Chapter 1: The Beginning
POV Tiffany
August 2025
Dancing to the music wafting through the air, I sing into the knife I’m holding like a microphone. After belting out my favorite part, I resume chopping onions when the music stops abruptly.
Hearing the buzz of my phone against the hard granite of my countertop, I growl in frustration as I pick it up, rolling my eyes at the name on the screen.
It’s Kieran, again.
This is the twelfth time he’s called me in the last hour. Lacking the energy or desire to speak to him, I turn my phone face down to silence it and drop the last bit of onion into my soup.
As a detective for the Cypress Grove Police Department, I don’t get the chance to cook for myself very often, so when I do, I always make my favorite. French Onion soup with homemade croutons, fresh Gruyère cheese from the farmer’s market in town, and a juicy medium-rare steak.
It’s my comfort food, really. Today is my first day off in over a month, and I am taking full advantage of the opportunity to decompress a bit from the brutality of the case I have been working on.
For the last six months, I have been deeply entrenched in a case involving several women from around the city who have gone missing. At first, the department was treating each as its own missing-persons case. They all had different hair colors, weights, ages, and jobs, and there seemed to be no connection among them.
That was until the bodies started showing up.
Four months after the first woman, Melissa Rutlidge, went missing, a teenage employee found her in a dumpster behind the local movie theater downtown.
The second woman, Debra Kinsley, was found a month later, washed up in the canal by a fisherman.
And the third woman, Lisa Cooper, was found just last week in the middle of a farmer’s field on the outskirts of town. All of them, nude, brutalized, and sporting a unique brand on the inside of their left wrist.
The brand is of 4 Cypress trees in a row with a swooping C.E.X. hidden within the branches and what appears to be chains running between the trees. Forensics has been focusing on the brand’s details, trying to pull out anything that could give us a lead. So far, the only things we have determined are that the brand is copper, based on the traces of copper on the victims’ skin, and that copper is expensive and not commonly used for branding irons.
I’ve contacted 40 metal specialists within a 100-mile radius but still haven’t identified the brand’s owner. If anyone recognizes it, they aren’t speaking up.
Lost in my ruminations, I am startled when the doorbell chimes.
Not expecting anyone, I check the clock.
7:00 PM.
That’s weird. Who is here so late?
I set my knife down on the wooden cutting board in front of me, dry my hands on my pink, floral apron, and start for the door. Living in an old Victorian home, I have to walk from the back of the house to get to the front door from the kitchen.
Padding down the hallway in my green fuzzy socks, I rush to answer the door. Feeling playful, I run and slide across the tiled entryway, but I miscalculate my speed and tear my apron on the Archangel Statue. There’s an old phone alcove under the stairs where it fits perfectly, other than the point of the sword, which sticks out just enough to catch my clothing when I walk by.
I have always been fascinated with the Archangels and their role within religion, but Michael has always been my favorite. He is the defender against darkness. I’ve seen so much darkness that it helps me to know there is something out there bigger than us.
It’s silly, but thinking of Michael during my training at the police academy always helped keep me focused and motivated. So, when I bought this house, I commissioned a metal statue of Michael holding a flaming sword at the ready, as a reminder to always stay focused on my goal. Take down the darkness.
Cursing under my breath, I remove the apron and hang it over the banister of the stairs before opening the door.
As the door swings open, I am surprised to find no one.
Instinctively, I grab my gun off the table next to the door and step out into the humid evening air to investigate, but I stop short when I kick something across the front porch.
Being mid-summer, it is still light outside, so I can see that it is a small square package from where I stand. Cautiously, I scan my surroundings once more to ensure nobody is there, and then I walk over to pick up the mystery package.
Searching the wrapping for a return address, I realize the item is wrapped in a hodgepodge of newspaper articles about the missing women and bodies. Upon further inspection, I see that several words in the articles are highlighted and numbered to thirteen.
Following the numbers, I read the message: Tiffany, do not show anyone. You are in danger. Stay safe. Love you.
What the hell?
Without thinking, I tear the paper off, letting it fall to my feet.
In my hands, I hold an unmarked, leather-bound journal that I am sure can only be from one person.
Tia.
Feeling uneasy, I hurry inside, dropping my gun on the table by the door out of habit, and walk straight to my bedroom down the hall.
Entering my room, I grasp the tiny silver key that hangs loosely around my neck on a delicate chain, attempting to hold back a panic attack. I haven’t heard from Tia in months.
Tia has been missing and hasn’t reached out. She was working on something big, having to do with our cousin and her abuser, Kieran, but she always kept me in the dark, saying it was for my safety as if I were not a successful and respected detective who could protect herself.
I set the journal on the bed, struggling to calm my racing thoughts. I take deep breaths, squeezing my eyes shut and fisting my comforter in my hands, trying to ground myself. Slowly, my heart rate goes back to normal and my breaths even out enough for me to inspect the journal.
Picking it up, feeling the soft leather in my palm, takes me back to my childhood with Tia. We kept a journal together, recording all our adventures. Even as small children, we knew that childhood and innocence never last, so we documented everything that brought us joy.
Fighting against the tears threatening to fall, I begin searching the journal for a way to unlock it. The golden buckle is solid and has no keyhole: no buttons, no switch, nothing to open it.
Come on, Tia, I know you wouldn’t send this to me without a way to open it.
Turning it over in my hands, I find a small heart with a keyhole in its center, etched into the bottom-left corner. So tiny, it’s easy to miss unless you are looking for it.
Bingo!
Out of habit, my hand finds its way back to the key around my neck. Flipping the journal back over, I lean forward to inspect the lock again. There must be a way to insert my key. Looking all around the lock, I see nothing.
Realizing I still have food on the stove, I tuck the journal into the secret drawer on the underside of my bed until I can come back to it. Just as I lock the drawer in place, I hear a thunderous bang from the front of the house.
“Tiffany!!” I hear a deep, guttural shout.
My back stiffens, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
Shit, it’s Kieran! How the hell did he get in? I think, then I remember—the front door. Dammit, I forgot to lock it.
Not wanting to draw attention to the journal, I hurry out the side door of my bedroom and move to my living room so that he doesn’t see where I was.
“Tiffany! Where the fuck are you?!” he shouts again.
Quickly, I flip on the record player and then head for the kitchen, which is just across the hall from my living room. Unfortunately, he sees me as I duck into the kitchen.
Now standing at my cutting board again, knife in hand, I keep my head down, waiting for him to enter.
“Hey! I have been calling you for the last 2 hours. Why aren’t you picking up?” Kieran asks angrily.
Looking up, feigning surprise, I say, “Oh, Kieran. I didn’t know you were in town. Are you on leave?”
“Answer the question. Why are you avoiding me?” He demands.
“I’m doing no such thing. As you can see, I have been cooking for the last 2 hours. I don’t typically pick up my phone when my hands are covered in food,” I say snarkily.
“Bullshit. I see your phone right there next to you,” he accuses. “Now tell me, dear cousin, why would you ignore my calls? Are you hiding something from me?”
“Kieran, you know damn well that I want nothing to do with you. After what you did to Tia, and your exploits in the military, I have no desire to talk to you, let alone see you,” I say confidently.
“Fine, then we will skip the formalities,” he says, leaning over the counter to get closer to me.
“I’m sure you have heard that I am up for promotion and on track to become the youngest Brigadier General in history. Unfortunately for you, that comes at a cost, and I am indebted to some very powerful people right now. Which means, I do what they say, when they say,” he says darkly.
Not liking where this is going, I grip the knife just a little bit tighter. “What do you mean by ‘unfortunately for me’?” I ask suspiciously. “I haven’t seen or spoken to you in over a decade. What could you possibly want with me, and what do these ‘powerful’ people have anything to do with it?”
He smiles wickedly and simply says, “You know too much.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Know too much? I don’t know shit about anything,” I argue.
“Oh, but you do, dear cousin,” he says smoothly. “See, that case you have been working so hard on, that’s my benefactor’s business. C.E.X., or better known as SEX, is a very lucrative business that deals in — people. And they heard that you were poking around, asking questions about their very special brand,” he says with venom in his voice.
Understanding washes over me. Those women were kidnapped and trafficked.
The journal! That’s what Tia must have been onto.
“Ah, I see. So, somehow you got wrapped up with what, some elite sex traffickers?” I laugh incredulously, “ Why am I not surprised? You did always have an affinity for touching the unwilling.”
Anger flashes across his face, but Kieran quickly masks it with another sickly grin. Moving around the counter to stand in front of me, Kieran bends to look me in the eyes and says, “Don’t be jealous, Tiffany, there’s still time for you to have a turn.”
My stomach turns at the threat, and I know that I need to move now, otherwise I am not getting out of here. With one swift motion, I bring my knee up as hard as I can into Kieran’s groin and shove him backward, giving myself only a second to escape.
As he stumbles back, grabbing his crotch in pain, I sprint down the hall, but don’t get very good traction because of my stupid socks. Seeing I still have a second, I stop, rip the socks off my feet, fling them aside, and take off.
Too late.
Kieran recovers quickly and chases me down the hall, grabbing my arm roughly just before I make it into the entryway. Slamming me against the wall and knocking the wind out of me, he starts laughing maniacally.
“You really thought you could get away from me,” he says through ragged breaths, pinning the hand still holding the knife above my head.
Knowing I can’t overpower him, I decide to try a different tactic. “No, not really. I just know how much you love a good chase,” I say flirtatiously, walking the finger of my free hand up his chest.
Lying my palm flat on his chest, I whisper, “I always wondered what it was like.”
Dropping his guard, he loosens his grip on my arm just enough. Not wasting a second, I wrench free, slicing the side of his face and his left shoulder.
Reaching for his face, he screams, “You bitch! I was going to kill you quickly, but now, now I am going to have fun with it.”
Scanning my foyer, trying to form a plan, I spot my gun. Okay, I just have to get to my gun, and I am free.
Moving swiftly, I duck out of Kieran’s reach and run for it. Kieran is too fast, though. He snatches me back by my ponytail and throws me against the wall, just missing the Archangel statue.
Having no other choice but to fight, I taunt Kieran. “Is that all you got? I always knew you were a pussy, but this is just sad,” I say, gasping for air and bracing for what he will do next.
“You won’t be calling me a pussy once I’m done with you, bitch,” he shouts, lunging at me.
Using his momentum against him, I grab him by the shoulder, side-stepping his attack, and throw him directly into the statue.
For a moment, there is silence. Kieran slumps over the statue, and I can see blood starting to pool on the floor.
Oh my God.
Cautiously, I step to his side to assess his injuries. Michael’s sword is lodged low in his abdomen, and I can see blood slowly leaking out, dripping to the floor.
Unsure if he’s alive, I reach out to check for a pulse. Gently pressing my fingers to his neck, I can feel the throb of his artery beneath the skin.
With a sigh of relief, I lean against the wall, taking stock of my situation and planning my next move.
Suddenly, Kieran shoots up and haphazardly tears himself away from the statue with a sickening squelch.
I scream, watching in horror, as blood seeps from the gaping wound in his lower abdomen as he advances on me again.
He is surprisingly quick, dashing to the door and snatching my gun before I can get to it. Instead, I run up the steps, faltering when I hear the bang of the gun going off, and the zip of the bullet whizzing past my ear.
Looking over my shoulder, I see he has slowed a bit, but he is still advancing on me, gun at the ready. Sprinting as fast as I can, I make it to the landing and disappear from his line of sight before he can fire again.
Hearing his labored steps stomping up the stairs, I decide to head to the third floor, in hopes he will search down here first and give me time to think.
As quietly as I can, I sneak up the narrow stairwell to the third floor. The old wooden treads creak and groan under my weight, so I start taking them two at a time to make as little noise as possible. Sliding through a small crack in the door, I close it slowly behind me and search for anything that can help me.
As a former ballroom, all the walls up here fold up to create one large open space. I turned it into a library. Every wall is stocked with books, with one oversized armchair in front of the fireplace and a little reading nook of beanbag chairs and pillows in the far corner. That’s it.
Okay, not ideal for hiding. You are smart, think!
Scanning the room, I see it.
The balcony.
There is a large balcony that overhangs the backside of the house. I have turned it into a little outdoor oasis, with plants and small trees covering every inch of the perimeter, and cute twinkly lights crisscrossing overhead. I usually come out here with my coffee, snuggle up on the comfy outdoor couch nestled in the corner, and read a book, but today it is my lifeline.
Fast walking across the plush carpet of the wide open space, I gently open the door and step out onto the balcony.
It’s getting dark out now, and the twinkly lights overhead have turned on, casting a warm glow over the space.
Having no other option, I decide to try to climb down to the second-floor balcony. Ripping down a few of the light strings, I tie them together to make a rope to catch in case I fall.
Straddling the balcony with the lights fixed to the railing and coiled in my hand, I prepare myself to rappel down to the balcony below when the door flies open.
Kieran, having removed his shirt and tied it around his stomach to keep pressure on his wound, is looking much paler than before, and pins me with his gaze, gun in hand.
Keeping a neutral face, I start panicking on the inside. There is nowhere else to go, and he can shoot me before I even have a chance to move.
“Where — do you think — you are going, Tiffany?” He growls through labored breaths. Running purely on adrenaline and clearly not thinking straight, he drops the gun and launches himself at me.
With no other choice, I throw the string lights at him and dive for the floor, attempting to dodge his attack.
Unable to stop himself, he tumbles over the railing, screaming at me, when the line goes taut, and Kieran goes silent.
I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or something else, but I start quietly sobbing. I know nothing good is going to come of this. I sit on the still sun-warmed, wooden floor of the balcony for what feels like hours, just staring at nothing until I finally feel ready to look at Kieran.
I close my eyes and take one last deep breath, then I cautiously lean over the railing to see what happened.
Looking down, I see Kieran staring up at me with lifeless eyes, illuminated by the soft shimmer of the lights. Hanging, tangled up in the rope, I can see his neck cocked at an odd angle, the makeshift tourniquet has fallen off, and his intestines hang from his wound, glistening a sickly pink color, having dislodged from the force of the fall.
Heaving, I wretch all over the floor next to me, unable to bear the sight before me.
Kieran is dead.
