She had promised herself she'd let the case rest. Promised she'd sleep, maybe even take a break. But Ava Sinclair wasn't one to walk away from whispers in the dark—especially not when those whispers were from a dead man.
The drive to Nathan's old apartment was drenched in a fog that refused to lift, the kind that blurred headlights and muffled sound. As she pulled up in front of the building, she stared at the window on the third floor—his window. It looked as lifeless as his file had made him seem. But she knew better now.
The building had been abandoned since the murder. Landlords couldn't keep it rented—word had spread about the body that had been found inside, alone and mutilated, phone clutched in one hand like he'd been trying to call for help.
Only now did Ava realize he hadn't been calling for help. He'd been leaving a message.
The stairwell groaned under her weight as she climbed to the third floor. Every step felt like a countdown. She held her flashlight like a weapon, her other hand brushing the grip of her gun. The door was still locked. She picked it with ease.
The air inside was stale. Dust clung to the walls like regret. Nothing had been touched. Furniture sat beneath sheets, papers still scattered across the dining table, a cracked mug resting by the sink. It was like he'd just stepped out.
She made her way to the living room, where the police had found his body slumped in the chair, eyes wide open. Ava stood in the exact same spot and stared at the wall in front of her.
There was a corkboard—empty now. But pins were still in place, rusting slowly in the corners. Something about it bothered her. She stepped closer, ran her fingers over the frame.
Then she saw it.
Faint, nearly hidden under layers of dust, something had been scratched into the wood.
D. Blackwood.
Her breath caught.
Damien Blackwood.
She hadn't seen that name in the case files. She flipped through them back at the station—no mention, no witness statements, no connections to Nathan Cole. But here it was. Burned into his wall. Left behind not for the police—but for someone who could see what they had missed.
A warning? A clue?
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She frowned. The signal in here was nearly dead, but somehow—her screen lit up.
Unknown Caller.
Her finger hovered over the green button.
She pressed it.
"…Hello?"
There was static at first, like wind through a tunnel.
Then, a voice.
"You found him."
Ava's spine stiffened. "Nathan?"
Silence.
Then, softer—"He's watching you now."
She turned instinctively.
Her flashlight beam swept the room. Nothing. Just shadows and dust.
"Nathan," she whispered, "what do you want me to see?"
The call cut off. No signal.
Ava dropped her phone into her pocket and exhaled sharply. She scanned the room again, forcing her heart to slow. Panic wouldn't help her now.
Instead, she crouched near the corkboard and started peeling back the wallpaper. It came off in long, dry strips. Beneath it—taped pages. Dozens of them.
Newspaper clippings.
Each one featured a different victim.
Different city.
Different years.
But one name was consistent in the small print, in connection to each investigation: Damien Blackwood. Not a suspect. Never accused. Always in the background—an investigator, a forensic consultant, a guest speaker at a seminar. A ghost hiding in plain sight.
Nathan had found him.
Ava gathered the clippings into a plastic folder from her bag and stood. Her hands trembled slightly, not from fear—but fury.
He'd been right under their noses. For years.
She turned to leave—but stopped in the hallway.
The apartment door was ajar.
She hadn't left it open.
Ava drew her gun slowly.
"Who's there?" she called, voice sharp.
No answer.
Her flashlight scanned the hallway.
She stepped forward, each movement precise. No sound except the creaking wood beneath her boots.
Then, from behind her, a whisper.
Right at her ear.
"I see you, too."
She spun around—nothing.
Her heart thudded violently as she backed into the wall.
The air shifted, colder now.
And Ava knew—whoever Nathan was warning her about wasn't just a memory. He was alive. And he knew she was looking.
---
Back at the precinct, Ava spread the clippings across her desk. She hadn't told anyone she'd gone back to Nathan's apartment. This investigation had officially been closed. If she wanted to open it again, she'd need more than intuition and ghost calls.
She opened her laptop and started cross-referencing dates, locations, and job titles. Damien Blackwood had an impressive résumé: university professor, criminal psychologist, former consultant for the FBI.
But in every city where he worked, someone died under mysterious circumstances.
Nathan had found the pattern. And he'd paid for it with his life.
Ava stared at the photos of the victims—smiling faces frozen in time. She knew the kind of killer Damien was now. Not impulsive. Not messy.
Meticulous.
He didn't just kill.
He silenced.
And if he knew she was coming after him…
She shut the laptop.
She needed allies. Someone who wouldn't laugh at her theory.
She grabbed her phone again, hesitated, then called Marcus—her old partner.
He picked up on the second ring. "Ava? Wow, it's been a while."
"I need your help," she said, skipping pleasantries.
"Tell me everything."
---
Two hours later, they sat in a booth at a quiet diner on the edge of town. Ava laid out the clippings, the name on the corkboard, and the call.
Marcus listened carefully. He didn't question her story—not even the phone call from the dead.
"That's insane," he muttered, eyes scanning the articles. "But it fits. I always thought Nathan's case was too clean."
Ava nodded. "We missed something. Or… maybe someone made sure we would."
"You really think Damien's the killer?"
"I think he's worse than that," she said quietly. "He's the kind who lets others take the fall. Manipulates the system. Slips through cracks he creates himself."
Marcus leaned back. "So what do we do?"
Ava looked out the window. The fog had thickened again.
"We find him. We prove it. And we make sure Nathan's voice is heard."
---
Later that night, Ava returned to her apartment. Exhausted but unable to rest.
She played back the call again and again. Every word. Every static beat. Looking for something—anything—that might tell her where the voice had come from.
Then she noticed something.
In the background of the call, behind Nathan's voice, there was a sound.
She boosted the audio.
Faint, but clear: a train horn.
Only one station in the city ran trains at that hour.
She grabbed her coat.
The station was mostly empty. Just a few night-shift workers and late travelers.
She walked along the platform, letting instinct guide her.
Then—she saw it.
A man.
Tall. Black coat. Standing still at the end of the platform.
She couldn't see his face.
But he was staring right at her.
Her breath caught.
She took a step forward.
So did he.
Then—he turned and vanished down the stairs.
Ava ran after him, heart in her throat.
By the time she reached the lower platform, he was gone.
But he'd left something behind.
A paper, folded neatly on the bench.
She picked it up and unfolded it.
Inside: a photograph.
Nathan.
Tied to a chair.
Eyes wide in terror.
And a message, scrawled in ink at the bottom.
"Still think the dead stay dead, Detective?"
---