Chapter 2: The First Case – Murder on the Orient Express

The call came in just before dawn.

I was at my desk, staring at nothing, my fingers absently tracing the rim of a cold coffee cup. The phone's shrill ring cut through the silence like a scalpel through flesh. I answered it without flinching.

"There's been a murder," Chief Inspector Halden's voice rasped on the other end. "Luxury train. Private car. Victim's high-profile. We want you on it."

"Where?" I asked.

"Northbound Express. It's docked at East Terminal. Get moving."

He hung up. He always did. I didn't take it personally.

By the time I arrived at the terminal, the first rays of sun had started bleeding through the glass ceiling, casting fractured light across the station like broken stained glass. The train loomed before me—a sleek, vintage model restored with obsessive detail. Gold trim, polished wood, velvet seats. Old money's toy.

A uniformed officer met me at the door.

"Detective Vale." He nodded stiffly. "Car eight. You'll want to see it for yourself."

I stepped inside.

The car smelled of lavender and iron. A strange mix—deliberate, almost theatrical. The crime scene was contained, untouched, roped off with the usual yellow tape. But what caught my eye wasn't the blood. It was the arrangement.

The victim was a man in his early sixties. Wealthy, according to the file I'd skimmed—Miles Duvall, CEO of a conglomerate specializing in pharmaceuticals. A titan of industry, reduced now to something delicate. Almost… artful.

He was posed in the center of the cabin, back against the tufted bench, hands folded over his chest. Around him, scattered with intentional chaos, were white lilies and dark roses. Not just placed—composed. Arranged. Like a photograph. Like a memory.

My throat went dry.

"You recognize the pattern?" asked Detective Raines, my partner for the case. Young, green, too eager.

"No," I lied, crouching beside the body. "But it's symbolic. Lilies for purity. Death. Roses for love... or loss. Someone wanted to make a statement."

Raines whistled low. "Creepy as hell. No fingerprints. No signs of forced entry. The cabin was locked from the inside. One window cracked open just enough to let in the morning breeze."

I stared at the flowers.

This wasn't random. This wasn't improvisation. This was studied. Reverent. A performance, meant for an audience. And it wasn't the public this killer was trying to impress.

It was me.

The photos came back from forensics an hour later. I stared at the black-and-white printouts under the fluorescent light. Every detail, every petal, was placed the same way I used to. Back then. Before I buried that part of myself. Before I put the box under my bed.

"You okay?" Raines asked, watching me too closely.

"Fine," I said. I turned to the body again, forcing myself to remain in control. "Check Duvall's background. Enemies. Lawsuits. Look for patterns."

He nodded and left, eager for something to do.

I remained behind.

Alone with the dead man and the flowers.

I crouched again, this time letting my fingers hover above the petals. I didn't touch them—my gloves remained clean—but I remembered the feeling. The way the roses would catch on your skin if you weren't careful. The way lilies bruise so easily.

It was too perfect. The symmetry. The silence. I'd seen it before—not on any police file, not in any casebook.

In my own hands.

Years ago.

There had been a girl. A woman, really. She wore red. She begged. I didn't stop. I remembered the exact angle of her wrists when she fell. The way her blood mixed with the lilies I left beside her, a parting gift.

That was before I became Detective Vale.

The whisper inside me stirred again.

Do you see it now?

I closed my eyes.

Not now. Not again.

By nightfall, I had solved the case. It was the wife—jealous, precise, unrepentant. She had poisoned him during dinner, slipped into the car later to arrange the scene. She confessed when I confronted her with the evidence: a rare toxin, a missing glove, a petal left in her purse.

But I couldn't shake it.

She had mimicked my pattern. Not exactly. But close enough. Too close.

Later, in the privacy of my apartment, I pulled the box from beneath the bed. I laid out the clippings. Old victims. My victims. Each one a quiet masterpiece.

I stared at them long into the night.

Someone was watching me. Studying me.

And they were just getting started