Chapter 1: Blood on the Classroom Floor

My wife was attacked at Jefferson Elementary. To protect the kids, she stepped in and was stabbed several times by the attackers—two guys who didn’t even hesitate. She died right there from her wounds, on the same floor where she’d spent years teaching.

The memory of that day comes at me in flashes—her voice echoing down the hallway, the panic ricocheting off the walls, then that awful silence settling in. I can’t shake the image of her on that cold linoleum, surrounded by scattered crayons and tiny backpacks, her blood seeping into the tiles. Even now, the smell of antiseptic and chalk dust will hit me out of nowhere, and it’s just as sharp as the day it happened.

But here’s what really guts me: this was a planned hit. Both attackers got away.

This wasn’t some random act of violence, not some freak tragedy you could blame on fate or the universe. No, they picked their time and place, and then slipped away into the morning like ghosts. That stuck with me, burned hot. Made the grief feel rawer, sharper—this was personal. Someone out there owed me, and I was going to collect.

Once the shock wore off, I quit my job. I didn’t just walk away—I was hell-bent on spending the rest of my life hunting those bastards down. Nothing else mattered.

I didn’t hand in a notice or box up my desk. I just stopped showing up, plain and simple. My badge and gun sat untouched on the kitchen table for a week before I finally shoved them in a drawer. That was it. The only thing that mattered now was tracking them down. The city just faded away, days and nights blurring together as I started my own investigation.

Detective Eric Dalton had the case. He’d once been my rookie partner back at the precinct, so he broke protocol and let me see the files.

Eric was always by-the-book, but when he saw me in his office—eyes bloodshot, hands shaking—he just let out a long sigh and slid the folder across the desk. “Don’t make me regret this, Jake,” he muttered. But we both knew he’d do the same if it were his wife. There’s a brotherhood you never really shake, even after the job’s chewed you up and spit you out.

I started piecing it all together, statement by statement, trying to reconstruct what happened.

I spent hours hunched over his kitchen table, files spread out everywhere, a cup of coffee gone cold at my elbow. I read and reread every line, every detail, until the sequence of events played in my head on a loop—like a movie I couldn’t shut off.

The two attackers were after a boy named Lucas Grant. They didn’t bother with subtlety—just pulled knives and threatened him in broad daylight. No hesitation.

They wanted everyone to see. They didn’t care about being caught—they wanted to send a message, wanted fear. Kids on the playground saw it all. Teachers tried to herd the children inside, but it happened too fast.

My wife was heartbreakingly brave. She didn’t think twice—she jumped in, blocking their way and grabbing one guy’s arm.

I can see her now—steady, determined, that stubborn look she got when she knew she was right. She didn’t hesitate, not for a second. That was Lauren: always running toward the danger.

One of them panicked and slashed at her. Even after she hit the ground, wounded, she still tried to hold them back.

She must have known what could happen, but she fought anyway. Even bleeding out on the floor, she clawed at their legs, doing anything to slow them down. Kids’ screams filled the air, but she was locked in on the attackers, refusing to let go.

In the chaos, she realized their target was Lucas. She crawled over—dragged herself—and shielded him with her body.

I imagine the fear in that boy’s eyes—the confusion, the terror—and then Lauren’s arms around him. She became a shield, a barrier against the ugliest side of the world. I bet she whispered something to him, something to keep him calm, to let him know he wasn’t alone.

With their plan falling apart, the attackers went berserk, hacking at my wife. She never flinched, never backed down.

They lost it, lashing out wild—but Lauren held her ground, teeth gritted, refusing to let them past. That kind of courage rattled them.

The security guys stormed in, bats raised, yelling for the attackers to drop it. The guys ran, shoving through the crowd, disappearing into the maze of backstreets behind the school. In all that chaos, the kids scattered—some bawling, some just frozen, eyes wide.

About an hour before the attack, the school’s security cameras were disabled. The attackers wore masks, left almost nothing behind.

It was almost surgical—the cameras went dead, the timing was too perfect. Someone had planned this down to the minute. The police found the wires cut, but the security company just shrugged it off, blaming a power surge. I wasn’t buying it. These weren’t amateurs.

No doubt about it—this was planned down to the last detail.

Every single clue pointed to a pro job. I ran the timeline over and over in my head, hunting for something everyone else missed. There had to be a crack somewhere—a slip, a mistake.

My wife took deep cuts to her face, her skull fractured, stabbed through the abdomen. Even the coroner—tough old guy—just shook his head, unable to hide how bad it was.

I sat in that cold, antiseptic room while the coroner spoke in that gentle, practiced voice. He tried to soften it, but there was no way to make it less horrific. I didn’t cry. I just listened, numb, as he explained how much damage had been done. There was nothing left to save.

I was numb, hollowed out. I felt like I had nothing left—except the drive to find those two animals.

Days blurred into nights. I barely ate, barely slept. The only thing that kept me going was the hunt. Revenge was the only thing that made sense anymore. Nothing else mattered.

"Jake, I’m so sorry. My team and I will do everything we can to get justice for you—and for everyone else," Eric said, voice rough.

Eric’s words felt heavy, awkward in the air. He stood in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, like he wanted to say more but just couldn’t. Funny how grief can make strangers out of even your oldest friends.

"You were one of the best detectives we had. If you find anything, let us know."

He tried to keep it official, but his eyes told a different story. He wanted me to find something, anything, to break the case. He knew what I was capable of. Maybe he was hoping I’d pull off what he couldn’t.

Then Eric left, just like that.

The door clicked shut, and I was alone again. The apartment felt emptier than ever, Lauren’s things untouched, her scent—vanilla and coffee—still hanging in the air.

Late that night, I stared at the case files on my laptop, my mind racing, piecing together the first threads of a theory.

The screen’s glow washed the room in a blue haze. I read every statement, every report, until the words blurred together. I started pinning photos to the wall, drawing lines between names. It was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.