Katy P.O.V
I was one step away from the penthouse entrance when my phone rang.
The sound cut through the night like a blade.
I stopped, my heels hovering above the marble floor and I looked down at my screen.
The image loaded before the caller ID did.
My breath left my lungs.
A woman lay sprawled across an apartment floor, her body twisted unnaturally, one arm bent beneath her as if she'd tried to catch herself mid-fall. The room around her was dim, shadows clinging to the walls. Even through a photograph, I could feel the cold death of it.
Then a message appeared beneath the image.
Donald: Miss Katy, you have to see this.
My fingers trembled as I typed back.
Me: What's the latest news about the murder?
The reply came almost instantly.
Donald: It happened today.
Today?
Could this be James Bron doing it again?
My stomach tightened. James Bron had been quiet for months. Silence like that never meant peace. It meant planning.
Me: Where is the apartment?
I already knew what Donald was thinking. He hesitated, but seconds later, a location pin appeared on my screen.
Donald: Please don't go there alone. It's too dangerous at night.
I exhaled slowly.
Me: I'll be fine.
I wasn't sure I believed it, but revenge doesn't wait for daylight.
_____
The taxi dropped me off a block away.
The building stood old and tired, its windows dark, its walls stained with time. The street was unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that made every sound inside your head louder. I pulled on my gloves before stepping inside, my heart pounding as I crossed the restricted tape that fluttered weakly near the entrance.
The apartment smelled wrong—metallic, stale.
Bloody footprints marred the floor, leading from the living room toward the bedroom and stopping abruptly as if the story ended there. The body was gone. The coroners had already done their work. But death always leaves fingerprints behind.
I moved carefully, my eyes scanning everything.
That was when I saw something.
A small pocket knife lay beneath the old dining chair, half-hidden by shadow as if it had been tossed there in a hurry. I crouched, slid it carefully into a transparent nylon bag I'd brought with me and straightened.
This wasn't sloppy.
James Bron never was.
I filmed the apartment quietly, narrating nothing, letting the camera absorb the truth the walls still held. This murder wasn't impulsive. It was staged. Designed. A performance meant to point fingers elsewhere.
"I'll get you this time" I whispered.
"I'll find out who you truly are"
As I turned to leave, something caught my eye.
A mirror.
Too large. Too deliberate.
It stood beside the fridge, an odd placement that made no sense for someone's daily routine. I stepped closer, my reflection staring back at me, distorted by the dim light. Then I saw a tiny dot at the upper-left corner.
Not glass.
But a camera.
My pulse spiked as I reached up and removed it carefully. Whoever installed it never expected anyone to notice. Whoever removed the body never thought to look.
I slipped the dash camera into my bag, took one last look around the apartment, and left.
______
Back at the penthouse, I locked the door behind me and kicked off my shoes, my movements were quick and restless. I changed into white flip-flops, then rushed to my room, pulling out my laptop with shaking hands.
What if this is a trap?
What if I'm already inside his game?
I inserted the memory card.
The footage is loaded.
At first, it was ordinary. Painfully ordinary.
The woman sat on her couch, popcorn in her arms, watching TV in the dark. Clips of her daily life followed—eating, sleeping, pacing, laughing at something only she understood.
Hours passed.
Hope thinned as I kept checking each clip.
Then I clicked the most recent file.
My breath caught.
A figure dragged the woman's corpse into the living room.
The killer moved with purpose—strong, efficient. Tomboyish. Familiar in a way I couldn't explain. I paused the footage the moment the figure turned toward the camera, but the face remained hidden, swallowed by shadow.
The body was untied.
A letter was placed beside it.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Staged to scream suicide.
Then a phone rang.
A sharp whistle echoed through the speakers, an eerie ringtone that made my skin crawl. The killer froze for half a second, then turned away, answering the call as she left the frame.
I paused the footage, gasping.
It wasn't James Bron.
But whoever this was...worked for him.
I picked up my phone immediately.
Me: I've found a clue. But it's not enough to bring James Bron down.
Donald replied so quickly.
Donald: What kind of evidence?
I stared at the frozen image on my screen, the shadowed figure, the body, the letter meant to lie to the world.
A slow smile curved my lips.
James Bron could hide behind masks. He could sacrifice pawns.
But sins like his always circle back.
He was running out of places to hide.
And this time…I was closer than he thought.
I kept the footage paused, my finger hovering above the trackpad like the smallest movement might summon someone from the shadows.
The apartment around me felt different now—too quiet, too aware.
The glow from my laptop painted the walls pale, stretching my shadow across the room until it looked like someone else was standing there with me. I swallowed and forced myself to breathe, slow and controlled, the way my father had once taught me when fear tried to take the wheel.
Think. Observe. Don't panic.
I replayed the clip.
The tomboyish lady's movements were calculated. Not rushed. Not sloppy. She didn't hesitate once, not when dragging the body, not when positioning it, not when placing the letter. That alone told me everything.
This wasn't rage.
This was procedure.
I rewound again, frame by frame, searching for anything—tattoos, scars, a limp, a habit. The darkness swallowed most of her details, but something gnawed at me.
Her posture.
She carried death like she was used to it.
When the whistle ringtone echoed again in my head, my chest tightened. A code, maybe. A signal. James Bron's people loved layers, messages hidden inside sounds, meanings folded inside meanings.
I shut the laptop abruptly.
The silence afterward was worse.
My eyes drifted to my apartment door, then to the windows. The city lights blinked innocently below, unaware that something rotten was threading itself through its veins.
Am I already being watched?
I stood and paced, every step was quiet. I checked the locks twice. Then a third time. I pulled the curtains shut and leaned my forehead against the cool glass.
James Bron had been quiet because he'd outsourced the chaos.
Smart.
Cowardly.
Deadly.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the knife, still sealed in the transparent nylon. It looked harmless like this—small, almost forgettable. But I knew better.
This wasn't the murder weapon.
It was bait.
He wanted someone to find it. Wanted someone reckless enough to carry it away. Wanted fingerprints where they shouldn't be.
A chill ran down my spine.
"Creating a new culprit" I whispered.
My phone vibrated again in my hand.
Donald.
Donald: You shouldn't stay alone tonight.
I stared at the message, then typed back slowly.
Me: If I disappear, you'll know where to look.
The message notification blinked for a long time before vanishing.
I slipped the knife into a separate compartment, then removed the dash camera once more. I examined it closely under brighter light. Scratches. Old ones. Whoever installed it had done so months ago.
This woman had been watched long before she died.
Which meant she hadn't been random.
Which meant she'd known something.
The thought made my pulse race.
I reopened the footage and jumped back to her earlier days footage, watching the murderer expressions now with new eyes. The way the tomboyish lady paused before answering phone calls. How she glanced toward the mirror sometimes as if she felt eyes on her even when she couldn't see them.
She'd been hideous.
And murder like that always has a reason.
Hours slipped by without me noticing. Dawn threatened the horizon faintly when I finally leaned back, exhaustion dragging at my limbs. My head throbbed, but my mind refused to rest.
James Bron wasn't the one holding the knife.
He was the one giving permission.
And whoever that woman in the footage was, she wasn't finished yet.
I closed the laptop slowly, my reflection staring back at me from the dark screen.
"I'm coming for you" I said softly, the words steady despite the storm inside me. "Not with anger. With truth"
Somewhere out there, the whistle ringtone would sound again.
And next time, I wouldn't just be listening.
I'd be waiting.