Homicide Detective Jonah Ross, Manhattan division, showed his badge and went under the crime scene tape. Though the worst of the acid rain had passed, leaving only a light spray, the ominous clouds sailing across the gray sky suggested the break was fleeting.

The future held the promise of unrelenting rain. Police officers held a mass of spectators back near the drenched lawn beyond the asphalt, while a crowd of officers kept the press penned in; they stood, apprehensive, in colorful rain gear, microphones and umbrellas poised.

Detective Kurt Mueller, approaching under the cover of an umbrella, said, “I’m torn between which I hate more: lawyers or those parasitic mammals. I’d like to shove their microphones up their asses.”

Ross entertained the idea of a select group of pushy, in-your-face reporters. “They’re just doing their job.”

“Please,” Mueller drawled. He cocked his head towards the reporters, singling one out. “Your sudden tolerance is only because of that vulture.”

Mueller aimed his remark about the large predatory bird at Olivia Amato, a straightforward journalist from the New York Post and Ross’ casual girlfriend. Mueller had a point. If not bedding Amato—with her long, sleek legs, rock-solid ass, and flowing black mane that was silky as a devil’s cake—he’d be in full form, cursing under his breath at the flock of reporters, intolerant to the fact that too often they swarmed the crime scenes, trailing only minutes behind the police for a breaking story to boost their egomaniacal careers. Sleeping with the enemy appeared to cloud his judgment about them.

However, Ross found the extensive media coverage and many investigators unsurprising. The call came while he and Mueller were downtown. Terrible Westside Highway traffic, road construction, and bad weather slowed Ross’ drive to northern Manhattan.

Ross and Mueller leaped over the chain-link fence, picking their way through the muddy ground, avoiding the deeper puddles. Despite three days of heavy drinking and sleep deprivation, Ross—though weary—was keen to return to his job. A connecting flight delay caused him to arrive home from Las Vegas much later than expected. Three days too long in Sin City. He’d rather have endured a root canal than indulged in immature, reckless partying like a twenty-something. Those days were a distant memory, and he felt no longing for them. His body, unlike before, couldn’t withstand the abuse. The recovery process was slow and brutal. The pleasures of getting older. Despite his desire otherwise, others expected him to attend, and he couldn’t refuse. His kid brother was celebrating his bachelor party.

Ross squinted against the rain, his thoughts still foggy from Vegas. The noise, the excess, the shallow chaos—it all felt absurd now, standing at the edge of something real, something grim.

“Great. Just goddamn great,” Mueller muttered, trailing behind. “I just got these.” Mueller, five feet nine, his caramel, bro-flow hair slicked back in a ponytail, sporting a lean build, wore Tom Ford slacks and an Armani ivory turtleneck beneath a Marc Jacobs fitted, tan wool coat. He looked more like a GQ model than a homicide detective at a murder scene. Yes, Mueller had an abundance of style. Plain and simple.

With a glance over his shoulder, Ross eyed Mueller’s muddy Bruno Maglis, attempting to wipe away his grin. “You’re going to need a tissue for those tears, aren’t you?” He turned around just as his left foot sank deeper into an oozing puddle, only the bootlaces sustaining their original color. His footwear, unlike his partner’s, was well-worn but perfectly broken in and comfortable for work.

“Bite me,” Mueller retorted.

Detective Jonah Ross, with his short brown hair, short beard, dark jeans, and tan cotton shirt layered under an insulated leather jacket, was presentable and professional but less fashion-conscious than Mueller. Mueller was a natural fashionista, and deservedly so. Mueller’s mom, a forty-year veteran of the competitive fashion world, passed her style and trend knowledge to her kids. Ahead of them, a group of uniformed officers milled around. Ross noticed Officer Joey Kemp approaching with his usual cocky grin.

Officer Kemp splayed his hands. “I spent three days with you, and now I have to see you again,” he said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think God was punishing me.” Officer Kemp offered a wide grin, flashing perfect teeth. His youthful looks belied the seventytwo hours he’d spent intoxicated; he appeared fresh and energetic. To be young again.

“Hey, Mueller,” Ross said, elbowing him, “did I tell you where Kemp’s ass was this weekend?”

Kemp, laughing, held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whoa, man. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” Officer Joey Kemp was Ross’ brother’s BFF since preschool, future best man, and the devil who had arranged the wild and unrestrained bachelor party in Vegas.

A bro-shake, and the rousting that went with it, was a childhood tradition for them. The six men invited to Vegas had, reportedly, been on their best behavior. Minus the excessive drinking and partying until all hours, losing tons of money gambling, hitting strip club after strip club, paying shitloads for lap dances, etc.

Apart from that, they were gentlemen.

“You the responding?” Mueller asked, staring down at his boots in a sullen mood.

Nodding, Kemp produced a notepad from his jacket’s inner pocket and unfolded it. “Victim identified as female. An attack occurred while she chatted with her nephew on her cell phone. While on his cell phone, the nephew, having heard what sounded like a struggle, used a landline to call 911 before phoning the victim’s business partner, Mr. Osmond Banks. They’re private investigators in Jersey City. Mr. Banks and the victim lunched at the Green Tree restaurant, following their visit to the Cloister. Mr. Banks, refusing to stay put, joined my partner and me with the search. We located her cell phone over there.” Officer Kemp gestured a yard up ahead toward the yellow marker on the trail. Ross and Mueller turned simultaneously. “You can still see the drag markings after the rain,” Kemp continued, pointing to the rain-soaked ground and damaged garden near the chain-link fence and foliage. “We followed its trail back in there, where we found her unconscious, bleeding from her head and where we found the graves.”

Ross surveyed the scenery. Though dense foliage covered most of the area, a small clearing a few yards to the north offered a view of the Hudson River, the George Washington Bridge, and the New Jersey Palisades—a spectacle that would have locals and tourists pause, drinking in the picturesque scene.

“Any word on the victim?” asked Ross.

“Still unconscious at Presbyterian Hospital. Got a uniform there.”

“ID?”

Officer Kemp paused, giving him an odd look.

Ross, seeing the look, emitted a quiet chuckle. “What? The victim, a celebrity or something?”

“Something like that,” Officer Kemp stated. His gaze shifted from Ross to Mueller, then back to Ross again.

Ross, impatient, exclaimed, “Christ, Joey, who’s the victim?”

“ID found in a purse near the cell phone and the identity confirmed with Mr. Banks. The victim’s name is Annabelle McBain.”

“Wait. As in . . .” Mueller’s voice tapered off.

Officer Kemp raised an eyebrow and nodded. “The one and only.” Kemp and Mueller exchanged a silent look. The Manhattan police, both experienced and new, knew Ross’ background well.

Ross recognized the name immediately and was stunned into silence. A shiver worked its way up his spine. The name hit like a sucker punch—one he hadn’t seen coming.

Kemp said, “I feel sorry for her,” his voice pulling Ross from his thoughts. “As if an omen hangs over her because of her name.”

Despite the media hype having died down after two years, the McBain case continued to hold relevance and importance, particularly within law enforcement. Ross gave a brief nod, considering Kemp’s words. It couldn’t have been easy for Ms. McBain to learn about her family’s link to a ruthless assassin. Truthfully, it unconcerned him. The murderer, her estranged brother, was far easier to handle than what he had endured from that same man. Heat surged through him, his jaw clenched tight, while fragmented images of Joseph Simone strobed in his eyes. His past, buried deep within his memories, furiously attacked him. Now is not the time. He suppressed his emotions, then he and Mueller proceeded to the next crime scene.

West of the chain-link fence, hidden in the dense foliage, crime scene investigators were meticulously searching, marking, and photographing the area. Ross saw his Homicide Unit colleagues, Detective Nick Torres and Lynn Chen, talking with some familiar precinct detectives amidst the crowd. In a crouch, the medical examiner studied the first shallow grave. With the clock ticking and rain threatening, their search for evidence—already potentially compromised by earlier storms—had to be swift. The pace increased as three crime scenes were underway simultaneously.

“Dr. Shelby,” Ross said on approach. He and Mueller stood on the opposite side of the grave.

Dr. Stan Shelby, in his thick British accent, responded, “No ID, purse, or wallet.” His two young, eager assistants stood to either side of him at the ready, waiting for their orders. “As for the time of death, you’ll have to wait until I get her on the table. Many environmental factors affect how quickly decay happens. We can no longer rely on body temperature, rigor mortis, and lividity. We will estimate the time of death based on expected post-mortem decay, but we must adjust for the body’s conditions.” He pointed to the victim’s mouth. “These mature hatchlings show a new insect generation in a similar life cycle and could mean death occurred as early as three weeks prior. Yet, as stated, conditions will influence the outcome; I’ll offer a firmer response once she’s home.”

Dr. Stan Shelby, in his late fifties, had average height and bold hazel eyes framed by round spectacles. A beige tweed fedora hid his thinning gray hair; a stiff white collar and red bow tie peeked out from under his navy blue “Medical Examiner” jacket. “The poor lass. So young,” the doctor muttered, seemingly to himself.

“The slope of the area,” Ross noted, surveying the woods, “makes the topsoil wash away faster with the continuous rain, risking the graves’ exposure.”

“Score one for Mother Nature,” Mueller said. His tone lost some of its usual edge—the grimness of the scene finally settling in.

Ross redirected his attention back to the grave and what was inside. A decaying female body lay atop what appeared to be a multi-colored quilt, now soiled and open. The body, in an advanced state of decomposition, seemed to be that of a young woman with long, possibly strawberry blond hair with her clothes intact. The hands, one on top of the other, lay across the body’s abdomen. Ross squatted down for a better look at the quilt. It seemed handcrafted, unlike something you’d find in a store. The smeared soil hid a fabric design: a pattern of individual squares, each a different color and containing a single stitched word, visible to Ross.

“Cause of death, Doc?” Mueller asked.

Dr. Shelby offered a stern look to the detective from over his glasses.

“Right,” Mueller said. “Need to get her on the table.”

Dr. Shelby pulled a clear plastic evidence bag from his medical case and gave it to Ross. “We found the item folded in her hands before your arrival.”

Ross examined the bag’s contents. A little larger than a quarter, the item appeared to be a bronze pendant or medallion with a hazy image. Ross flipped the bag over. The reverse side had tiny, unreadable, engraved writing. “Perhaps the killer’s trademark,” he commented, offering Mueller the bag for inspection.

Dr. Shelby removed his latex gloves. “She’s all set,” he told his two assistants. With a collective nod, they began their work. To the detectives, Dr. Shelby said, “Onto our next unfortunate soul.”

The second burial, located twenty feet from the first, was roughly the same width and depth. His first look surprised Ross. He expected another recent victim. Dr. Shelby placed his medical case on the ground, opened it, took out latex gloves, and donned them while bending.

A weathered, earth-soaked blanket lay half-open in the shallow grave, its contents—a skull—visible. The stark contrast between the fresh victim and this skeletal form was chilling—two women, lost to time in the same cursed place.

“One leg bone, a femur, is missing,” Dr. Shelby said. “Maybe a few small bones, too.”

Ross took a squatting position opposite the grave side. His first observation: a perfectly arranged skeleton, hands crossed over its midsection. The killer didn’t just dispose of the victim; they carefully positioned the body, like the first deceased body. The mid-thigh dress with a swirled pattern on the victim seemed torn open on the chest, but the tear was neatly aligned.

“A sexual assault may have occurred before her murder,” Ross said.

Detective Lynn Chen from Homicide walked over, a crime scene evidence bag in hand. To Ross, she quipped, “I see you returned unscathed from your testosteroneinfused weekend.”

“Couldn’t board the plane fast enough,” Ross answered.

“Considering all that cleavage and curves,” Chen scoffed playfully, “I have serious doubts.”

Lynn gave a dramatic eye roll, then pointed beyond the graves toward the thicket. “Back there, we discovered a white cross planted in the ground.”

“A further grave?” asked Ross.

“The forensic team excavated the soil. Although there’s no body or visual evidence, soil analysis is ongoing.” She displayed the evidence bag in her hand. “This wrapped bouquet lay near the cross. Though waterlogged, they’re still quite fresh. I’d estimate someone placed them within the past few days.”

“A recent visit from the killer,” Mueller said. “The graves became exposed after he visited.”

“Did we find a serial killer’s grave site?” Chen asked with dread.

“And our assault victim—was she to be buried next?” Mueller added.

Ross rose to his feet. “Too early to determine if the crimes are related. We may be dealing with a serial killer or multiple killers.”

“What are the odds that four criminals selected the same area to stake a cross, attempt murder, and dispose of bodies?” Mueller asked. “Hard to believe.”

Ross conceded that the idea appeared improbable. “We need to broaden the crime scene search for more potential victims.”

“I’ll inform Dr. Logan, the city’s forensic anthropologist at Columbia,” Dr. Shelby said, standing up, stretching his back.

Officer Kemp approached and said, “The victim is conscious.”

Ross felt a flash of fire along his spine. She’s not involved. His mind listened, yet his angry body remained unresponsive. Her genetic makeup brought the past front and center—not because he was exhausted, but because everything about this case reeked of unfinished business and ghosts he thought he’d buried.