The police station was quiet, save for the hum of the overhead lights and the distant sound of a siren. The investigator sat at his desk, a lukewarm cup of coffee forgotten at his elbow.

  In front of him lay a thick, tattered folder, He flipped it open. The smell of old paper and dust filled the air—the scent of cold cases and forgotten victims. He began to spread the documents across the desk, his eyes scanning the lines with practiced intensity.

  Victim One: Tiara Stanley. Found dead in an alley.

  Victim Two: A twenty two year old house keeper, May Jennifer. Found dead in a park.

  Victim Three: Nineteen year old Stacy morningstar. Found dead in her bedroom.

  He frowned. "Two months ago..." he muttered to himself.

  He pulled out the crime scene photos. Even in the grainy, black-and-white prints, the pattern was there. Or rather, the lack of one. The first few murders were messy—random acts of violence, or so they had seemed at the time. But as he turned the pages, he saw the escalation but something was still missing.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  A strange unsettling piece lingered.

  "he’s getting more precise," the investigator whispered. He stopped himself. he? He didn't know if the killer was a man yet, but his gut was pulling him in a strange direction.

  A knock on the doorframe made him jump. Officer Mark stood there, looking even more exhausted than he had at the funeral. He held a fresh stack of papers.

  "I have the medical examiner's reports from the last month, sir," Mark said, his voice flat.

  "Set them down, Mark." The investigator gestured to the edge of the desk. "Tell me something. In all these reports, did anyone find a weapon? A blade? A tool?"

  Mark shook his head. "Nothing, sir. The coroner said the wounds looked... jagged. Like they were made by something sharp, but used with an unusual amount of force. Almost like the killer was enjoying the resistance of the bone."

  The investigator felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. He looked back at the file on the Knight family.

  "These people were wealthy, Mark. Influential. Why them? And why now?"

  "Maybe the killer just wanted to make a statement," Mark suggested.

  The investigator looked at a photo of the Knight family’s living room, now a tomb. "No. This wasn't a statement. This was a celebration."

  He stood up, grabbing his coat. "I need to go back to the scene. There's something in these files that isn't matching the dirt on the floor. And Mark?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Keep your eyes open. If this killer is as 'perfect' as these files suggest, they aren't hiding in the shadows. They’re standing right in front of us, waiting for us to notice how well they’ve done.