turned to the photograph. It was old, faded, the colors washed out by time. It showed a group of people standing in front of a building—maybe fifteen or twenty people, smiling at the camera. The photo quality was poor, probably from the 1990s based on the clothing styles.
He squinted at the faces, trying to make out details. In the back row, a man who might be a younger Robert Feng. In the front, several people he didn't recognize.
But in the center, there was a young woman, maybe twenty years old, with dark hair and a bright smile.
And written on the back of the photo in faded ink:
Riverside Community Center, 1994. Last day before closure.
"Morrison's sending units to Martinez's house now," Reeves said, hanging up his phone. "She wants us to—what's wrong?"
Alex held up the photograph. "I think I found the connection."
They spent the next hour digging into the history of Riverside Community Center. It had been a youth outreach program in the 1990s, operating out of an old building near the waterfront. The center had provided after-school programs, job training, tutoring, and safe space for at-risk youth.
It had closed in 1994 following a scandal.
"Fire," Reeves said, reading from an old newspaper article he'd pulled up. "December 12, 1994. Started in the basement, spread quickly. Three people died—two teenagers and a staff member. Investigation ruled it accidental, caused by faulty wiring. But there were rumors."
"What kind of rumors?"
"That the wiring wasn't faulty. That someone started the fire deliberately. But no charges were ever filed." Reeves scrolled down. "The center closed immediately after. The building was demolished a year later."
Alex pulled up the photo on his computer and started trying to identify the people. With facial recognition software and cross-referencing with the center's old records—which he'd managed to dig up from city archives—he began putting names to faces.
Robert Feng - volunteer, helped with tax preparation and financial literacy classes.
Katherine Martinez - staff member, taught literacy classes.
And there, in the front row, the young woman with the dark hair:
Sarah Chen. No relation to Alex, just an unfortunate coincidence of common last names. Age 19. Volunteer. One of the three people who died in the fire.
"Jesus," Alex breathed. "This is about revenge."
"For a fire that happened thirty years ago?" Reeves frowned. "That seems like a long time to wait."
"Maybe someone just got out of prison. Maybe something triggered it. But look—" Alex pointed to the photo. "Feng was there. Martinez was there. They were all connected to the community center."
"So who's the third location? The warehouse?"
Alex checked the address against the old community center records. The building had been torn down, but the lot had remained empty for years before being redeveloped.
"The warehouse," Alex said slowly, "is built on the same site where the community center used to be."
They stared at each other.
"So we've got two survivors of a thirty-year-old fire," Reeves said, "and one of them is already dead. Cruz has been surveilling them, planning their deaths. But why? What's his connection to the fire?"
Alex pulled up Raymond Cruz's history. Born in 1975, so he would have been about nineteen in 1994. He checked arrest records from that time period.
Nothing.
He checked school records, employment records, anything that might link Cruz to the community center.
Still nothing.
"Maybe Cruz isn't the killer," Alex said. "Maybe he's working for someone else. Someone who did have a connection to that fire."
"Like who?"
"Like family of one of the victims."
They pulled up records for the three people who died in the fire. Sarah Chen—parents deceased, no siblings listed. Marcus Wright, age 17—mother deceased, father unknown. Jennifer Doe—
Alex stopped.
"Jennifer Doe?" Reeves read over his shoulder. "As in, unidentified?"
"She was never ID'd," Alex said, reading the fire marshal's report. "Found in the basement where the fire started. Severely burned, no identification on her. They ran her through missing persons, but no matches. She's buried in a city cemetery under 'Unknown Female, December 1994.'"
"That's weird," Reeves said. "A teenager hanging around a community center and nobody knows who she is?"
"Maybe she was homeless. Maybe she was hiding. Or maybe—" Alex pulled up the fire investigation reports again. "Maybe someone made sure she couldn't be identified."
His phone rang. Morrison's name on the screen.
"Chen, we've got a problem," Morrison said without preamble. "Units arrived at Katherine Martinez's house. She's not there. Neighbor says she left for her morning walk and never came back."
Alex's blood turned to ice. "When?"
"About 6:45 AM."
The same time Alex had watched her leave her house.
He should have followed her. He should have stayed. He should have—
"We've got units searching the neighborhood," Morrison continued. "But Chen, there's something else. We found her phone in a storm drain two blocks from her house. Screen's cracked, like it was thrown."
Alex closed his eyes. He'd been there. He'd seen her. And he'd left.
"We're on our way," he said, and hung up.
Reeves was already grabbing his jacket. They ran to the car, sirens blaring as they raced toward Katherine Martinez's neighborhood.
But Alex already knew what they were going to find.
Or rather, what they weren't going to find.
Katherine Martinez was gone.
And somewhere out there, Raymond Cruz—or whoever was really behind this—was moving to Phase 2.