The Veil Collector

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Chapter 3 The Watcher in the Glass

The hallway outside the crime scene still smelled of bleach and metal. Elena Ward lingered near the threshold, her hand grazing the tape as officers filed past with boxes of evidence. Each of them gave her that look—half sympathy, half suspicion. Like she was the unspoken connection tying it all together.

Captain Ruiz’s voice still echoed in her skull: We’ll need to question you formally, Ward. Don’t take this personally.

Personally? The name carved into a corpse’s flesh wasn’t exactly impersonal.

Elena pressed her back against the cold plaster wall, focusing on the steady rhythm of her breathing. She had learned this trick years ago in the academy—count each inhale, count each exhale. Anchor yourself. But tonight, her rhythm kept skipping, like the world was rushing three beats ahead of her heart.

The first victim. The veil. The crucifixion staging. And her name spelled out in blood.

Not coincidence. Not some bored copycat looking to make headlines. Whoever had done this had burrowed into her history, scraped their nails across memories she kept locked down.

“Detective.”

The voice snapped her back. Juno Reyes, the analyst, appeared at her side, a tablet tucked beneath one arm and a smirk hovering just shy of disrespect. She was chewing gum like the end of the world was postponed until she lost flavor.

“You look like hell,” Juno said matter-of-factly.

Elena arched a brow. “And you look like a Skittles commercial exploded on your head.”

Tonight Juno’s hair was streaked with violent blue, jagged like lightning across her short bob. “Touché. Thought you’d want the early pulls from the scene before Ruiz locks everything in the vault.” She nudged the tablet into Elena’s hands.

The screen glowed with high-res photographs of the victim. Even though Elena had seen it in person, the images punched harder now, still and merciless. Each incision was deliberate, clean, like a surgeon’s hand guided by obsession. The veil—a translucent layer of cloth stained dark—covered the face entirely.

“Lab says the fabric’s antique,” Juno explained. “Cotton weave, hand-dyed. Doesn’t match anything commercially available in the last twenty years. Whoever sourced it had an eye for detail… or an attic full of ghosts.”

Elena swiped through more photos, jaw tightening. The organs had been arranged carefully, an almost ceremonial placement that spelled her name.

“Tell me that’s a coincidence,” Juno said quietly.

Elena’s throat constricted. “It isn’t.”

Juno leaned back against the wall, gum popping. “You know, most killers want attention. This one? They want you. Front row seat. Maybe even center stage.”

The words prickled under Elena’s skin. She hated that Juno had said it aloud—because it was true.

They want me in this.

---

By the time Elena reached her car, the precinct’s parking lot was nearly empty. The rain had thickened into a fine mist that coated her windshield, distorting the city lights into blurry halos. She sat for a long moment before starting the engine, staring at her reflection in the glass.

For a split second, she swore she wasn’t alone.

There—behind her shoulder—something shifted.

Elena spun, flashlight already in hand. The backseat was empty. Just files, a jacket, and the hollow silence of paranoia. She exhaled through her teeth, furious at herself.

You’re losing it, Ward. First crime scene, and you’re already jumping at shadows.

Still, she couldn’t shake the sense of eyes lingering where they shouldn’t.

---

Her apartment was no sanctuary. The walls were bare, save for a single framed photo of Mara tucked in the corner of her desk. Mara, younger by three years, grinning with that crooked smile, hair wind-tangled on a pier somewhere along Lake Michigan. A picture Elena had taken the summer before Mara disappeared.

Elena traced the frame with one finger, the memory heavy as iron.

The phone buzzed.

Not her precinct-issued cell—her personal one. Unknown number.

She answered cautiously. “Ward.”

Nothing but static. Then a low exhale.

“Who is this?”

Silence.

The call ended.

Elena stared at the screen, pulse hammering. She dialed the number back—disconnected. Already gone.

She poured a drink she didn’t need, letting the burn anchor her nerves. But as she lowered the glass, she noticed it—faint, but undeniable. Across the street, through the haze of mist and streetlamps, a figure stood at the corner. Still. Watching.

By the time she grabbed her gun and stormed to the window, the corner was empty.

Her reflection stared back at her in the glass, pale and ragged, with Mara’s photo watching from the desk like a ghost too stubborn to leave.

---

Morning came gray and unfriendly. Elena hadn’t slept. She was back at the precinct before sunrise, fueled by bitter coffee and the quiet certainty that this case was designed to gut her piece by piece.

Captain Ruiz was waiting in his office, arms crossed. His eyes flicked to the dark circles under hers, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he slid a folder across the desk.

“Victim’s name: Daniel Fraser. Crime scene analyst, assigned to your original Skull Artist case. You remember him?”

Elena nodded slowly. She remembered Fraser—meticulous, awkward, always with a notebook in his pocket. She remembered the night he’d testified at the trial, describing the evidence with clinical detachment.

“Why him?” Ruiz asked.

Elena hesitated. “Because he touched the case. Because he touched Greaves.”

“Greaves has been locked down for seven years,” Ruiz said sharply. “He doesn’t get phone calls. He doesn’t get visitors.”

Elena leaned forward, voice low. “Then explain the veil. Explain the signature. Explain my name spelled in a dead man’s body.”

Ruiz rubbed his temple, weary. “We’ll bring you in officially this afternoon. You’ll answer questions, clear the air.”

“You think I’m a suspect.”

“I think we’re going to be careful,” Ruiz countered.

The silence between them stretched, brittle as glass.

Finally, Ruiz added, “If you want my advice—don’t chase this ghost, Ward. Let the task force handle it.”

But Elena was already rising from her chair. “You know I can’t do that.”

---

Juno found her in the records room two hours later, knee-deep in case files. Dust motes floated in shafts of light from the high windows, settling on stacks of photographs and old testimonies.

“You ever heard of sleep?” Juno asked, leaning against the shelf.

“Sleep is for people who aren’t being hunted,” Elena muttered, flipping another file open.

Juno rolled her gum into a wrapper, finally serious. “Okay. So tell me. You think this is Greaves?”

Elena hesitated, staring down at the grainy black-and-white crime scene photo from seven years ago. The Skull Artist’s work—raw, grotesque, and unforgettable.

“No,” she said finally. “Greaves is too controlled. Too narcissistic. He wouldn’t hand his canvas to someone else. But someone… someone is trying to finish what he started. Someone who thinks they know me.”

Juno frowned. “And maybe they do.”

The air in the records room seemed to thicken with that possibility.

---

That night, as Elena drove home, she caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror. For an instant, she saw another set of eyes reflected there. Green. Cold.

She jerked the wheel, pulling to the curb, heart i

n her throat.

The backseat was empty again.

But she couldn’t shake it anymore.

Someone was watching her.

And they wanted her to know.

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