Chapter 2 Echoes in Shelter
Rain clung to the city like a fever, dripping from gutters, seeping into every crack. Detective Elena Ward drove with the wipers beating time against the storm, her hands steady on the wheel though her pulse wasn’t. She had spent the day digging through the first victim’s life, but Angela Price’s portrait had come up painfully ordinary: a volunteer, a student, someone who believed she was making a difference. Nothing that explained why she had ended up veiled and staged like a saint.
Nothing except Haven House.
The shelter was still heavy in Elena’s mind, the peeling blue door, the receptionist’s wary eyes. Mara had worked there, once, back before her disappearance. Elena couldn’t stop replaying the receptionist’s words: She said she burned them. She was scared.
Angela had been stalked. Harassed. And still, no one had intervened.
Elena pulled into the precinct parking lot, tires hissing on wet asphalt. The hour was late; only a skeleton crew worked overnight, their windows glowing faintly against the storm. She sat in her car for a moment, watching the rain blur the lights, before forcing herself out.
Inside, the precinct smelled of burnt coffee and damp wool. A few officers lounged at their desks, eyes flicking toward her before returning to paperwork. Elena was used to the looks—respect, suspicion, pity, all tangled together.
She climbed the stairs to the homicide floor. Lieutenant Gray was waiting in his office, sleeves rolled up, hair damp from the weather. He didn’t waste time on greetings.
“Angela Price,” he said, sliding a file across the desk. “Your victim. Background check’s clean. No priors, no debts, no known enemies.”
“She volunteered at Haven House,” Elena said.
Gray sighed. “Yeah, I know. I also know your sister was tied to that place. Don’t go chasing ghosts.”
“This isn’t ghosts,” Elena snapped. She forced herself to lower her tone. “It’s a connection. Two victims, both tied to the shelter. You think that’s coincidence?”
“I think you’re seeing what you want to see,” Gray replied. His eyes were weary, but there was steel underneath. “Ward, you’ve got a good nose, but this—” He tapped the file. “This smells like obsession. Don’t let your personal history derail the case.”
Elena stared at him, jaw clenched. “Obsession catches killers, sir. Apathy doesn’t.”
For a moment, silence pressed thick between them. Then Gray leaned back in his chair, exhaling. “Fine. Chase it. But I want reports every step. You go rogue, you’re off.”
Elena didn’t bother thanking him. She turned on her heel and left, file under her arm.
---
Her desk was a cluttered island at the far end of the bullpen. She dropped the file, opened her laptop, and began pulling records on Haven House. The shelter had been around nearly fifteen years, funded mostly by donations. Its mission statement was clean, almost sanctimonious: A refuge for women seeking safety, dignity, and silence from violence.
That last word snagged her—silence. The same word the killer kept repeating in his notes. She wouldn’t listen. She stayed silent. It wasn’t coincidence.
Elena rubbed her eyes, exhaustion prickling. She was about to dig deeper when a voice interrupted.
“You look like you’ve swallowed glass.”
She glanced up. Juno Reyes leaned against the desk, neon-pink hair pulled into two messy buns, hoodie sleeves shoved up her arms. She was holding a bag of chips, crunching obnoxiously as she watched Elena.
“What do you want, Reyes?” Elena asked.
“Same as always,” Juno replied. “To stop the apocalypse. And maybe help you not drown in your own brooding.”
Elena managed the ghost of a smirk. Juno had been assigned as tech support two years back, a hacker turned analyst with a knack for digging where she shouldn’t. She was irreverent, infuriating—but invaluable.
“You’ve been monitoring Haven House’s traffic?” Elena asked.
“Of course,” Juno said, dropping into the chair opposite. “Their email system is a joke. Half the residents use it to talk to family. But get this—Angela Price’s account was accessed three days after her death.”
Elena sat up. “From where?”
“An IP address routed through six proxies, but I traced it to a public library downtown. Someone was cleaning up her inbox.”
“Deleting?”
“No,” Juno said, eyes glinting. “Copying. Whoever it was wanted her messages.”
Elena’s pulse quickened. “Print me everything. Every contact she had in the last six months.”
Juno saluted with a greasy chip. “Aye, detective.”
---
By dawn, the storm had passed, leaving the city slick and shivering under pale light. Elena sat hunched over the printouts Juno delivered, red pen circling names, drawing lines. Angela had exchanged emails with residents, staff, professors. Harmless, ordinary—except for one string of messages signed only with the letter V.
The content was vague, almost poetic: You cannot hide behind doors forever. Silence is your salvation. Soon you’ll understand.
Every hair on Elena’s neck rose.
V.
The Veil.
She shoved the pages into her file just as Marcus Vane appeared. Tall, broad, suit immaculate as always. He gave her a guarded nod.
“Ward,” he said. His voice carried the weight of old history.
“Vane,” she replied, not looking up.
They hadn’t worked together in years, not since Mara’s case had imploded and Marcus had chosen his career over loyalty. Still, Gray occasionally looped him in when things got sensitive.
“I heard about the church,” Marcus said quietly. “That’s… something.”
“Something,” Elena echoed flatly.
He hesitated, then leaned closer. “Be careful. If this ties back to Haven House—”
She snapped her eyes up. “What do you know about Haven House?”
His jaw tightened. “Nothing I can say.”
“Nothing, or nothing you will say?”
Silence stretched. His gaze flickered away, shame or guilt—she couldn’t tell which.
Before she could press, Juno returned, phone in hand. “Uh, boss? You’re going to want to see this.”
Elena grabbed the phone. On screen was a photo, freshly posted to an anonymous forum Juno monitored. The image showed a veil—white, delicate—laid across a park bench. A caption below read:
“The next will not listen.”
The timestamp was less than an hour old.
Elena’s blood ran cold. The killer was taunting them, laying breadcrumbs.
“Where?” she demanded.
“City Park,” Juno said. “I triangulated the metadata before they stripped it.”
Elena grabbed her coat, adrenaline overriding fatigue. “Let’s move.”
---
The park was nearly empty when they arrived, damp grass glittering with dew. Morning joggers glanced curiously at the police tape already going up. Officers combed the area, but Elena went straight for the bench.
The veil lay neatly folded, pristine against the wet wood. Beside it, tucked beneath one corner, was another note.
She lifted it carefully with gloved hands.
“She speaks too loudly.”
The words carved ice into her spine. Whoever “she” was, the killer had already chosen her.
And Elena knew, with terrible certainty, that the message wasn’t just about the victim.
It was about her.












































