Eyes in the Crowd
The precinct’s fluorescent lights always seemed to hum louder when Raven walked in. It gave a low, insectile buzz that made her teeth ache. Or maybe it was just the way conversations dipped and eyes tracked her movements, the subtle pause that followed her like a shadow. She wasn’t part of their ranks, not anymore. She was a specialist—useful when the cases got ugly enough to keep veterans awake at night, but also a reminder of things they didn’t like to talk about.
She walked through the bullpen with her usual unhurried stride, while ignoring the sidelong glances. Her boots clicked against the polished linoleum, the sound sharp in the otherwise muffled room. Detective Micah Duran was where she expected him—behind his desk, his shoulders were slightly hunched, dark hair in disarray, a styrofoam cup of coffee steaming in his hand. He didn’t look up until she stopped in front of him.
“You’re late,” he said, his voice graveled from too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
“You didn’t give me a time,” she replied, sliding into the chair opposite him. “So technically, I’m right on schedule.”
He pushed a folder across the desk toward her. Inside, glossy eight-by-tens fanned out like a grotesque portfolio. “Tell me what you see.”
Raven picked up the top photo. A man in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit sat slumped in a red velvet armchair. The blood on his chest was stark against the dark fabric, the carved letters deliberate: ENVY. His head lolled slightly to one side, eyes open but vacant, mouth curled in something too warped to be a smile.
Her pulse slowed in the way it always did when her mind began pulling apart the threads of a crime scene.
“The placement of the body, the precision of the carving… this isn’t improvisation. This is staging. The killer’s telling a story.”
Micah leaned back in his chair. “Same as the last two. But here’s the kicker—this guy, Anthony Greaves, was moving dirty money through a tech shell. Guess whose company he was linked to?”
She knew before he said it. “Elijah Cross.”
Micah’s eyes narrowed. “You think your billionaire friend’s involved?”
“He’s not my friend,” she said, too quickly. “And central doesn’t always mean guilty.”
Micah’s frown deepened. “Careful, Raven. You’ve got that look again. The one you had before Diaz.”
Before she could answer, a colleague came up, slightly breathless. “Detective, you’re gonna want to see this, the press is outside.”
Micah and Raven exchanged a glance. Moments later, they stepped out into the cool night air. The street was alive with noise—journalists clustering under the harsh glare of camera lights, curious neighbors gathered in knots, cell phones held high.
In the middle of the chaos stood a man in a dark hoodie, still as stone. His face was shadowed by the streetlight, but his gaze was locked on Raven. When she met his eyes, he tilted his head slowly, a deliberate, almost intimate gesture. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a black envelope, placing it on the hood of a parked car with exaggerated care.
Micah swore under his breath.
The man stepped backward into the crowd, and then, like ink dissolving in water, he was gone.
Raven moved without thinking, weaving between reporters and gawkers, her focus narrowing to the brief glimpses of his broad shoulders as he slipped away. She caught the faintest trace of cologne, sharp and cold, before a city bus roared between them. By the time it passed, he had vanished.
Micah caught up, already snapping on his gloves. He lifted the envelope carefully and handed it to her. “You open it. My luck, it’s a bomb.”
She ignored the comment, sliding a nail under the flap and pulling out a single photograph. The sight hit her like a body blow.
It was Zara. Sixteen years old, smiling into the camera in a picture Raven had taken herself. But the background was wrong—replaced with the red velvet chair and Anthony Greaves’ lifeless body.
Typed in bold black letters at the bottom:
“Seven sins. Seven purges. You’re already two behind.”
Her breath became shallow, heat and ice colliding under her skin. She scanned the crowd again, convinced she could still feel the killer’s gaze. Whoever he was, he wasn’t just taunting her. He was inviting her into his game.
Two hours later, she stood in the sleek marble hallway outside Elijah Cross’s penthouse. The elevator ride up had been silent except for the hum of the machinery, her mind replaying the photo again and again. Security had hesitated to let her in until she’d mentioned obstruction of justice in a tone that ensured no argument.
The door opened to reveal Elijah himself. No tie tonight, just a crisp white shirt with the top button undone, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Casual, in the same way a blade could look decorative.
“Consultant Blaire,” he said, leaning against the frame. “And here I thought you only came by when you had bad news.”
“Another body. Your name came up. Again.”
His lips curved faintly. “I must be very popular.”
She brushed past him without waiting for an invitation. His penthouse was glass and steel, the city spread like a jewel box beneath them. Everything about it was curated, deliberate, like him.
“What was your relationship with Anthony Greaves?” she asked.
“None worth mentioning.”
“Financial records disagree.”
“Board membership isn’t intimacy,” he said smoothly. "But you already know that. You’re here for something else.”
She turned, studying the small, controlled shifts in his expression. “The killer sent me a photograph of Zara. Superimposed into tonight’s crime scene.”
His composure slipped—not much, but enough for her to see the shadow cross his eyes. “Zara,” he said, low, like tasting something he’d been forbidden.
Her pulse stumbled. “You knew her.”
He crossed to the bar, poured a glass of amber liquid, and brought it to her. “Drink. Then we’ll talk.”
She didn’t drink. And she didn’t leave.
The air between them stretched taut, a silent negotiation neither wanted to name. Somewhere beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city kept breathing. But in here, it felt like the walls had closed in.