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My hands tremble as I push back from my desk, standing so quickly my chair rolls into the filing cabinet behind me with a loud clang.

“We need to move fast,” I say, grabbing my badge and gun from my desk drawer. My fingers brush against the cold metal of my weapon, and for a moment, I’m back in my house, feeling that same terror as Gio advanced on me. I shake it off, focusing on the present. “If Alessandro gets word that we found a body, he’ll be there before us.”

Rissa nods, already directing the team. “Martin, contact CSU and make sure they’re processing the scene properly. We need photos of everything before the body’s moved.” She turns to another detective. “Johnson, start reaching out to your CIs. Someone must have heard something about this hit.”

My throat tightens as I watch her take control. She doesn’t know—can’t know—that I’m sleeping under the same roof as the man responsible for this murder. That I’m being forced to marry him in a week.

“Eve.” Rissa’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You’ve been tracking the Costa family’s movements. This could be the break we’ve been waiting for. What do you need?”

I swallow hard, forcing myself to think like a detective and not a woman caught between duty and survival. “We need to pull all similar cases from the last six months. Look for patterns, connections. And like I said, we need to get to that scene before the evidence washes away or vanishes in the wrong hands.”

Rissa starts issuing more orders, but my mind is already racing ahead to what this means. To what Zeke has done. To what I’m now complicit in hiding.

Once we’re confident everyone has their orders, Rissa grabs the keys, and we rush outside to our car.

The squad car cuts through morning traffic, lights flashing but sirens silent. Rissa drives while I study the preliminary report on my phone, though the words blur together.

“The timing can’t be coincidental,” Rissa says, taking a sharp turn that slams my shoulder against the door. “First, we get close to linking the Costas to the trafficking ring and string of rapes, then Gio turns up dead?”

I grip the handle above the window tighter, my knuckles white. If only she knew just how right she was about the timing. The metallic taste of guilt fills my mouth.

“We’ve been building this case for months,” I manage to say, keeping my voice steady. “Someone must have gotten nervous.”

Rissa glances at me, her pale blue eyes sharp behind her glasses. “Or someone’s cleaning house. Think about it—all those cold cases with similar MOs. Bodies in rivers, gunshot wounds, signs of torture. What if they’re all connected?”

I feel sick as I dig myself deeper into this hole. “We need to pull those files,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “Cross-reference everything. There has to be a pattern we missed.”

“Already texted Martin to start gathering them.” Rissa weaves through traffic with practiced ease. “But Eve, if this is what we think it is—if the Costas are really behind all these murders—”

“Then we’re sitting on a powder keg,” I finish, thinking of Zeke, of his dark eyes and the violence he’s capable of. “And this body could be the match that lights it.”

“Alessandro Costa isn’t going to take his son’s murder lying down,” Rissa says grimly. “We need to work fast before this escalates into an all-out war.”

If she only knew it already had.

The Scioto Riverstretches before us like a dark mirror, its surface deceptively peaceful in the morning light. Yellow crime scene tape flutters in the breeze, marking off a section of the muddy bank where uniformed officers and CSU techs move with grim purpose. The air is thick with the musty smell of river water and decay.

My boots sink into the soft earth as I follow Rissa down the gentle slope. Each step feels heavier than the last, weighted by the knowledge of what—who—waits at the bottom. Water laps against the shore in a steady rhythm that reminds me of a heartbeat. A heartbeat that Gio no longer has, thanks to Zeke.

“CSU’s been here for about an hour,” Officer Chen reports as we approach. His face is slightly green, and he keeps swallowing hard. “Body’s pretty waterlogged, but the ME thinks he’s been dead at least twenty-four hours and tossed in the river shortly after.”

I scan the scene, taking in details with practiced detachment. Evidence markers dot the shoreline like yellow butterflies. Photographers document everything from multiple angles, their camera flashes bright against the murky water. Several yards downstream, divers prepare to search for additional evidence.

“Any signs of struggle on the bank?” Rissa asks, pulling on latex gloves. They give a sharp snap once they’re fully over her hands.

“Nothing obvious.” Chen replies. “But with last night’s rain—”

I tune out their conversation, my attention drawn to the tarp-covered form near the water’s edge. I remember the metallicsmell of blood, the way Zeke’s eyes had gone cold and distant in that moment.

“Eve?” Rissa’s voice pulls me back. She’s watching me with concern, her notepad already in hand. “You ready?”

I nod, though my throat is too tight to speak. Together, we approach the body, each step bringing us closer to a truth I’m now part of concealing. The weight of my badge seems to grow heavier with every footstep.

The ME pulls back the tarp, and I have to lock my knees to keep from staggering backward. The stench of wet decay hits me first—river water and something far worse—but it’s the sight that makes my stomach heave.

Gio’s face is barely recognizable, bloated and discolored from the water. His clothes are waterlogged and torn, revealing patches of mottled skin underneath. But it’s the evidence of violence that draws my trained eye—the unnatural angle of his broken jaw, the deep purple bruising around his throat, the compound fracture in his right arm where bone has torn through flesh.

This isn’t how he died. Zeke broke his neck. The rest of these wounds are staged. Did Zeke have this done to throw the police off? To confuse the real cause of his death?