The night after Dr. Rowe's death, Lena dreamt of a hallway made of bones.
The walls bled ash. The floor cracked beneath her feet like scorched porcelain. And at the end — a single door.
She opened it.
Inside was a girl.
Nine years old. Dressed in soot-streaked pajamas. Blood smeared across her cheeks.
She was singing.
"Ring around the rosie…"
The child turned, smiled.
It was her.
The younger version of herself.
The moment their eyes met, the child lunged and whispered into her ear, voice thick with glee:
"She saw the blood under the floorboards."
Lena woke up gasping.
She didn't remember how she got to the city archives. Just that her hands were already on the old files by the time she realized she was moving.
The name had come to her in a wave of nausea and static:
Caitlyn Myles.
Forensic technician. Private. Obsessive. Unshakable.
She'd worked the Cavanaugh fire scene. Her notes had been buried. Inconclusive, it had said. But there'd been whispers even back then — that Caitlyn had seen something the department buried.
And Lena remembered, just barely, the woman's eyes.
Cold. Curious. Scanning Lena like a riddle to solve.
It didn't take long to find her.
Caitlyn lived alone. Small condo. Bare walls. Boxes still half-unpacked despite living there for two years.
Lena sat across from her at a small café across the street. Watching.
Caitlyn wore her suspicion like a coat. Never smiling. Always scanning.
She looked over her shoulder three times in twenty minutes.
Lena smiled into her coffee. "You know something."
The voice inside her whispered:
"And that means she has to go."
That night, Lena followed her home.
She didn't intend to strike yet — not tonight. But she wanted to see how Caitlyn lived. How she moved. How she locked her windows.
Caitlyn never looked back. But she knew.
The tension in her shoulders. The grip on her keys. The quick glance toward alleyways.
She knew something was behind her.
And Lena?
She reveled in it.
Elsewhere — across town — Detective Alina Voss stared at the file no one wanted to touch again.
The Cavanaugh Fire.
She hadn't worked it. Wasn't even on the force back then. But she'd heard the story. Everyone had.
The broken girl. The home invasion. The miracle survivor.
And now?
The broken girl's therapist dead under suspicious circumstances. A "suicide," they said. But Voss had reviewed the crime scene photos herself.
Two things didn't add up.
The angle of the stab wound.
And the missing session journal.
"Lena Cavanaugh."
Voss said the name aloud.
It tasted like blood.
Back in her apartment, Lena began her ritual again.
She pulled the mirror off the wall. Stared into it, unblinking.
But this time, her reflection stared back with an expression she didn't recognize.
Mocking.
Hungry.
"You're enjoying this," it whispered.
"I'm cleaning up," Lena replied.
"You're hunting."
"I'm perfecting the lie."
The reflection blinked out.
And then her shadow on the wall moved — even though she didn't.
The next day, Caitlyn received a package.
Inside was a USB drive.
She plugged it into her laptop, eyes narrowed.
Only one file.
A video. Grainy. Labeled simply:
"Before."
She pressed play.
The image wavered. Fire crackling. Screams in the background.
Then a figure — small, trembling, face covered in soot.
A girl.
Lena.
But she wasn't crying.
She was laughing.
Lena stood outside Caitlyn's building that night, her breath fogging the air. The knife in her pocket felt light.
Familiar.
Her hand didn't even shake anymore.
"She's going to show someone," the voice inside her said.
Lena didn't respond.
She already knew.
She entered the building using a back door she'd unlocked earlier. Silent steps. Black gloves.
But as she neared the door to Caitlyn's condo, she paused.
Something was off.
The door… open.
She stepped inside slowly.
The lights were on.
The living room empty.
Then a voice — calm, female, low — from behind her:
"Looking for someone?"
Lena turned fast.
A woman stood by the balcony, hands in her coat pockets. Blonde. Late 30s. Sharp eyes like surgical blades.
Detective Voss.
"I was just visiting," Lena said smoothly.
Voss stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Her boots made soft clicks on the hardwood. She stopped about six feet from Lena — close enough to read her pulse.
"Mm. Visiting the woman who worked your family's crime scene? Interesting."
"She's an old friend."
"No she's not. She filed a harassment report two hours ago. Said a woman had been watching her. Left a note on her windshield: 'You don't know what you saw.'"
Lena gave a soft, humorless laugh. "That doesn't sound like me."
"NO," Voss said with a smile.
"But then again, none of this sounds like the girl who survived the fire, does it?"
Lena didn't blink.
"Are you accusing me of something?"
"No. Not yet," Voss said lightly.
"But I do wonder what you're doing inside Caitlyn Myles' apartment while she's at a safehouse."
Silence.
Lena tilted her head.
"I wanted to talk to her. She left me a message. Said she remembered something. I got here and… the door was open."
"Mm." Voss let her eyes flick over Lena slowly. "No weapon?"
Lena smiled."Should I have brought one?"
Voss took a slow step closer.
"That's the thing about you, Lena. People underestimate you. You look like grief."
Another step.
"But I've seen grief. I've seen survivors. They don't stalk former forensic analysts. And they don't show up in homes uninvited."
Lena's throat tightened.
But she didn't flinch.
Voss smiled faintly.
"Still, no crime yet. Just an uncomfortable coincidence."
She handed Lena a card.
"Here's my number. Call me before you make any more visits."
Lena took it without a word.
As Voss turned toward the door to left, she said over her shoulder:
"Oh — and Lena?"
Lena paused, fingers curling around the card.
"If anything happens to Caitlyn… I won't need coincidence."
Lena felt her stomach drop.
Not fear.
Excitement.
The game had begun.
Outside, the wind screamed.
Lena stood frozen for a moment, then slowly closed the door behind her.
The rage boiled inside her. Slow. Silent.
She'd slipped. Just a little.
She'd gotten cocky.
Voss had seen through her mask — maybe not fully, but enough.
Enough to become dangerous.
Back at home, Lena stood at her bathroom sink, scrubbing her hands until the skin stung.
She stared at herself in the mirror.
"You made a mistake," her reflection whispered.
"I'll fix it," she said.
"You always do."