SIENNA'S POV
"You're insane."
I shoved Damien hard, sending him stumbling backward against Ghost's computer screens. Rage poured through me like fire—hot and destructive and completely out of control.
"Maya is NOT the killer," I snarled. "She's my best friend. She's been protecting people her entire life. She was SHOT tonight trying to save Celeste!"
"Was she?" Damien's voice stayed calm, which only made me angrier. "Or did she arrange to get shot in a non-lethal spot to establish her alibi while Celeste faked her death?"
"That's ridiculous!"
"Is it?" Ghost pulled up more footage on his screens. "Detective Cross, what do you actually know about Maya's military service?"
"She was deployed overseas for six years. Came back decorated for bravery."
"Wrong." Ghost typed rapidly, files appearing faster than I could read. "Maya Chen was discharged after three years for 'psychological issues.' The remaining three years? She was training with a private military contractor in Eastern Europe. Learning advanced combat tactics, weapons expertise, and—" he paused significantly, "—how to kill without leaving evidence."
My stomach twisted. "You're lying."
"I wish we were," Damien said softly. "Sienna, look at the evidence. Really look."
He gestured to Ghost's screens showing crime scene photos of all eight victims. Each one killed with professional precision—single shots to vital organs, no struggle, no witnesses.
"These aren't revenge killings by some traumatized activist," Damien continued. "These are executions by someone with military training. Someone who knows how to breach security systems, avoid cameras, and disappear without a trace."
"Lots of people have military training!"
"But only one was victim number seven in the trafficking case." Ghost pulled up an old police report, the text heavily redacted. "Only one has been close enough to all eight victims to study their routines and vulnerabilities. And only one has access to Celeste Moreau—the perfect distraction while the real killer works."
I wanted to scream. To throw something. To prove them wrong with evidence I didn't have.
But doubt crept in like poison.
Maya had been acting strange for weeks. Canceling our dinners. Avoiding my calls. That look of guilt at the stadium before everything exploded into chaos.
"The cases are connected," she'd whispered in the hospital. "Don't dig too deep. Some truths destroy everything."
Had she been trying to confess?
"No." I shook my head violently. "There has to be another explanation. Maya wouldn't—she couldn't—"
"She could if she wanted justice the system denied her," Damien interrupted. "She could if thirteen children were trafficked and abused while judges and lawyers and cops covered it up for money. She could if she spent twenty years waiting for someone to care about what happened to those girls, and no one ever did."
His words hit like bullets.
Because he was right. The system had failed Maya. Failed all thirteen victims. My own father had helped bury the case, and he'd lived in luxury while those children suffered.
"I need proof," I said finally. "Real proof. Not surveillance footage and theories."
"Then let's find it." Damien moved toward the elevator. "Ghost, send everything to my secure server. We're going back to the beginning."
"Back where?" I demanded.
"Your apartment. Where this whole nightmare started when you got that anonymous package about the trafficking ring." He stepped into the elevator and held the door. "Someone sent you those files for a reason, Detective. We need to figure out why."
Twenty minutes later, we stood in my cramped apartment surrounded by everything I'd collected on the case. Crime scene photos covered my floor. Victim profiles plastered my walls. Red string connected dots I didn't fully understand.
Damien studied it all with intense focus, his silver eyes missing nothing.
"You've been obsessing over this," he observed.
"Eight people are dead. My father is dead. Yeah, I've been obsessing." I knelt on the floor, spreading the photos wider. "Every victim was involved in that twenty-year-old trafficking case. The judge who sealed records—my father. The lawyers who defended the traffickers. The real estate mogul who owned the buildings where they kept the girls. The surgeon who falsified medical reports. The social worker who ignored abuse complaints."
"And they all died within three weeks," Damien added, kneeling beside me. Our shoulders touched, and I felt heat radiate from that single point of contact. "Professionally executed. No mistakes. No witnesses."
I forced myself to focus on the photos instead of his proximity. "The message at each scene: 'Thirteen innocents must die for one guilty soul.' I thought it meant the killer was avenging the thirteen victims by murdering everyone responsible."
"But?"
"But that doesn't make sense." I grabbed the coroner's reports, flipping through pages. "If this was about revenge for thirteen trafficked children, why kill thirteen people? The math doesn't add up."
"Unless—" Damien's hand froze over a photo of my father's crime scene. "Unless the thirteen innocents aren't the victims. They're the perpetrators."
Our eyes met, understanding clicking into place simultaneously.
"The guilty soul is one of the thirteen victims," I breathed. "Someone who betrayed the others. Someone who gave the traffickers names in exchange for mercy."
"Victim thirteen," Damien confirmed. "Elena Russo. The girl who became Celeste Moreau."
I grabbed the sealed case files, scanning them with fresh eyes. "Celeste gave them Maya's name. She was nine years old and terrified, and she sold out her foster sister to save herself."
"Which means Celeste isn't faking her death to escape," Damien said slowly. "She's faking it because she's the final target. The thirteenth and last person who needs to die."
"But if Maya is the killer—" My voice cracked. "If my best friend has been systematically murdering everyone involved, including planning to kill Celeste—"
"Then Maya is going to finish what she started." Damien stood abruptly, pulling out his phone. "Ghost, I need satellite tracking on Maya Chen's phone. Now."
I remained on the floor, staring at photos of dead people my father had helped destroy. People who'd hurt children and walked free because the system was corrupt.
"How do you have classified police files?" I demanded suddenly, looking up at Damien. "How do you know details about sealed cases and military records? Who the hell are you really?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer. Just stood there with his phone pressed to his ear, silver eyes calculating whether to trust me with the truth.
Finally, he lowered the phone. "Ghost will call back. And you deserve answers."
He sat across from me, close enough that our knees touched. Close enough that I could see pain and guilt and something raw in his expression.
"Twenty-three years ago, my parents were investigative journalists working on the biggest story of their careers—a trafficking ring involving judges, politicians, police, and businessmen. They had evidence, witnesses, everything needed to expose it." His voice went flat. "Three days before publication, someone broke into our house while I was at school. I came home to find them both dead, staged to look like a random burglary."
My heart broke for the twelve-year-old boy he'd been. "Damien—"
"The case went cold immediately. No leads, no suspects, no one who cared about two dead journalists." His hands clenched into fists. "So I spent the next twenty-three years building Luxe Security—not just as a business, but as an intelligence network powerful enough to destroy everyone responsible for their murders. I've been tracking the trafficking ring for over two decades. Collecting evidence. Identifying every person involved."
Understanding crashed over me. "You made a list."
"Thirteen names," he confirmed. "The thirteen most powerful people who trafficked those girls and covered it up. And for two years, I've watched someone work their way through that list, killing each person with professional precision."
"You've been helping them."
"I've been protecting them," he corrected. "Making sure they weren't caught. Because part of me wanted to watch those monsters die for what they did to my parents. What they did to thirteen children."
The confession hung between us—raw and honest and completely illegal.
"That makes you an accomplice to murder," I said quietly.
"I know." He met my eyes. "That's why I'm telling you. Because you still believe in justice, Detective Cross. You still think the system can work, that truth matters, that doing the right thing is worth the cost." His voice softened. "And I need to believe that too. I need to believe I haven't spent twenty-three years becoming the very monster I've been hunting."
We sat in silence, surrounded by photos of dead people and failed justice. The weight of everything pressed down—my father's corruption, Maya's possible guilt, Damien's dark confession.
"Why do you do this?" Damien asked finally. "Hunt monsters when you know the system is broken? When you know people like Hale manipulate the law to protect evil?"
I thought about Captain Hale—my mentor who'd betrayed everything. About my father who'd chosen money over justice. About a system that had failed thirteen children and was now trying to destroy me for getting too close to the truth.
"Because someone has to," I answered. "Because those thirteen girls deserved better. Because if people like me give up, then people like Hale win. And I can't—" My voice broke. "I can't let them win."
Something shifted in Damien's expression. Pain mixed with admiration mixed with something that looked dangerously like hope.
"You still believe in justice," he said softly.
"Don't you?"
"I used to." He reached out slowly, giving me time to pull away, and brushed a strand of hair from my face. His fingers lingered on my cheek—warm and gentle and completely at odds with the cold CEO persona he showed the world. "Then my parents died, and I learned that justice is just another word for revenge with better PR."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" His hand dropped. "Sienna, I've spent over two decades planning to destroy everyone on that list. I've manipulated investigations, hidden evidence, and protected a killer—all in the name of justice. How is that different from what your father did? From what Hale did? We all claimed to be serving a greater good while innocent people suffered."
The comparison stung because it was partly true. The line between justice and revenge, between right and wrong, had blurred so much I couldn't see it anymore.
"The difference," I said carefully, "is that you're here. Telling me the truth. Trying to stop more people from dying. That's not revenge—that's redemption."
"You have too much faith in me."
"Maybe you don't have enough faith in yourself."
We stared at each other in my cramped apartment at 2 AM, surrounded by evidence of corruption and murder, and I felt something dangerous growing between us. Something that made me want to trust him despite every logical reason not to.
Damien's phone buzzed, shattering the moment.
"Ghost?" He listened intently, his expression darkening. "You're sure? When?" A pause. "We're on our way."
He stood abruptly. "Maya's phone just pinged at the abandoned warehouse where Celeste's fake ambulance disappeared. She's there right now."
My heart stopped. "We need to go. If she's the killer—"
"Then she's finishing what she started." Damien grabbed his keys. "And if she's not the killer—"
"Then she's walking into a trap," I finished.
We ran for the door, but before we reached it, my apartment window exploded inward.
Glass shattered everywhere. I hit the ground, Damien covering me with his body as bullets tore through the space where we'd been standing.
"MOVE!" He dragged me toward the hallway as more shots rang out.
We crashed through my apartment door and sprinted for the stairs. Behind us, heavy footsteps thundered—professional, coordinated, military precise.
"Who's shooting at us?" I gasped as we flew down four flights.
"Marcus and his team," Damien said grimly. "They've been tracking us the whole time."
We burst out of my building into the street. Damien's SUV was parked two blocks away, but men in tactical gear were already surrounding it.
"Other way!" I yanked him down an alley.
We ran through darkness, our footsteps echoing off brick walls. My lungs burned. My heart hammered. Every shadow looked like a threat.
"There!" Damien pointed to a fire escape leading to the rooftops.
We climbed desperately, metal groaning under our weight. Made it to the roof just as our pursuers reached the alley below.
"We're trapped," I panted. "They're surrounding the building."
Damien pulled out his phone. "Ghost, we need extraction. My location. Five minutes." He listened, then cursed. "Make it three minutes."
Below us, doors crashed open. Men flooded into the building.
"They're coming up," I said unnecessarily.
Damien moved to the roof's edge, looking at the gap between buildings. "Can you jump?"
I looked at the eight-foot gap between rooftops, five stories above concrete. "Are you insane?"
"Frequently." He grabbed my hand. "On three. One—"
"Wait, I need to—"
"Two—"
"Damien, I can't—"
"Three!"
We ran.
We jumped.
For one horrible moment, we were flying through empty air with nothing but death below us.
Then we crashed onto the next building's roof, rolling hard, pain exploding through my shoulder.
"MOVE!" Damien hauled me up.
We kept running—roof to roof, building to building—until a helicopter appeared overhead. Not police. Not Marcus. A sleek black machine that descended toward us like salvation.
Ghost leaned out of the open door, extending his hand. "Get in!"
Damien practically threw me into the helicopter, then pulled himself up as bullets sparked off the metal hull.
We lifted off just as tactical teams burst onto the final rooftop, their faces twisted with rage as we escaped into the night sky.
I collapsed against the helicopter wall, gasping for air, my whole body shaking.
"Everyone okay?" Ghost asked.
"Define okay," I managed.
Damien sat across from me, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead, his suit torn and dirty, but his eyes were alive in a way I hadn't seen before. Bright with adrenaline and fear and something that looked dangerously like excitement.
"Where to, boss?" Ghost asked.
"The warehouse," Damien said. "Maya is—"
His phone buzzed with a message. He looked at the screen, and his face went completely white.
"What?" I demanded. "What is it?"
He turned the phone toward me.
A video was playing—grainy surveillance footage from inside the warehouse. I saw Maya standing in an empty room, hands raised, facing someone off-camera.
Then I saw who she was facing, and my entire world shattered.
It was me.
Not just someone who looked like me—it was ME. My face, my clothes, my voice as the video-me raised a gun and pointed it at Maya's head.
"This is impossible," I breathed. "I've never been to that warehouse. I've been with you all night!"
"I know," Damien said grimly.
The video continued. Video-me smiled—cold and cruel—and said words I'd never spoken: "Victim seven dies tonight. Just like the others. Just like they all deserve to die."
Then video-me pulled the trigger.
The footage cut to black.
My phone exploded with notifications—messages, calls, news alerts. I looked at the screen with numb horror.
BREAKING NEWS: DETECTIVE SIENNA CROSS CAUGHT ON CAMERA MURDERING BODYGUARD MAYA CHEN
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no—"
"It's a deepfake," Ghost said quickly. "Has to be. Sophisticated digital manipulation of—"
"No one will believe that," Damien interrupted. "The media already thinks you're guilty. This video will convict you in the court of public opinion before we can prove it's fake."
My hands shook as I scrolled through messages. Captain Torres demanding my immediate surrender. Marcus calling me a monster. News outlets showing my face next to the word KILLER.
And then one message that made my blood turn to ice.
Unknown number: You asked who the real killer is, Detective. Look in the mirror.