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“Time of death?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“ME estimates between midnight and 3:00 AM,” Chen responds. “CSU is processing the scene now.”

My gaze drifts to the bar’s back door, remembering how many times I’d walked through it during my investigation. How many times I’d sat inside, watching Gio and his men, hoping to catch them in the act. And now, mere feet from where I’d been working, another woman had suffered. And this time she was dead.

The familiar burn of failure settles in my chest, mixing with a simmering rage. This is personal now—not just because it’s my case, but because it happened right under my nose, in a place I should have been watching more closely.

Memories of my own encounter with Gio flood back. The feel of his hands on my throat, the terror of knowing I might die. But I survived my attack unscathed. Just like all the other women Gio had brutally raped, I got away.

This woman didn’t.

“The bruising pattern around her neck,” I murmur, more to myself than Narissa. “It’s different from the others.”

The marks are darker, deeper—evidence of increased force and rage. The violence is escalating, becoming more brazen. More brutal.

The rope burns on the victim’s wrists mock me, a stark reminder of my failure to stop this before another life was lost.

“The bastard’s getting more confident,” Rissa says, pulling on latex gloves. “Leaving her out in the open like this.”

I stand and step back from the body, my hands trembling as I peel off my latex gloves. The sound of sirens and camera shutters fades into white noise as a devastating thought hits me. If I had died that night instead of getting away, would all these other women still be alive?

The question burns in my throat like bile. My gaze drifts back to the victim’s face—so young, so violated.

I lean against the alley wall, the course brick grounding me as waves of guilt crash through my chest. The rational part of my brain knows this isn’t my fault. I didn’t ask to be attacked in my home. I didn’t kill Gio. But the man who did, did it to protect me.

I’m not responsible for this crime but I’m the reason it’s happening.

But logic does nothing to quiet the voice whispering that if I had just died that night, maybe this would have ended with me. Maybe Gio wouldn’t have been murdered. Maybe this new killer wouldn’t have emerged, leaving a trail of broken bodies in his wake.

The afternoon sun rises higher, casting harsh shadows across the crime scene. Across a woman who didn’t survive. My chest constricts as I count them in my head—all the victims who’ve been raped since that night. Since I lived and Gio didn’t.

“Look at the pattern of bruising around her neck,” Rissa says, crouching beside the body. Her latex gloves crinkle as she gestures to the dark marks. “The thumbprints are deeper on the right side, suggesting a right-handed attacker who applied more pressure with their dominant hand.”

I force myself to focus on her clinical analysis, grateful for her methodical approach. It’s easier to think about ligature marks and blood splatter patterns than to dwell on the growing knot of guilt in my chest.

“The rope burns on her wrists show signs of struggle,” Rissa continues, gently lifting one of the victim’s arms. “The patterns suggest she was bound for several hours before death. See how the skin is abraded differently here? She tried to break free.”

I’ve seen these wounds before—in photos of previous victims, in my nightmares about that night with Gio. The clinical part of my brain catalogs the evidence while another part screams that this is my fault.

“The sexual assault was particularly violent,” Rissa says, her voice steady but tight. “Multiple tears and contusions. He’s escalating, becoming more aggressive with each victim.”

I think I’m going to be sick. A crime scene has never affected me this violently before.

“There are defensive wounds on her hands too.” Rissa points to the broken fingernails, the bruised knuckles. “She didn’t make it easy for him.”

I nod mechanically, trying to stay present in the investigation and not lose my lunch in the process. But my mind keeps circling back to the women in our community—mothers, daughters, sisters—all potential targets. How many more will suffer before we catch this bastard?

“Eve?” Rissa’s voice cuts through my spiral. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” I manage, though my voice is hollow. “Just … processing.”

She gives me a knowing look but continues her analysis, providing a lifeline of facts and evidence to keep me from drowning in guilt.

Rissa and I walk back to our car in silence. My hands tremble as I fish the keys from my pocket, still seeing the victim’s empty eyes staring up at nothing.

My phone buzzes in my jacket. Probably Zeke checking in—his men probably informed him the second I left the precinct. I pull it out, expecting to see his name on the screen.

Instead, there’s a text from an unknown number. My breath catches as I read the words.