CHAPTER 2: THE SADDEST KEY
Emma drank her coffee as she sat in her small office at Lakeview Station. She had moved to Lakeview three months ago, and frankly, she hated the town. While the city was nice, peaceful, and had beautiful scenery, she found it too boring. She missed solving cases back in Brookdale — the thrill she got when a psycho went about murdering people for what was usually a messed-up reason. Most times, the killers purposely left clues to taunt the detectives, foolishly thinking they wouldn't be caught.
Still, she always caught them — whether they left clues or not. They usually slipped at one point, and she always found that slip. That was why she was one of the best detectives. But her dad didn't like the fact that her life was constantly on the line. He wanted her to come live with him in Lakeview, but she refused. Yet her stubborn father had used his connections to get her transferred — not just her, but also her partner, Markus.
For some time now, he had been hinting at a possible romance between her and Markus, mostly because Markus was the son of her dad's business partner. But she didn't see him that way. Markus was her partner and best friend — nothing more. Still, her old man was adamant, and so she was stuck here in a city where the worst crime was a teenage thief pickpocketing or snatching women's purses.
She was going crazy.
The sound of her phone ringing jolted her from her thoughts. It was Markus.
"Hey, Emm," he started as soon as she picked up. "Big news." "What?" she replied. "Things are about to get exciting," he rambled. "Someone has been murdered."
"What?!" Emma shot up from her chair, nearly spilling her coffee. "Where? How? Who?" Her voice was sharp, rapid-fire.
"Whoa, whoa, calm down," Markus cut in, his voice crackling through the phone.
She grabbed her coat, already halfway out the door. "Markus, don't play with me — tell me everything. Now." "I'll send you the details and address soon," he said quickly. "I'm on my way there. The victim, Eleanor Whitmore, mid-50s, was found dead in her home by her husband. Apparently, this is the first murder that's happened in Lakeview in twelve years."
Emma was just arriving at the Whitmore residence, and she had to admit — the cottage was huge and beautiful. There was a large garden at the front, filled with flowers she hadn't even heard of. She let out a silent "wow."
Walking in deeper, she saw several water fountains — oddly shaped like musical instruments. Pianos and violins were more numerous than the others. Though she found the musical fountains a bit strange, she brushed it off.
Wealth attracted enemies, and the Whitmores seemed to have it in abundance.
She went inside and found Markus and two other detectives consoling a man she assumed was Mr. Whitmore.
"Hey, Markus, what's up?"
Markus turned to face her. "Oh, hey Emm." He took her arm and moved her aside.
"So where's the body?" she asked. "In the living room," he replied.
He led her there, and what she saw left her stunned.
The woman lay on the floor, eyes wide — as if she couldn't believe what she saw before her life was taken. She had a hole in her chest, big enough to make you look twice. Not just one stab — several, all in the same area. Clean. Controlled. Like someone had practiced this before.
As Emma took in the scene, the idea of a hired hit dissolved. No one paid to kill would leave a mess like this.
The wounds were vicious, erratic, yet focused — not just murder, but fury. Someone hated this woman enough to make her suffer.
She hadn't expected someone so cruel to make their way into a peaceful town like Lakeview. Even though she had only been in the town for about three months, she knew the people were easygoing. She had met Eleanor Whitmore, and the woman was a joy to be around — full of warmth and wit.
"Looks like we've got our work cut out for us, right?" Markus said, breaking her from her train of thought. "Yeah," she replied. "Any clues found yet?" "No," Markus said. "There are no signs of anyone breaking in or traces of anyone being in the house. No footprints detected. Everything is spotless. If not for the gruesome state she was found in, it could've been ruled a suicide. Our killer is obviously a professional. There's no way a first-timer could've cleaned up his traces in so little time."
Emma frowned. "Have her body taken to forensics. Maybe his DNA could be found. How's the husband holding up?" "The poor guy is traumatized and grief-stricken," Markus replied.
She sighed in pity, then faced Markus. "Let's get back to the station. Take Mr. Whitmore with us for interrogation."
Interrogation Room
"Mr. Whitmore, I know you're grieving right now, but I need you to cooperate with us," Emma said for the fifth time since the investigation started.
"You seriously didn't see or hear anyone when you got home?"
He flinched — just for a second, but she caught it. Her eyes narrowed.
"No — I mean, I didn't see anything," he replied, too quickly.
Emma leaned in. "You sure about that?"
He nodded, avoiding her gaze.
She didn't believe him. Not yet. But she didn't press — not now. She'd circle back when he thought she'd let it go.
"Did she have any enemies? Anyone who might've had a reason to want her dead?"
Emma's voice was calm, but her eyes were searching.
"No," he said after a pause. "She's always avoided conflicts."
"Hey, Emm," Markus called as he approached. "The forensics got something. We need to go see them."
She nodded and looked at Mr. Whitmore. "You're free to leave."
Forensics Lab
Emma's gaze hardened as she stared at the small piece of paper the doctor had pulled from Eleanor's body. A single musical notation, drawn in blood — D minor.
The same symbol had been carved into Eleanor's wrist, etched with such care it looked almost deliberate. Like a signature.
The forensic doctor exhaled, his gloves stained with crimson. "Whoever did this… they were meticulous. Surgical gloves, no prints. Ethanol and salt — he scrubbed her clean. He knew exactly what he was doing."
Emma didn't respond. Her eyes were still fixed on the bloodied note, her mind racing.
D minor. The saddest key in music.
This wasn't just murder. It was a message.
And someone wanted her to hear it loud and clear.