Chapter 1
PART 1
Written in Jackson Hawke’s narration
They say no case is ever the same. I say they’re wrong. The details change, yes. The names, the faces, the location. But at the core, it’s always the same: someone suffers, someone lies, someone walks free. And someone like me has to follow the trail, hoping there’s still a point to it.
It was a Tuesday. Early morning. I remember because the coffee machine at the station had finally broken, and I had to drink that burnt excuse for caffeine Johnson makes in the break room. The board was already filling up with new files. Two assaults. One armed robbery. A missing teenager. And one case file sitting on my desk before I even walked in.
No note. No message. Just a brown envelope, already opened at the edge like someone else had peeked first. I slid it open and saw the first photograph.
A crime scene. Grass. Blood. A small piece of fabric. White, with a butterfly stitched in the center.
The caption below read: Unidentified Minor — Female, Approx. Age 3
Condition: Critical
I didn’t react. Years of this job teach you not to. You look, you log, you move on. That’s how you survive. That’s how you don’t lose your mind.
The scene was a field outside the city’s west end. Overgrown grass, a few rusted fences, and a tree that had seen too many things it shouldn’t have. Forensics had already marked the place. Blood splatter analysis, shoeprints. But no signs of struggle. No weapons.
The child was found half-conscious. No ID. No missing person’s report had matched her yet. The paramedics said she hadn't spoken a word since being found.
Raped. Beaten. Left to die.
That was all we had.
Some cases scream at you. This one didn’t. It just… sat there. Quiet. Ugly. Waiting.
I logged the details like I always do. Timeline, location, possible witnesses. The protocols. The system.
And I moved forward. Just like every other case.
That’s what I wrote in the first line of my diary that night — a habit I picked up too late.
