Chapter 3: Reflections in the Mirror

The mirror doesn't lie.

But sometimes, I wish it would.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, my eyes fixed on the woman staring back. Same raven hair, tied into a tight knot. Same angular jawline, shadowed under the soft light. But something in her gaze had changed. It flickered now. Like a match, just before it dies.

I leaned closer, studying myself the way I study a crime scene. As though, if I looked long enough, I'd find the cracks. The weak points. The truth buried beneath flesh and muscle.

The lilies and roses. The pattern on that train. It wasn't coincidence. It wasn't inspiration.

It was a message.

The kind only I could understand.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to erase the thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind. They never truly left. Not since the box. Not since her.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

A text from Raines:

Duvall's funeral tomorrow. Want to come? Might be worth observing the guests.

I stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen.

Sure. I'll be there.

I hit send.

Then, almost reflexively, I typed another message.

Have you ever wondered if the killer is already inside the investigation?

I didn't send that one.

Instead, I stared at my reflection a little longer, until the woman in the mirror no longer looked familiar.

The funeral was cold and clinical, held in the marbled halls of a West Coast chapel built for spectacle, not mourning. I arrived dressed in black, a long coat over a turtleneck, my badge hidden from view. I preferred it that way.

A handful of mourners gathered near the casket. Duvall's widow sobbed softly, veiled in black lace. Her hands trembled, but I'd seen them steady enough when signing the confession. Her performance today was for them—the guests. Not for me.

I didn't care about the grieving.

I was watching the flowers.

A wreath of white lilies and roses stood beside the casket.

Exactly the same combination.

My breath caught. I stepped closer, scanning the tag.

"In eternal sleep, may beauty remain."

No sender listed.

I tore the tag from the ribbon and slipped it into my coat. No one noticed.

I turned to Raines, who had just arrived. "See anyone out of place?"

He scanned the room. "No press. Security's tight. Nothing jumps out. You?"

I looked past him, toward the far end of the room.

A man in a charcoal coat stood alone by the window, his back to the rest of the mourners. He didn't approach the casket. Didn't speak to anyone. Just stared into the rain-speckled glass.

I narrowed my eyes.

"Who's that?"

Raines turned, then shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe a business associate? You want me to check?"

"No. I've got it."

I walked slowly toward the man, each step measured. When I reached him, he turned—smoothly, as if he had been waiting for me.

His face was sharp, elegant. High cheekbones. Pale skin. Eyes like frostbite.

He smiled.

"I was wondering when you'd notice me," he said, voice low, polished.

"Friend of the deceased?" I asked, keeping my expression neutral.

He tilted his head. "Not quite. I'm here for the art."

My heart skipped a beat.

"What art?"

He smiled wider. "The kind only a select few can recognize."

I stared at him, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears.

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "That's because I didn't offer it."

And just like that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd before I could follow.

I stood there, rooted, cold creeping down my spine.

The whispers were louder now.

That night, I didn't go home.

I went to the precinct instead, locking myself in the evidence room. I pulled out the crime scene photos from Duvall's murder again. Spread them across the table. The same floral pattern. The same composition.

The killer wasn't just recreating the murders.

They were imitating me.

But how?

How could they know what I did? Who I was? That part of my life was buried, burned, erased.

Or so I thought.

I sank into the chair, fingers trembling as I reached for my pen. In the margins of the autopsy report, I scribbled a single word.

Reflection.

Not just a copy.

A mirror.