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"Another murder?" Jake's voice was raw, edged with disbelief. He listened for a moment longer, then nodded curtly. "We're on our way."
He ended the call, his expression hardening with resolve. Chief Whittaker's voice had been clear: the killer had struck again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jake's breath misted in the frigid night air as he and Fiona pulled up to the scene. The neighborhood, typically shrouded in suburban serenity, was now a discordant tableau of blue and red lights strobing against the darkened homes. He stepped out of the car, his leather boots crunching on the gravel, senses immediately heightened by the urgent energy pulsating from the crowd of police and onlookers.
"Stay focused," Jake murmured to himself, a mantra to keep the past at bay.
The foyer of the house greeted them with a stark silence that sharply contrasted the clamor outside. There, amidst the mundane trappings of domestic life, lay the body of a young woman. Her throat was a macabre grin, blood seeping into the fibers of an ornate rug, while spiders—a grotesque homage to nature's weavers—trailed over her cooling skin. Jake's stomach clenched, but not from the sight before him; it was the ghost of another day, another home, that threatened to engulf him. His own memory of his mother.
As he surveyed the scene, he noted the absence of struggle, the stillness of the victim's surroundings. This wasn't just about death; it was a message, carefully crafted yet horrific in its delivery.
"Another strong woman cut down," Jake said, his voice low but edged with a simmering anger. These victims were more than cases to him; they were reminders of the mother he lost, the justice he sought every waking moment. He knew he couldn't change the past, but here, in his relentless pursuit, he might just set the future right.
Jake stepped closer to the threshold, his gaze never leaving the body of Erica Silverman. The foyer’s air was still, the scene undisturbed, save for the macabre tableau before him. Unlike the others, she hadn't made it far past her own front door. It was as if death had been waiting for her the moment she turned the key. But that hadn’t necessarily been the killer’s MO so far.
"Rushed," he muttered under his breath. His eyes scanned for signs of a struggle—a kicked shoe, a displaced rug—but found none. The previous victims had seemingly walked through webs until they reached their kitchens. Here, the victim never made it much farther than the front door.
He turned his attention from the gruesome sight and sought out an officer standing by, a notebook in hand. "What do we know?" Jake asked, his tone demanding yet controlled.
The officer, a young man with a tight jaw, glanced up from his notes. "Neighbor called it in," he said. "Saw a strange man leaving this place.”
"Erica ever have visitors? Men?" Jake prodded further, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"Rarely, according to the neighbor. She thought it odd enough to call it in." The officer shifted, discomfort evident in his posture as he added, "We got here fast. Saw her through that window." He nodded toward the pane that afforded them all a view they wished they could unsee.
Jake's mind raced. A man, a hasty departure, a neighbor's intuition—pieces of a puzzle that were beginning to form a more sinister picture. Whoever did this didn't have the luxury of time, not like before. Something had changed tonight, something had gone wrong for the killer.
"Thanks," Jake said curtly, stepping back from the officer. He needed space, needed to think. This new variable, the rushed nature of the kill, it was a crack in the pattern. And cracks were how the light got in, how truth found its way through the darkness. Jake knew that much from years of chasing shadows, of trying to make sense of the senseless.
He felt the weight of his mother's memory, an anchor in his chest pulling him down, but he pushed against it, forced himself to focus on the here and now. Erica Silverman deserved that much. They all did.
"Let's get forensics in here," Jake said louder, addressing the room, the urgency in his voice leaving no room for doubt. "And someone canvas the neighborhood again. If our guy was seen, maybe he got sloppy. Maybe someone else noticed something."
As officers moved to follow his directives, Jake stood alone for a moment, the reality of the hunt settling over him. He would find this killer, for Erica, for the others, for the ghost that still haunted his own home. It was a promise etched in every line of his determined expression, a vow spoken in the silent language of loss.
He caught Fiona’s eyes and nodded at her. “Feel free to keep working here, Red,” he said. “I’ll handle the neighbor.”
Fiona nodded, her face grim. Jake stepped outside, the chill of the late-night air cutting through the chaotic warmth of the crime scene behind him. The flashing lights continued their relentless dance, painting the neighborhood in shades of red and blue. A few steps away, under the watchful eye of a uniformed officer, an elderly woman sat wrapped in a heavy blanket, her eyes reflecting the tragedy that had unfolded within these walls.
"Ma'am, I'm Agent Tucker," Jake introduced himself with a respectful nod. "I need to ask you a few questions about what you saw tonight."
The woman's gaze lifted to meet his, and Jake could see the weight of sorrow there. She nodded, clutching the blanket tighter around herself as if it could shield her from the horrors of reality.
"Erica was such a strong girl," she murmured, her voice threaded with grief. "Always so kind to everyone. It's just... it's just so tragic, what happened to her."
Jake fought to keep his face impassive, to not let the echoes of his own loss bleed into his professional demeanor. "I understand this is difficult for you," he said softly. "But any detail you can remember might help us catch who did this."
He watched her closely, noting the shiver that wasn't from the cold, the way her hands shook slightly as she held the fabric close. This was someone's neighbor, someone who had witnessed enough to be sitting here now, engulfed by the aftermath of violence.
"He was tall," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "Lean. Dressed all in black, head to toe. Even wore a mask, like he came straight out of some horror film."
"Did you see his face? Any distinguishing marks?" Jake probed, keeping his tone even, despite the surge of urgency pulsing through his veins.
She shook her head, her eyes clouded with frustration and fear. "No, nothing like that. It was too dark, and he... he moved so fast."
"Thank you," Jake said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You've been very helpful."
