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[Stiles' POV]
The red strings came to their end as I snipped them off the case board.
My room looked like a crime drama set straight out of *Law & Order*—a chaotic masterpiece of investigation. Green, yellow, and red strings stretched from wall to wall, criss crossing over photos, notes, and pinned documents, creating a dense web of connections.
"Alright." I rolled my shoulders and cracked my neck. "Time to go full Sherlock Holmes mode."
"Isn't that what we've already been doing?" Scott asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Shhh." I pressed a finger against his lips to silence him. This was my moment.
I turned around to face my two partners in crime-solving: Scott, ever skeptical, and Tara, her arms crossed, waiting for me to lay it all out. They knew I had something big, and I was about to deliver.
"The starting point of this entire mess is—" I paused dramatically, pointing at Scott, waiting for him to complete the sentence. He blinked, lost.
"Laura Hale," Tara answered instead.
"Bingo." I pointed at the image of Laura pinned above my desk.
"She was victim zero," I continued, pacing slightly as I laid out the evidence. "Laura was the OG Alpha. She came to Beacon Hills from New York, but someone took the Alpha status from her, which means, at some point, the current Alpha was just a Beta."
I pulled a yellow string across the board, connecting Laura's corpse to her murder scene.
"So what?" Scott shrugged. "We already figured that out."
I shook my head. "Yes, but we overlooked something important. Why was Laura at the Hale house that night? Who lured her there?"
Tara's eyes narrowed. "She knew the current Alpha."
"Exactly!" I snapped my fingers. "Laura didn't just know them—she trusted them. She was here that night because they called her. They made her come back to Beacon Hills."
I turned back to the board, my hands moving through the pieces of the puzzle. It was finally coming together.
"But we can't narrow it down just based on that," I admitted. "That's why we need to look at the other victims." I pointed to the next set of red strings. "Every single one of them has something in common."
"They were all involved in the Hale house fire," Tara concluded, her voice quiet but certain.
Scott's expression shifted. The weight of what we were uncovering was starting to sink in. "So what are you saying?"
I met his gaze. "Scott, think about it. Who would Laura know and trust and have a motive for revenge against the people responsible for the fire?"
Tara exhaled. "Someone from the Hale family."
I grinned. "Exactly." I grabbed a file from my desk and flipped it open.
"I got this from the station," I said, proud of my resourcefulness.
"You mean you stole it," Scott corrected.
"Borrowed," I countered with a smirk. "Anyway, this file contains records of all known Hale family members. If we can identify someone from these photos who's still alive, we have our Alpha."
Scott hesitated. "But Derek said no one else made it out alive… except his uncle. And Peter's in a coma—he can't exactly talk."
"We can certainly try to get some answers," I said, determined.
"And if that doesn't work?" Tara asked, ever the pessimist.
"Then we set a trap," I declared.
Scott threw his hands up. "A trap? Against a freaking werewolf? And how do you suggest we do that?"
I leaned forward, tapping the board. "Who are the only other people involved in the fire that are still alive?"
Scott's face darkened. "The Argents."
"Right," I nodded. "And we can't exactly walk up and help since they'd probably shoot you on sight." I pointed at Scott. "But we can give them a little push in the right direction."
Tara crossed her arms. "What do you mean?"
"We anonymously send them a little package with all our findings—something that confirms their suspicions and leads them straight to the Alpha."
Scott frowned. "And then what? Just sit back and hope they take care of it?"
I smirked. "No. We follow them. The moment they engage the Alpha, we step in. Before they can kill it, I cause a distraction, and you," I pointed at Scott, "go for the kill shot. If all goes well, you cure yourself in the process."
Scott swallowed, processing the weight of the plan.
And then, right as I finished speaking, all three of our phones buzzed at the same time.
The room went still.
My brows furrowed as I pulled out my phone, my heartbeat picking up. I unlocked the screen, and the moment I read the message, my stomach dropped.
My eyes widened as I opened the message.
**-Jessica Stanley – DEAD-**
A picture of Jessica appeared first, her face stamped over with the word *DEAD* in bold red letters. But that wasn't the worst part.
Attached were several images of her corpse. Her body was riddled with stab wounds, her hands bloodied and raw. Her fingernails—gone. Ripped out.
My stomach twisted.
Then another name flashed across the screen.
**-Isaac Lahey – DEAD-**
A cold chill ran down my spine. I clicked on the file and found myself staring at an image of Isaac lying in a dimly lit hallway. The cracked tiles and rusted lockers—my gut clenched as I realized where it was.
The school.
Blood pooled beneath him, dark streaks trailing away like someone had *dragged* him. His chest was covered in multiple stab wounds, deep and deliberate. But the worst was his neck—his throat had been slashed clean across.
My fingers trembled as I swiped to the next file.
**-Jackson Whittemore – DEAD-**
Unlike the others, Jackson's file didn't contain just images. There was a video attached.
I hesitated for a moment, then tapped *Play*.
The screen flickered before settling on a dimly lit room. A metal table sat in the center, a single red box placed on top of it. A figure loomed just out of focus, their face obscured by shadows. Their voice, rough and unsettling, crackled through the speaker.
"Today," they began, their tone disturbingly casual, "we're doing a very special giveaway for our dear friends at the Beacon Hills Police Department."
My grip tightened on my phone.
The figure reached for a picture of Brad Pitt and placed it inside the box.
"First, we'll put this in," they continued, their voice laced with amusement.
Then, they pulled out a roll of plastic wrap and carefully layered it inside the box.
"And finally… this."
A second box was opened, and the camera tilted slightly.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
Jackson's severed head.
Blood dripped onto the table as they carefully placed it inside the box, nestling it between the plastic wrap and the picture. The figure let out a low chuckle.
"For those of you watching," they said, their voice thick with amusement. "I have a message."
A brief pause.
Then a laugh—dark, unhinged.
"The show has begun."
The video cut to black.