SIENNA'S POV
The dead lawyer's eyes stared at me like he was trying to tell me something.
I knelt beside his body, my knees pressing into the cold marble floor of his fancy penthouse. Blood pooled around him—so much blood it looked like someone had spilled a bucket of dark red paint. But this wasn't paint. This was real.
And I was running out of time to stop whoever was doing this.
"Detective Cross," Officer Martinez called from across the room. He wouldn't look at me. Nobody here would. "We've photographed everything. Medical examiner's ready when you are."
"Give me two more minutes," I said, my voice rough from too much coffee and not enough sleep.
Martinez nodded and walked away fast, like standing too close to me might ruin his career too.
Three weeks. Seven dead bodies. And everyone at the police station thought I was either stupid or dirty.
I stood up, ignoring the pain in my knees, and stared at the wall behind the lawyer's desk. The same message as before, written in the victim's own blood:
"Thirteen innocents must die for one guilty soul."
My hands shook as I took another picture with my phone. Thirteen. That meant six more people would die if I didn't figure this out. Six more families destroyed. Six more crime scenes at three in the morning.
"Snitch," someone whispered behind me.
I spun around. Two officers stood near the doorway, pretending they hadn't said anything. But I knew. Everyone knew what they called me behind my back.
Three years ago, I'd testified against my partner—Captain Vincent Hale. He was like a father to me. He taught me everything about being a detective. And then I discovered he was running a trafficking ring, hurting kids, destroying lives for money.
So I turned him in.
The right thing to do, everyone said. A hero, the newspapers called me.
But cops don't like snitches, even when the snitch is right. Especially when the snitch is right.
They transferred me here to Ashford, gave me the worst cases, and made sure I knew I'd never be one of them again. My real family stopped talking to me too. My dad—a judge—said I'd betrayed the only man who really cared about me.
Now I worked alone. Always alone.
I walked past the whispering officers without looking at them. My phone buzzed in my pocket as I headed for the elevator. Probably my captain telling me I'd messed up again somehow.
But when I checked the screen, my stomach dropped.
NEWS ALERT: Captain Vincent Hale's Prison Trafficking Ring Exposed—Detective Sienna Cross Under Investigation
No. No, no, no.
My fingers fumbled as I opened the article. The words blurred together, but I caught the important parts: "trafficking continued from behind bars"... "Detective Cross may have unknowingly provided information"... "investigation into her involvement"...
The elevator doors opened. I stumbled inside and pressed the button for the parking garage. My chest felt too tight. I couldn't breathe right.
I'd destroyed my life to stop Hale. I'd lost everything—my family, my friends, my reputation. And now people thought I'd been helping him this whole time?
The elevator lurched downward. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.
Thirty days. The article said Internal Affairs would decide my fate in thirty days. If they thought I was involved with Hale's prison operation, I'd lose my badge. Maybe go to jail.
Everything I'd sacrificed would be for nothing.
My phone rang. Maya's name flashed on the screen—my best friend since we were kids. The only person who still believed in me.
"Did you see the news?" she asked when I answered.
"Yeah." My voice cracked. "Maya, I didn't know. I swear I didn't—"
"I know you didn't. Everyone who actually knows you knows you didn't." Her voice was fierce, protective. "Listen, we're still on for dinner tomorrow night, right? Our weekly tradition?"
"I don't know if I can—"
"Sienna Cross, you need to eat. You need to talk to someone who doesn't think you're a criminal. And I have exciting news about my new job." She paused. "Please? I need my best friend right now."
Something in her voice made me pay attention. Maya never asked for help. She was the strong one, the brave one. If she needed me, I'd be there.
"Okay," I agreed. "Tomorrow night."
"Good. And Si? Don't let them break you. You're the best detective I know."
We hung up. The elevator reached the parking garage. I walked to my car—a beat-up Honda that barely ran—and sat in the driver's seat without starting the engine.
Seven victims. Thirty days to clear my name. And a killer who planned to murder six more people.
I pulled out my case files and spread them across the passenger seat. A retired judge. A real estate mogul. A philanthropist. A tech CEO. A surgeon. A city councilman. And now a lawyer.
What connected them? Why kill these specific people? And who would the killer target next?
My eyes burned from staring at crime scene photos. I needed sleep. Real sleep, not the twenty-minute naps I'd been taking between cases.
But then my phone buzzed again. Not a call this time. A text from an unknown number.
I almost deleted it. Probably spam.
But something made me open it.
The message had no words. Just a photograph.
My blood turned to ice.
It was a picture of a package—brown paper, no markings—sitting on a doorstep. My doorstep. I recognized my apartment door's chipped blue paint.
Below the image, a second text appeared:
"Check your mail, Detective. The truth about your father is waiting."
My father?
Judge Raymond Cross had been one of the most respected men in the city before I'd testified against Hale. After that, he'd told everyone I was a liar and a traitor. We hadn't spoken in three years.
Why would someone leave me information about him?
My hands shook as I started the car. The drive to my apartment took forever. Every red light felt like torture. My mind raced through possibilities.
Was my father involved with Hale's trafficking ring? Had he known what Hale was doing? Was that why he'd turned against me—because I'd gotten too close to secrets he wanted buried?
I parked outside my building and ran up the stairs. Sure enough, a brown package sat in front of my door.
No return address. No name. Just the package.
I brought it inside and locked every lock on my door. Then I sat on my couch and carefully opened it.
Inside was a flash drive.
My laptop was already open on my coffee table. I plugged in the drive with shaking hands.
Police reports filled the screen. Old ones—from twenty years ago. A trafficking case involving thirteen girls. All the records were sealed. Witness statements blacked out. Evidence lists incomplete.
But one name appeared over and over in the files:
Lead Investigator: Captain Vincent Hale.
I scrolled faster, my heart pounding. There had to be more. Why would someone send me this?
Then I found it. A note buried in the digital files. Four words that made my world stop:
"Your father buried everything."
Before I could process what that meant, my phone exploded with calls. Captain Torres. Officer Martinez. Unknown numbers.
I answered Torres first.
"Cross, where are you?" His voice was strange. Careful.
"Home. Why? What's wrong?"
Silence. Then: "There's been another murder. The eighth victim."
My stomach twisted. "Who?"
More silence. Too much silence.
"Captain, who is it?"
"Judge Raymond Cross," Torres said quietly. "Sienna, I'm sorry. It's your father."
The phone slipped from my hand.
My father was dead.
The killer had murdered my father.
And according to these files, he'd been hiding secrets about thirteen trafficked girls for twenty years.
I looked at my laptop screen, at the sealed records and buried evidence, at the name Vincent Hale appearing over and over.
Then my phone buzzed one more time. Another text from the unknown number:
"He left you a message. A video. It'll send automatically when his heart stops beating. Check your email, Detective. Your father's confession is waiting. And after you watch it, you'll understand—the killer isn't the monster. The victims are."
My email notification dinged.
One new message. Subject line: "I'm Sorry, Sienna."
From: Judge Raymond Cross.
Sent: Two minutes ago.
My finger hovered over the screen.
Did I really want to know what my father had done?
Did I have a choice?
I clicked the email.
And everything I thought I knew about my life, my family, and these murders shattered into a million pieces.