No one heard the gunshot. That, later, would bother everyone
far more than it should have. Clayton Moore was found dead at 6:42 a.m.,
slumped forward in his leather desk chair, a single bullet lodged neatly behind
his left ear. The windows in his home office overlooked Lake Briarwood, glassy
and still in the early dawn. The security system was armed. The doors were
locked from the inside. There was no sign of struggle.
And yet, Clayton Moore – a man who documented every hour of
his life in leather bound planners and whose greatest fear was losing control –
was very clearly murdered.
Detective Maria Spelling stood in the doorway, notebook
closed, hands in her coat pockets, watching the room breath around the body. It
was too neat. The desk was immaculate: fountain pen aligned with a bottle,
laptop shut, planner open to yesterday's date. A cup of coffee sat untouched at
the corner – cold now, a thin film clouding the surface. The only disruption
was Clayton himself, his weight collapsed inward like a marionette with cut
strings.
"What have we got?" Maria asks. Officer Carlos Reyes
replies, "White male, thirty-four years of age, worked as a newspaper and media
writer, single bullet hole wound behind his left ear." "Time of death?" Maria
asked. "Between ten and midnight," said the coroner, Dr. Lewis, kneeling beside
the chair. "Bullet's a .22. Subsonic round, most likely. That would explain why
nobody heard it." Maria nodded slowly. Quiet weapons were for those who planned
ahead. She stepped inside. The crime scene investigators were taking pictures
of the scene. Maria walked over to the window that the bullet was shot through.
"The window was shattered with a small hole in the bottom right corner. Our
killer has a hot shot," she said. "No sign of forced entry, no blood trail, and
no sign of struggle. The attack was from afar." She continued walking. The
walls were lined with framed newspaper clippings – Clayton Moore's greatest
hits: Corporate exposes, political takedowns, one Pulitzer nomination that he
never stopped mentioning. He'd built a career on exposing secrets and a fortune
on knowing where to look. Which meant this room was a gallery of enemies.
"Any prints?" she asked. "For now, just his," Officer Reyes
said. "But...there's something that you should see." Mara turned. Reyes handed
her a thin manila folder. Inside was a single photograph, printed cheaply; the
ink slightly smudged. It showed Clayton Moore standing on a dock at night, his
arm around a woman whose face had been scratched out with something sharp. On
the back, written in block letters: YOU MISSED ONE. Mara felt a chill
she didn't care for. "Where was this?" she asked. "Inside the planner,
yesterday's page." That meant Clayton had seen it before he died. Mara looked
again at the body. Clayton's eyes were open, glassy, fixed on the window. Not
fear. Not surprise. Recognition. Detective Spelling knew by the look on
Clayton's face, that he knew the killer personally.
"What time was our
victim found?" Maria asked. "Witness called 9-1-1 at 5:15 a.m.," Officer Reyes
replied. "Who was the witness?" Maria asked. "Clayton Moore's wife, Sierra.
Oddly, she seems to be doing better than most spouses would when their husband
is murdered," Officer Reyes responded. "My daughter likes to hang around this
lake. I'm going to have to tell her to stay away from this part of town," he
added. Maria stepped over to talk to Sierra. "I'm sorry for your loss," Maria
whispered with sympathy. Sierra gave nothing more than a shrug of the
shoulders. "Mrs. Moore, did you know anyone who would want to hurt your
husband?" "I go by Sierra Brown," she responded. "But Clayton's whole life was
ruining other people's lives. There could be hundreds of people who would want
him dead." Maria noted Sierra's body language and answer. "If you don't mind,
could we please do this later?" Sierra asked. "Of course, take your time,"
Maria replied as she walked back to the crime scene.
By 9:15 a.m., the house was full. The suspects arrive. They
came one by one, each carrying a different version of grief. Sierra Moore,
arrived first—composed, elegant, eyes red but dry. She said she's slept through
the night with earplugs, a habit Clayton hated. She corrected the officer twice
when he referred to her as "Mrs. Moore." "I kept my maiden name," she said
calmly. "Clayton respected that." Maria noted the phrasing. Julian Moore, Clayton's
younger brother, arrived next. He smelled faintly of alcohol and rain; his coat
wrinkled, his hands shaking as he lit a cigarette outside despite the sign. He
hadn't spoken to Clayton in three years, he said. Not since the lawsuit. "Still,"
Julian muttered, staring at the lake, "guess he got the last word." Then
came Naomi Fox, Clayton's longtime editor. She was pale, furious, and already
demanding answers. Clayton called her at 9:47 p.m., she said, sounding "excited
and scared." He'd told her he was close to publishing something "that would
ruin the people." "Did he say who?" Maria asked. Naomi shook her head. "He
never did. That was his thing." Finally, there was Eric Cross, the neighbor.
Retired police. Lived two houses down. He'd noticed the lights were on late but
heard nothing unusual. "Clayton didn't trust easily," Eric said. "But he
trusted me." Maria wrote that down. People who say that usually shouldn't be
trusted themselves.
At 11:03 a.m., Maria found the security log. The system had been
armed at 10:14 p.m. Disarmed at 10:31. Re-armed at 10:33. Two minutes. "Who
knows the code?" Maria asked. Clara didn't hesitate, "Just Aaron and I." Julian
scoffed. "That's a lie." Sierra turned, slow and cold. "Excuse me?" "He gave it
to me years ago," Julian said. "Back when we still talked." Maria looked
between them. Two people, one code, and a two-minute window where the house was
vulnerable.
Planned – or interrupted. She closed her notebook. Outside,
the lake rippled as the wind picked up, breaking the mirror-smooth surface.
Somewhere beneath it, something heavy shifted. Mara had the sudden, unwelcome
certainty that Clayton Moore hadn't just been killed for what he knew, but for
what he had already done. And whoever pulled the trigger had made sure the
truth would be buried with him.