Chapter 1: The Syllabus of Sinners
The clock in the basement of the Criminal Psychology archives hit 11:30 PM.
Outside, rain was slamming against the narrow windows at street level, turning the light into warped shadows across the rows of metal shelving. Down here, the air felt thick—that stale mix of old paper, floor wax, and the metallic smell of a radiator that had seen better days.
Maya Rossi rubbed her eyes, feeling the burn of a long night, and let out a shaky breath. She pulled her oversized thrift-store cardigan tighter around herself. It was a habit she couldn’t shake. The heavy wool hid everything—the curves of her chest and the softness of her stomach. In a school full of girls who practically starved themselves to fit into designer skirts, Maya had learned that being invisible was a lot safer than being noticed.
Especially since her entire future depended on this job.
“Just ten more files,” she told herself, clicking the scanner. “Get the paycheck. Keep the scholarship. Graduate.”
On the screen was a digitized police report from 1888. The “Blackwood Phantom.” He’d been a Victorian serial killer who targeted young women, leaving them in twisted, artistic poses near the campus river.
Maya reached for her coffee, but her elbow knocked the mouse. The screen shifted, bringing up a separate window she’d been using for her thesis.
It was the autopsy report for Chloe Vance.
Chloe had been a Delta Gamma sister who had supposedly slipped on the muddy riverbank and drowned three weeks ago. The campus had mourned her, and the police had called it a tragic accident.
But as Maya looked back and forth between the 1888 sketch and Chloe’s crime scene photos, the blood drained from her face.
The ligature marks are hidden by the turtleneck.
The unnatural angle of the left wrist.
The way river mud had been packed meticulously into the victim’s mouth.
The Blackwood Phantom hadn’t stayed in the nineteenth century. He was a legacy. And he was on campus right now.
Maya’s heart started hammering against her ribs. Trembling, she grabbed her phone to take a picture of the screen. She needed to show this to someone. She needed to get to the Dean’s office first thing in the morning.
“Groan.”
The heavy iron door at the top of the spiral staircase echoed through the quiet basement.
Maya froze. The archives were locked to students after ten.
Then came the footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. “Clack. Clack. Clack.” The sound of expensive leather shoes on metal.
Maya frantically minimized the windows, grabbing a random textbook to look busy as her chest heaved. She knew those footsteps. Everyone in the department knew them.
Professor Alistair Sterling.
He stepped off the stairs and into the dim light. At thirty-five, Sterling was the youngest tenured professor in the school’s history. He was also known as a cold, ruthless sadist who failed students for the smallest mistakes and terrified the rest of the faculty. He was tall, broad, and wearing a charcoal-grey three-piece suit that looked like it had been tailored in London.
He didn’t look like a man who belonged in a damp basement at midnight. He looked like a predator who owned the dark.
“Working late, Miss Rossi,” he said. His voice was a low, smooth baritone that seemed to vibrate right through the floor and up Maya’s spine.
“P-Professor Sterling,” Maya stammered, standing up so fast her chair squeaked. She crossed her arms over her chest, instinctively trying to shrink. “I was just finishing the digitization batch. I didn’t think anyone else was here.”
Sterling didn’t answer right away. He walked slowly toward her desk, and with every step, the air in the room seemed to get thinner. He smelled like sandalwood, expensive scotch, and old books.
He stopped across from her. His eyes—the color of cracked ice—swept over her. He didn’t look at her face first; his gaze dropped, dragging slowly over the thick wool of her sweater and the curve of her hips before finally meeting her eyes.
A heavy silence stretched between them.
“You’re trembling, Maya,” he noted, his voice dropping an octave. “Are you cold? Or are you just hiding from me?”
“I’m not hiding,” she lied, her voice barely a whisper.
Sterling moved around the desk. Maya’s breath hitched. He was invading her personal space, so close she could feel the heat radiating off him. He reached past her, his arm brushing her shoulder, and grabbed the mouse.
He clicked the minimized window.
The crime scene photos and the 1888 sketches popped back onto the screen, glowing in the dim room.
Maya’s stomach dropped. “He knows. He’s going to fire me. He’s going to take away my clearance.”
“Fascinating,” Sterling murmured. He didn’t sound angry; he sounded amused. “You have a brilliant eye for detail, Maya. Most of my grad students wouldn’t spot a post-mortem ligature mark if it was highlighted in neon.”
“I... I wasn’t supposed to see that,” Maya babbled, stepping back, but her hips hit the filing cabinet. She was trapped. “It was an accident. But Professor, look at the mud. It’s identical. Chloe Vance didn’t drown. She was murdered by someone mimicking the Phantom. I have to tell the Dean.”
Sterling turned his head slowly. The amusement was gone, replaced by something dark and consuming.
He took one more step, closing the final inch between them. Maya’s back was pressed flat against the cold metal cabinet. Sterling placed one large hand on the cabinet beside her head, caging her in.
Then, he reached out.
Maya gasped as his fingers brushed the curve of her waist. His thumb stroked the wool of her sweater right over her hip bone. The touch was possessive and heavy, sending a jolt of heat straight to her core. Her nipples peaked against her bra, a reaction that made her cheeks burn with shame.
“You are so desperate to be a good girl, Maya,” he whispered, leaning down. His lips brushed her ear, his breath hot against her skin. “Always following the rules. Always protecting your precious little scholarship.”
“Professor, please,” she breathed, pressing her hands weakly against his chest. It was like pushing against a brick wall. “The Dean needs to know.”
Sterling’s hand slid from her hip, his fingers gripping the soft flesh of her waist and pulling her flush against him for one terrifying, exhilarating second.
“The Dean is the one who buried the first body, Maya,” Sterling whispered into her hair.
Maya stopped breathing. “W-what?”
Sterling pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. His thumb stroked her lower lip—a gesture so intimate it made her knees weak.
“The Dean of Blackwood University is the one who covered up the river murders a century ago to protect the university’s money,” Sterling said, his voice deadly calm. “And he’s the one who helped the current killer cover up Chloe Vance’s death last month. If you go to him, Maya, you won’t just lose your scholarship.”
He leaned in, his nose brushing hers, his dark eyes locking onto her dilated pupils.
“You’ll be the next body they pull out of the river.”
Maya’s mind spun. The man in front of her was either a complete psychopath or the only person on campus who could keep her alive.
“Why are you telling me this?” she choked out, a tear slipping down her cheek.
Sterling caught the tear with his thumb, smearing it across her skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, dark with a hunger that terrified her more than the murders.
“Because you saw the pattern,” he said softly. “And because I’ve spent the last three months watching you hide that gorgeous body under these rags, waiting for you to finally look at me the way I look at you.”
He stepped back, and the sudden loss of his heat left Maya shivering. He adjusted his cuffs, his demeanor snapping back to that of the cold, untouchable professor.
“If you want to survive the semester, Maya, you’re going to help me catch him. You don’t belong to the Dean anymore.” Sterling turned and walked toward the stairs, pausing on the first step to look back.
“You belong to my department now. Be at my office tomorrow. Don’t keep me waiting, Maya.”
The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving Maya alone in the dark, her heart pounding and her life completely changed.
