Greyharbor's fog didn't lift that morning.
It thickened.
By the time Mara stepped out of the station for some air, the world beyond the parking lot was swallowed in white. She stood still for a moment, breathing in the damp chill, trying to order her thoughts.
Two cases, ten years apart.
Two victims staged using scenes from Caleb Stone's novels.
And one photograph fragment linking them.
Someone was writing a message—and she was the intended reader.
Her phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
You're late to the next chapter.
Mara's pulse jumped. She immediately traced the number, but the call had been rerouted through half a dozen relays. Professional. Careful. Someone who wanted her attention, not capture.
Another message came in.
A story can't unfold if the detective doesn't move forward.
Mara typed back quickly:
MARA:
Who is this?
No response.
Instead, another text arrived—a single image file.
She opened it.
A location: Greyharbor Pier, taken only minutes ago. The fog-shrouded docks looked empty, except for a faint silhouette standing at the far end.
Mara zoomed in.
The silhouette wore a dark coat.
Her breath hitched.
The same shape witnesses saw by the lighthouse railing.
The same figure in the torn photograph.
Whoever this was… they wanted her to come.
---
Mara didn't wait for backup. She drove straight to the pier, tires hissing over wet pavement. The fog pressed in thick sheets around her headlights, swallowing everything beyond a few feet.
She reached the pier and stepped out, one hand on her holstered gun.
The boards creaked beneath her as she walked. Water lapped softly below. Somewhere distant, a gull cried.
"Hello?" she called out. "Greyharbor Police. Show yourself."
Her voice echoed, thin in the vast white.
No answer.
She walked farther. The fog curled around her legs, cold as fingertips.
Then she froze.
Footsteps.
But not hers.
Slow. Careful. Approaching from behind.
Mara spun, weapon raised.
"Stop! Hands where I can see them!"
A figure emerged—blurred by fog, but unmistakably male. Tall. Dark coat.
Mara tightened her grip. "Identify yourself!"
The figure raised both hands slowly.
"I didn't mean to scare you," a voice said. "Please—don't shoot."
Mara exhaled sharply.
"Elias Mercer."
The fisherman stepped into clearer view, his face lined, eyes wary.
"What are you doing out here?" Mara demanded.
"I got a message," Elias said grimly. "Same as you, I reckon. Told me to come to the pier. Said if I didn't, something worse would happen."
Mara stared at him. "Someone contacted you too?"
Elias nodded. His breath puffed white in the cold air.
"They said… they said I'd 'failed to deliver my last assignment.' And they knew about the evidence I burned."
Mara's stomach twisted.
"So you did burn evidence."
Elias's eyes dropped. "Yeah. But I didn't know it was tied to a murder. I was paid under the table to get rid of some old boxes. Thought they were from a storage unit."
"Whose storage?" Mara pressed.
Elias swallowed. "I never saw the name. But… some of the things I burned… I saw books. The kind Caleb Stone wrote."
Mara's blood ran cold.
"Why didn't you come forward?" she asked.
"Because some people in this town," Elias whispered, "don't like loose ends."
Before Mara could question him further, a loud crack split the air—a sharp, echoing snap of wood.
Mara jerked toward the sound.
Elias stepped back. "What was—"
Another crack.
Then a groan of old timber.
Mara's eyes widened.
"Get back!"
Too late.
The pier beneath Elias's feet gave out. A section of flooring plunged open like a trapdoor.
Elias dropped with a strangled cry, crashing through the broken boards and disappearing into the dark water below.
"Elias!" Mara shouted, rushing forward.
She hit the edge of the collapse hard, grabbing the splintered boards. Cold seawater splashed her face as Elias resurfaced, flailing.
"I—I can't—!" he choked.
"Hold on!" Mara reached out, stretching as far as she could.
But something below the surface moved.
A shadow.
A deliberate tug.
Elias was yanked downward.
Mara gasped. "No—no!"
He vanished under the water.
A trail of bubbles rose… then nothing.
Just silence.
Just fog.
And Mara—alone on the collapsing pier—realized with chilling certainty:
This wasn't an accident.
It was a message.
The killer was watching.
The killer was close.
And the killer had just taken another piece off the board.