Chapter 4: The Second Case – The Murders in the Rue Morgue

It was raining again.

Old Town always looked better drenched in grey—slick cobblestones, oil-slick puddles, the scent of rust and rot rising from the gutters. It felt honest. Like the city wasn't trying to pretend.

I stood outside the crumbling apartment on Rue Morgue, collar up, watching the blue-and-red lights flicker across the broken windows. Another crime scene. Another call before sunrise.

But this time, it wasn't just another case.

This time, it was them again.

"You ready?" Raines asked beside me, his breath fogging in the cold air.

I nodded once. "Let's go."

The interior of the building was the stuff of nightmares. Water damage ate the wallpaper, the floor creaked with every step, and the air hung heavy with mold and blood.

The victims were upstairs.

I followed the trail—officers whispering, cameras flashing, evidence bags sealed. The door to the unit had been forced open. Splintered wood. Old locks. And inside…

Inside was art.

Horrifying, perfect art.

A mother and daughter. Both laid out on the living room floor, their throats cleanly slashed. No struggle. No mess. Just precision. The child's teddy bear sat beside her, untouched. The mother's eyes were still open.

Surrounding them, as if growing from the floor itself, were marigolds.

Bright yellow. Vibrant.

Violent.

I stood in the doorway, paralyzed for a moment.

I'd done this before.

Years ago.

Not with the same victims. But the staging. The flowers. The innocence, painted in death. It was the same pattern. One of my early ones. Before I learned to perfect the angles. Back when I was still experimenting.

The urge to run clawed at my stomach.

Instead, I stepped forward.

"Clear signs of premeditation," I said, as Raines moved in behind me. "Whoever did this knew the victims. No forced entry, no defensive wounds. They trusted the killer."

He crouched near the girl. "The marigolds… that's weird, right?"

"They symbolize pain. Grief. The kind that lingers."

He looked up at me. "You say that like you've thought about it before."

"I've read too much," I lied.

But the truth settled in my bones like winter.

This wasn't imitation anymore.

It was escalation.

Back at the precinct, I reviewed the file alone. Age of the child: seven. Name: Lila. Mother: Adrienne Hale. No recent threats, no signs of abuse. Just quiet, routine lives snuffed out like candles.

But it wasn't the names that disturbed me.

It was the date.

March 18th.

The same day I killed Elise Hartman.

The same day I left marigolds around her lifeless body, tucked into her hands like a bouquet from a guilty lover.

Coincidence?

No.

This was a message.

I pulled open the old box again—my private archive. Hidden in the back of my closet, under a loose floorboard. Photos, notes, newspaper clippings yellowed with age.

I found the picture.

Elise.

Face pale, eyes glassy, marigolds blooming around her.

Identical.

I felt the whisper again. Closer this time. A breath against my ear.

They know you.

They see you.

A knock at my door.

I shoved the box away, slammed the floorboard back down, and straightened my coat.

"Come in."

Raines stepped inside, holding a file.

"Phone records from the Hale case. You'll want to see this."

He tossed it onto my desk. I opened it with forced calm.

One number stood out—an untraceable burner, used four times in the past week. All calls lasted under thirty seconds. And one, just two days ago, had pinged a tower near the old train yard.

Near the villa.

My mouth went dry.

"Good work," I said, handing the file back. "Follow up on that number. See if it connects to anything else."

He raised an eyebrow. "You okay? You look… different."

"I'm fine."

He hesitated, then nodded and left.

I waited until I was alone, then whispered under my breath:

"Why are you doing this?"

But no one answered.

Not yet.

I returned to the scene that night.

Alone.

Rue Morgue was quiet, cordoned off. I picked the lock with muscle memory, slipped inside, flashlight in hand. I needed to feel it. Breathe it. Stand where the killer had stood.

The marigolds were gone—bagged for evidence.

But I remembered where they'd been.

In the space between the bodies, someone had carved something small into the wooden floorboards. Shallow. Rushed.

I crouched.

It was a single letter:

L.

Not a signature.

A signature would have been bold.

This was personal.

And suddenly, I knew.

This wasn't a fan.

This wasn't admiration.

This was obsession.

Someone had studied my work.

And now, they were perfecting it.