Afternoon
The air inside the Cold Crimes Unit felt denser today, like the silence itself had weight. A new case file lay open on the table — unrelated at first glance, but Lyra knew better than to trust coincidence.
She stood over the board, string in hand, about to draw a new connection between Elara's case and a victim from ten years earlier: Isla Merrin. Disappeared in spring. Found months later. Same age bracket. Same condition. Same oddity — no signs of a struggle, and fingernails too clean.
Dr. Selene Hart entered, carrying a flat evidence box.
"I pulled this from archival," she said. "Isla Merrin's post-mortem photos. You'll want to see this."
Lyra nodded. They laid the photos out in a grid. Neck bruising. Slight swelling along the temple. Just like Elara.
But one detail stopped Lyra's breath: the positioning of the hands.
Selene noticed too. "It's the same. Both bodies were placed with their fingers steepled."
"Almost like a ritual," Lyra murmured.
Selene glanced at her. "Or a message."
---
Late Afternoon
Noah Reyes was already halfway through a new digital dive when Lyra and Micah Dorsey returned from the pawn shop. The missing laptop had been sold anonymously — no CCTV, cash payment, and the device had already been wiped clean.
"Whoever did this knew what they were doing," Micah said, tossing his gloves down. "No prints. No serial trace."
Noah swiveled his chair toward them. "But I did find something. Elara's email records — buried deep in a cached backup. Weeks before she died, she exchanged messages with someone named 'KM' using a hidden encryption protocol."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Anything unusual in the content?"
Noah shook his head. "Most were encrypted dead ends. But one was preserved. It said:
I know what happened to Isla. I can prove it. Meet me. Don't be late."
Micah let out a long exhale. "And she went."
"Looks like it," Lyra said quietly.
Selene added, "If this 'KM' is still reaching out, they either want to expose something — or control what we find."
---
Evening
Lyra stood outside her apartment later, looking out over the city skyline. She had the printed photo in her hands again — the one left in the burned warehouse. The words kept echoing:
I buried her too shallow.
This wasn't about one girl. It's not sure how many.
Someone was whispering in the margins. Not a ghost.
A planner.
A watcher.
A killer with a message only the cold could preserve.
And they were just getting started.