Chapter One — Scarlett
The steady beat of the rain pelting against the metal rooftop of the warehouse is setting this crime scene in tune with a horror movie. Ah, nothing compares to a Saturday night on the job.
Seattle has its quirks. Sure, the nightlife is great and the job market is skyrocketing this year. Meaning, there’s lots of job offers, better paid than a simple junior forensics photographer can even dream of. But what’s the fun in having a boring office job, surrounded by fake coworkers, stale coffee from an uncleaned in God knows how long coffee dispenser and a boss that expects you to do the job of three colleagues at a time, and turn in the work in time? Seems pretty boring to me.
Nothing rings righter to me than a six victim homicide, downtown, in a too humid warehouse in the middle of a rainstorm. Late September can’t treat me any better.
This is definitely not the usual for our department. Sure, suicides, single vehicle fatalities, cheating spouses going ballistic, inebriated party goers that decide that it would be a smart idea to get themselves involved in bar fights, even double homicides in the sketchy parts of the city, and false alarms — that happens all the time around here — are a norm I got used to in my first year into my forensic photography rotation.
That said, Seattle knows how to keep us busy. Especially at three in the morning, on my day off. Killjoy.
I adjust my camera strap again so I have a better grip on it, then move to the first victim. Male. Looks to be around his mid thirties. He’s got a gunshot to the head, right in the middle of his forehead. The existing wound is visible through the back. There’s significant blood splatter, both forward and back on the adjacent wall. It’s consistent with a close range shot. His eyes are fixed and pupils dilated to a point you can barely see his eye color. Might’ve been on something. His lips are turning cyanotic, but rigor hasn’t fully set in.
I start photographing overall orientation first, then I move to mid range, close ups of the wound path and blood patterns while the techs are taking their initial notes in the back.
Damn, I can literally see through the man’s skull all the way to the back. Gross.
The remaining five are scattered all over the warehouse. We found two collapsed near the kitchenette, one dollar bills rolled up on the counter. Too bad so sad they had to die in the middle of their high.
One is slumped in the bathroom, with pants at his knees, on the toilet, mid defecation. How embarrassing writing the paperwork for this one will be. It’s a very cliche ending, but it happens more often than civilians realize.
What stands out to me is the amount of post incident movement. There’s lots of smear and drag paths all over the floor, suggesting at least one victim was repositioned post mortem. The attackers tried disturbing the pooled blood and smeared excess blood on the walls. That will be a mess for trajectory mapping.
A few victims present defensive wounds but they are minimal. A couple of broken knuckles and contusions. Most show no sign of close quarter struggle at all. Definitely multiple shooters got those guys caught by surprise. Super intentional.
Based on the wound morphology, the detectives are already whispering about a handgun, possibly 9mm or even a .40 caliber. And I agree with them, it doesn’t look like a shotgun or rifle could get such smooth wounds.
What actually bothers me and everyone else working on this case, is the fact that there are no recovered bullets or spent casings left behind. Zero. Nada. Not even in the dry walls that the guys tore up just to make sure. If the weapon ran on something like a revolver it would eliminate casings all together. But, we would expect slugs somewhere. Which are not there. So, the ballistics team can go home and sleep like pretty babies while I wrestle my way around this messy ass warehouse, trying to avoid the significant poolings of blood. Good for them.
A scuff of boots behind me snaps me out of the trans I was stuck in. When I turn, Captain Rivas is studying me with a flat, unimpressed stare that he throws all the rookies their way. And the people that need another psych evaluation. Can’t really fault him. I was practically laser beaming holes into a corpse like it insulted me.
“You good, King? You look a little... preoccupied.” His voice sounds tired combined with a small tinge of concern. He definitely thinks I am two steps away from muttering to myself. The raised brow gives him away. God damn it.
“All good, Captain. Perfectly functional and shockingly sane,” I reply, forcing out a small laugh as I adjust my camera strap and try not to drop the damn thing. “Just tired. It’s four a.m., and I didn’t exactly plan on bonding with six dead strangers tonight.”
Rivas gives me his best version of a laugh, that sounds more like a huff, then steps aside to let two CSI’s holding evidence bags pass. Rough edges aside, he’s one of the solid ones here. I figured that out on day one, about ten minutes before we caught a double downtown and he shoved gloves at me while yelling at dispatch.
I almost pissed myself when I saw my first body up close. You can study all the textbooks you want, but nothing prepares you for the smell, or the silence of a freshly executed cold blooded murder. But you acclimate faster than you’d expect. Now? It’s strangely compelling. Every scene is a story with missing pages, like a puzzle scattered and waiting to be solved. It’s never officially my job to figure out which, but try spending enough nights at the station without absorbing theories and gossip. It’s premium entertainment. Worth every sleepless night and extra therapy session I’m definitely not scheduling.
“What’s the status?” Rivas asks as he comes up beside me.
“Six confirmed DOA s,” I say, scrolling through the shots on my display. “Looks organized. The guy behind the crates put up a fight. His knuckles are abraded and the buckle of his belt is dented, so he definitely made contact, but he took a round to the neck before things fully escalated. Entry suggests close range, possibly face to face. Based on trajectories and spread, I’m leaning more than one shooter, entry from the rear access point. Everyone else took shots to the head. Execution style.”
Rivas stares at me, then nods.
This is the part I enjoy most, reading what’s left behind after the violence. You pick up on things before the evidence gets bagged and logged. Chaos has patterns if you look hard enough.
“Good work, King. I’ll get the cleanup rolling. Are you wrapped?”
“Almost, give me a sec.”
He peels off toward the exit, raising his voice at two uniforms who are getting in the way of the techs.
I take a couple more shots for good measure, then I start breaking down my gear. The routine is steadying. Keeps me grounded and excited to finally rest for the night. Thank God I’m not on the wash down crew.
“Night,” I call, although it’s barely accurate. When I step outside, the horizon is already bleeding from black into that predawn gray blue, making me internally groan, as I realize that I probably won’t get more than two hours of sleep tonight. If I even manage that.
Sliding into my car, I turn the heat on full blast. The sound of the vents fills the silence, and I let out a small sigh. Late September air still has that remnant heat of the blistering summer sun, but the weather is chiller now, which is perfect. The smell of summer and decay don’t mix well.
I start driving. My phone buzzes against the console. Raven. Of course. Wasn’t expecting anyone else at this hour. She’s my childhood best friend and our team’s evidence analyst. She’s blonde, blue eyed, and sharp as hell, always noticing everything and missing nothing. Somehow she manages to look flawless while tearing apart a case. Being around her is exhausting, honestly, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Judging by her groggy voice when I pick up, she just woke up.
“Scarlett,” she grumbles.
I grin, keeping my eyes on the road. “Good evening to you too, Raven. Or... good morning?”
“You sound way too cheerful for someone who just spent the night surrounded by corpses.”
“You’re so grumpy when you wake up. Thank God you have me to cheer you up.”
Raven snorts softly, but her tone shifts. “Yeah, right. Captain Rivas called me. What. A. Joy. I shouldn’t have gone out drinking on a night I’m on call. Stupid. Fucking. Me.”
I can’t help but laugh as I merge onto the highway.
“Rough night? Try standing in a warehouse for four hours watching blood dry while pretending your back doesn’t hurt and your soul isn’t slowly evacuating through your feet.”
“Sexy. Real sexy.” I hear her rustling around, probably hunting for coffee or Advil. Or both. “Give me the highlights. Lowlights. Whatever. I need to know what I’m walking into.”
I take a breath, the weight of the scene settling back onto my shoulders now that I’m not actively working it. “Six victims. All adults, all gunshot wounds to the head except one who took one to the neck. Warehouse down in Sodo, near the old train tracks.”
“That area’s been quiet lately.” Raven’s voice sharpens, the hangover burning off fast. She’s already working, even half asleep.
"Was quiet. Past tense. Here’s the part that’s gonna make your job hell. There are no casings and no bullets. Literally nothing. It’s like they vacuumed the place after and left us whatever they wanted us to see.”
A pause. Then: “You’re kidding.”
“I wish. The only thing we’ve got is bodies and blood. And a lot of weird movements after the fact. The bodies got dragged around and repositioned. It doesn’t make sense yet.”
Raven exhales slowly, and I can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose.“So either they’re professionals, or they had time to kill and wanted to mess with us.”
“Third option,” I offer. “Both.”
“Fantastic.” She doesn’t sound fantastic. “I’ll be at the lab in an hour. Are you heading home or straight to the station?”
I check the clock on my dash. 5:17 a.m. My apartment is twenty minutes in the opposite direction, and my bed is calling my name like a lover I’ve been neglecting.
“Home first. Shower. Maybe two hours of sleep if I’m lucky. Then I’ll swing by with my cards.”
“Your cards. Right.” Raven’s tone shifts into something almost teasing. “You know most people just write notes, Scarlett. They don’t make aesthetic crime scene mood boards like it’s a Pinterest project.”
I shrug even though she can’t see me. “Most people don’t have my eye. Besides, the photos only capture so much. My process works.”
“Your process is deeply unhinged and you know I love you for it.” She yawns, loudly. “Fine. Get your beauty sleep. God knows you need it. I’ll start running the victims IDs and see if anyone pops up.”
“Text me if you find something juicy.”
“Always. Drive safe. Don’t fall asleep at the wheel.”
“Love you too, mom.”
I hang up and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. The highway’s mostly empty this time of morning, just a few trucks and the occasional insomniac commuter.
I make it home safely and pull up in front of my building. I cut the engine and sit for a moment, enjoying the silence of the early morning. Finally, the rain stopped.
Then, the familiar prickling at the back of my neck hits me. Maybe it’s just the job getting under my skin. Or maybe, for once, I’m not the one doing the watching.
How would it feel, to be watched? To have someone’s eyes on me, following me, always just a step behind, moving with me but unseen? Would I even be mad about it? Totally insane if I actually had a stalker, of course... but if he’s tall, dark, and handsome—
Stop it, Scarlett! You’re being reckless! I scold myself, even as my imagination runs wild, fueled by all those romance books Raven keeps slipping into my bookcase, the ones I swore I wouldn’t touch.
I lock the car and sweep the parking lot with my eyes. Nothing. Empty like always. So I head inside, ready for a good night’s sleep.
The shower helps. The hot water is relaxing my tensed mussels, finally enabling me to relax. I stand under the spray until my fingers prune, letting the day rinse off down the drain.
When I step out, wrapped in a towel with my hair dripping down my back, my phone starts buzzing on the counter.
Ethan.
I actually laugh out loud. What the hell is he doing up at five in the morning? My brother, the human alarm clock, who once lectured me about the importance of “sleep hygiene”.
I let it ring twice, just to savor the absurdity, then grab it.
“Please don’t tell me someone’s dying,” I mutter, pressing the phone to my ear. “Because if not, this better be about coffee.”
“You sound half dead yourself.” His voice is low and rough, gravel like he hasn’t slept either. “Saw what happened on the news. Figured I’d check up on you.”
I lean against the counter, towel threatening to slip. “Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
“I couldn’t sleep anyway.” He pauses, then he starts moving around, probably pacing his stupidly nice apartment. “And I saw you on the news. Someone’s gotta make sure you’re not doing anything reckless.”
“Reckless?” I snort. “Please. I’m perfectly under control. Mostly.”
“Mostly, huh?” He chuckles, and it’s such a normal sound that something in my chest loosens. “Talking to yourself again, I see.”
I glance at the empty apartment, caught. “Guilty. But you called me first, so I get a pass.”
“Coffee?”
“Always.”
“I’m coming over.”
“Good. Pastries better be warm. Oh, and can you grab me—”
“Of course. I’ll grab you a burger too. See you soon.”
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a second, a small smile tugging at my lips. This is so, classic Ethan. He always hangs up before I can even finish my sentence, like he already knows what I’m going to say. Probably does, honestly.
I towel off slowly, pulling on leggings and an old worn out hoodie. I put my hair up in a messy bun, mostly because I don’t have the energy to actually deal with it. The apartment feels too quiet, so I flip on the small TV in the corner, mute it, and let the colors flicker while I wait.
My brain, of course, doesn’t know how to rest.It drifts. Like for example, to Dad.
Who was always drunk. And always yelling. It landed on Mom, or me. Sometimes both. Mostly with just the words. But words bruise differently, ’cause you can’t scrub them off. School didn’t help either. Kids are assholes. I learned early how to shrink, disappear, make myself small enough to not get hit. Works wonders if you’re lucky.
Then our parent’s divorce came like a storm I didn’t see coming. Shocker, right? Dad barely functioning, his law firm going under, no money left. And Mom just... left. Walked out and didn’t look back.
But there was Ethan.
Fresh out of law school, barely old enough to have opinions, and he just stepped in. He threatened to quit if Dad didn’t step aside. Rented a place for us and kept the bills paid. Made sure I didn’t completely fall apart. Took me to therapy, paid for my tuition at the community college photo program, then later at the university when I transferred. He even used to cook for us. Terrible decision, but he tried. He actually tried everything just to make me happy. To make my dreams come true. He is the definition of the best brother I could’ve asked for, and I’m very grateful for all he’s done for me. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay him back.
Mom never returned. Don’t know if she couldn’t or didn’t want to, and at some point I stopped asking. I get her. I think I would’ve done the same. It’s not easy to be a survivor of abuse, to be afraid to leave, to be afraid even to breathe. So no, I don’t blame her at all. But I wish sometimes she was there for me. She was my mom after all and I did need motherly advice from time to time. With boys, even though it’s corny. It would’ve been nice.
The doorbell rings and I almost jump out of my skin.
The nock on the door is sharp and impatient and I groan. I yank open the door and I stare at Ethan with an incredulous look.
“If you knock one more time, someone will call building management and kick me out of my apartment for good, this time. Stop that.”
He looks at me with a crooked smile on his face, and starts laughing. I can’t help myself so I start laughing too.
“Well, well, well,” He says, leaning against the doorframe. “If it isn’t my favorite workaholic. You look like garbage.”
“Nice to see you too, fuckface.” I bite back. He brushes past me into the apartment, dropping the bag on the coffee table. “At least I showered. You look like you just crawled out of a dumpster.”
He snorts, sinking into my couch. “I’ve been called worse.”
I grab two mismatched mugs from the cabinet. “Coffee?”
“Black. Obviously.”
“Obviously.” I pour, sliding a mug toward him.
He takes a long sip, eyes scanning my apartment, his eyes landing on my camera bag sitting on my TV console. “What have you been up to these last few days? Hopefully you didn’t do anything stupid.”
“Define stupid.”
“Gotten yourself shot. Tackled a suspect. Tried to be a hero.”
I snort. “Please. I take pictures. The most dangerous thing I do is the office coffee.”He raises an eyebrow. “So the case. The news said six bodies, what’s up with that?”
I shrug, wrapping my hands around my mug. “The news also said that weather girl got fired for showing up drunk. Doesn’t mean it’s accurate. But yeah.”
He almost smiles. Almost. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re here at five a.m. with pastries and a mean ass burger. Who’s really the impossible one?”
He reaches into the bag and pulls out my long awaited meal, tossing it to me. I barely catch it.
“From the place on Capitol Hill,” he says. “The one you like.”
“With the rude barista?”
“That’s the one.”
“Nice. Did she spit in it?”
“Didn’t stick around long enough to find out.” He settles onto my couch like he owns it, kicking his shoes off onto the floor. I resist the urge to tell him to move them. With him, some battles aren’t worth fighting.
He’s quiet for a second.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Just thinking.”
“You do that too loud and you’ll hurt yourself.”
He flicks a piece of croissant at me. It lands in my hair.
“Rude,” I say, picking it out. “And you wonder why I never invite you over.”
“You didn’t invite me. I invited myself.”
“Even worse.”
For a while we just sit there, eating pastries and drinking coffee like it’s a normal Sunday morning and not the crack of dawn after a mass casualty event. The TV flickers silently in the corner with one of those stupid vegetable commercials.
“Remember when you tried to cook?” I say, nodding toward the screen. “Before you gave up and just started ordering everything?”
He groans. “I didn’t give up. I realized my time was too valuable to spend on something I was terrible at.”
“You were so bad. Remember the spaghetti incident?”
“The spaghetti was fine.”
“The spaghetti was glue. Raven still brings it up.”
“Raven brings everything up. She’s got the memory of an elephant and the social filter of a drunk squirrel.”
I laugh, and it feels good. Real, even. Not the forced kind I’ve been doing all night. “She’d love that description, actually.”
“She’d probably use it on her dating profile.” He sets his mug down, studying me. “You okay, though? For real?”
I meet his eyes. He’s got that look. You know, the overprotective brotherly love that becomes overbearing at times. It’s annoying and comforting in equal measure.
“I’m fine, Ethan. Tired. But fine.”
“You’d tell me if you weren’t?”
“Would you believe me if I did?”
He considers this. “Probably not.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because I’m your brother. It’s my job.” He reaches over and flicks my forehead, quick and light. “Deal with it.”
I swat his hand away. “Asshole.”
“Love you too.”
He finishes his coffee and stands, stretching. “I should go. Let you actually sleep instead of just sitting here verbally abusing me.”
“Wow. Leaving already? I’m hurt.”
“You’ll survive.” He grabs his jacket, then pauses at the door. “Hey. Be careful, okay? With this case. Something about it feels... I don’t know.”
“Feels what?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just call me if you need anything. And not just when you’re in trouble. Call me when you’re bored, or hungry, or want to complain about your coworkers. I like hearing from you.”
I blink, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Okay. Yeah. I will.”
He nods once, and then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut.
I stand there for a minute, staring at the space he just occupied.
I get up and close the TV. Brush my teeth and change into a comfortable set of pajamas. Plop into the bed and wait for sleep to take me under.
When my eyes flutter shut the reality of today’s events settles in my bones and I realize — this is just the beginning of something much, much bigger than I thought.
