Chapter 1: The Woman in Red Returns

It was my third week living in this rental, and every night I had the same dream. Go figure.

Even after almost a month in this place, my nights still sucked. Each time I crawled under those scratchy sheets, exhaustion would fade and dread would creep in. I swear, it was like the apartment was waiting for me to close my eyes—like it was holding its breath, just for me. I’d never been superstitious, but honestly, something about this place just felt off—something I couldn’t shake, no matter how many true crime podcasts I blasted to drown out the silence.

In the dream, three women always stood at the foot of my bed. Their clothes changed—one wore a crimson dress, another a sharp red business suit, and the third was always a blur—but each one looked absolutely wrecked. Total despair in every line of their bodies.

It was like they’d just stepped out of a rainstorm, soaked in grief. The one in the dress sometimes hugged her arms tight, shivering; the woman in the suit looked like she’d just lost everything in a boardroom. The blurred one—she hovered, flickering in and out, like she wasn’t even sure she belonged here at all. I couldn’t move. Not even in the dream. The air would get so heavy with sadness, pressing down on my chest, until I snapped awake gasping for breath.

They never spoke—just stared at me with the desperate eyes of someone drowning. I’d feel my own panic rising, heartbeat thundering in my ears, and then—and then I’d wake up, screaming.

Their eyes—God, those eyes. Panic would jolt me awake, the taste of fear sharp on my tongue, scream half-formed and stuck in my throat. Sometimes I’d be clutching the mattress so hard my knuckles went white. Every time, it felt like they wanted something from me. Something I just didn’t have.

"That dream again..." I whispered, like saying it out loud might help. Maybe if I named it, it would lose some of its power.

The words came out in a hoarse whisper, the kind that only slips out when the world’s still pitch black and your heart’s thumping like a jackhammer. I sounded more like a ghost than the ghosts themselves. Nice.

I wiped cold sweat from my forehead, the skin slick and clammy beneath my fingers.

My hand shook. The sweat was clammy, sticky against my skin. "Shit," I muttered, pressing my palm to my chest and trying to slow my racing pulse.

The old window AC rattled like a rusty pickup truck. Figures. Even the AC was haunted.

It kicked on with a shudder, rattling the pane so hard I half-expected it to crash into the alley below. The noise filled the room. Almost comforting. Almost.

Moonlight slipped through the gap in the curtains, tracing a pale line across the bed. I watched it, eyes wide, trying not to breathe too loud. Even the dust in the air seemed to hang there, caught in that cold light.

That thin slice of light looked almost surgical, like it was trying to cut away the darkness. I wished—damn, I wished—the night would just hurry up and be over already.

This dump—I wanted to scream it, but it came out as a hiss between my teeth. What a joke. I’d landed the deal of the year, right? Yeah, right.

I muttered it under my breath, half-laughing, half-ready to punch a hole in the drywall. Sometimes, you really do get what you pay for.

When I first moved into this two-bedroom apartment, right on the edge of downtown Silver Hollow, paying only $900 a month—I thought I’d scored. Seriously, who gets that lucky? I even bragged about it to my buddies.

Everyone said I was lucky. “You’re living alone? That close to downtown? For under a grand?” they’d say, shaking their heads. I’d puff up, pretending I was some kind of rental genius. But the truth? I was just desperate.

Now I knew why it was so cheap. Should’ve known.

Yeah, there’s always a catch. Leaky faucet, weird stains on the ceiling, pipes that groan like dying whales—whatever, I could handle all that. But the dreams? That wasn’t in the ad. Not even in the fine print.

I opened my phone’s notepad and started typing up the details of tonight’s dream, like it’d do any good. This ritual was pointless, but I couldn’t stop.

I’d started this habit after the second week, hoping that writing things down would make them go away. It never worked. Still, at least it gave me something to do at 3 a.m. besides stare at the ceiling and curse my life. What a joke.

The woman in the red dress was closest this time, with a bruise on her neck so dark it made my stomach turn. I flinched, even just remembering it.

I hesitated before typing that last part. The bruise was ugly, deep purple against her pale skin. I swear, in the dream, she lifted her hand to touch it, almost like she was ashamed. Like she didn’t want me to see.

The one in the red business suit seemed almost transparent—like she could vanish if I blinked. I felt a chill, watching her flicker in and out.

She’d looked right through me, her eyes hollow, her suit hanging off her thin frame like she’d missed too many meals. I wondered, just for a second, if she’d ever smiled in her life.

The girl farthest away was always a blur. No matter what I did, I could never see her face. Never. It was maddening.

It was like her features were smeared, a face behind a rain-streaked window. I tried squinting, leaning closer—even in the dream—but the harder I looked, the more she faded, slipping out of reach. Damn it.

Each time, the details grew clearer, as if... they were trying to tell me something. Something I wasn’t ready to hear.

I felt a cold shiver crawl up my spine. It was like the dream was muscling its way into my memory, refusing to be forgotten, pushing into my waking life whether I wanted it or not.

Enough was enough. I wasn’t going to let some nightmare chase me out of my own apartment. If there was something I needed to know, I was damn well going to find out.

Early the next morning, I knocked on Mr. Grady’s door. My stomach twisted as I stood in that hallway, hands stuffed in my hoodie pockets.

The hallway smelled like old coffee and stale cigarettes. I barely managed to drag a comb through my hair before coming down here, but who was I kidding—Grady wouldn’t care. He was the kind of guy who’d wear slippers to his own funeral.

“Hey there, up so early? What’s up?” Old Grady opened the door, bleary-eyed and still reeking of last night’s whiskey. I could practically taste the booze on the air.

His hair stuck up in tufts, wild and gray, and he squinted at me like I was a bill collector. The scent of cheap bourbon hit me first, and his shirt was rumpled, like he’d slept in it for days. Typical.

This guy in his sixties, who lived alone, was infamous in the building for his drinking. But the guy never missed a rent payment—not once. Go figure.

He was the sort of fixture you found in every aging apartment block—a little too friendly, a little too nosy, always lurking in the lobby. The kind of guy who’d seen everything and forgotten half of it. I wondered how many secrets he’d buried under these floorboards.

“Mr. Grady, I wanted to ask you something. My friend gave me these last night, but I can’t finish them alone.” I held out two bottles of Jim Beam, trying to look casual, like this was just a neighborly gesture.

He eyed the bottles, and his whole face seemed to brighten. “Well, ain’t you a peach,” he said, already twisting the cap off. No way he was turning down free whiskey—not even if it was sunrise.

His eyes lit up instantly. For a second, he looked ten years younger.

It was like flipping a switch. Suddenly, I was his favorite person on the planet. He waved me inside, muttering about how good company was hard to come by these days.

Half an hour later, we sat in his cluttered living room, drinking over a bowl of peanuts. The place looked like a thrift shop exploded—old recliner, shelves of VHS tapes, faded family photos in mismatched frames. The peanuts were stale, the whiskey strong, and Grady got looser with every pour.

Three drinks in, his tongue was starting to get heavy. I could see the flush creeping up his neck.

His words started to slur, and he leaned back in his chair, cheeks red. I kept my face neutral, waiting for my chance.

“Mr. Grady, who lived in my place before me?” I asked, as if it was just small talk. My heart thudded in my chest.

I tried to sound offhand, like it didn’t matter. But my nerves were buzzing. I tapped my fingers on my glass, trying to play it cool. Breathe.

“Why do you want to know that?” His hand trembled, whiskey sloshing onto his pants. He looked up at me, suspicion flickering in his eyes.

He looked at me, eyes narrowing just a bit. For a moment, I thought he might shut down. But he just waited, silent, bottle in hand.

“Just curious. The place... doesn’t feel right.” I poured him another shot, hoping he’d loosen up. My smile felt forced.

I gave him my best sheepish grin, as if I was just talking about a draft or a lingering smell. But we both knew I meant something else.

He stared at his drink for a long time, then suddenly grinned. “Someone died there.”

The words hit the air like a dropped glass. I felt every hair on my arms stand up. He said it so damn casually, like he was talking about a clogged drain.

My blood ran cold.

I sat up straighter, suddenly wide awake. The shadows in the room seemed to press in closer. My grip tightened on my glass.

Grady said, “Someone died in that apartment. A beautiful woman.”

He said it with a shrug, like it was no big deal. I stared, waiting for more, but he just sipped his whiskey and watched me. No punchline coming.

“I’m Robert Grady. I own a six-hundred-square-foot place in Silver Hollow—Unit 207, Building 3, Willow Court. It’s up for rent.” That’s how he always started, like he was reading off a business card. I could almost hear the sales pitch echoing in my head.

He always introduced himself this way, like reciting a business card. I could almost hear his voice echoing in my head, the way he’d probably said it a thousand times to tenants, handymen, and anyone who’d listen. Ha, what a character.

In the summer of 2017, a woman in a red dress knocked on my door—and brought a murder case with her. That’s how he put it. I pictured it: sticky heat, cicadas whining, and fate showing up in a red dress.

I pictured it: the sticky heat of a Silver Hollow summer, the whine of cicadas outside. The kind of day when you’d rather stay inside and drink cold beer, but instead, fate comes knocking in heels and red silk. My skin prickled at the image.

“One month’s security deposit, three months’ rent, cash.” She slapped a wad of bills on the coffee table. Her nail polish was long and bright red. Grady remembered every detail when it came to money.

The way he described it, you’d think she was a movie star or a femme fatale. Red dress, red nails—she stood out against the beige wallpaper and threadbare carpet. Grady never forgot a detail when it came to money changing hands. I could almost see her.

Her name was Quinn Harper, twenty-six, said she was an influencer. Sounded suspiciously convenient.

I could almost see her: selfie-ready, phone always in hand, maybe a ring light tucked in her purse. But something about the story didn’t add up. Influencers didn’t usually rent places like this—unless they were hiding from something. My reporter’s instincts tingled.

But what kind of influencer comes home at 3 a.m. in high heels, click-clacking down the hall? I pictured the sound echoing off the grimy walls.

Grady’s eyes twinkled with gossip. He mimed the sound of the heels, grinning. The walls were thin in Willow Court—everyone knew everyone’s business, whether they wanted to or not. Nosy old man.

By the fourth month, it was time to collect rent. On the 30th of every month, just like we agreed, he said. Old habits die hard.

He always kept to a schedule, rain or shine. He called it "old school," but really, he just didn’t trust banks. I could picture him hunched over his desk, counting bills.

The first three months were uneventful, until November 30, 2017. That date stuck with him, and now it stuck with me. Like a stain you can’t scrub out.

That day, the first snow had just fallen in Silver Hollow. I trudged through the slush to the building and noticed her window wide open. My skin crawled just hearing him say it.

The memory made him shiver, even now. Silver Hollow didn’t get much snow, but when it did, everything seemed to freeze, the world going silent except for the crunch of boots on ice. I could almost feel the chill.

Not cold? I wondered, heading upstairs.

He muttered that to himself, but curiosity got the better of him. Grady was nosy by nature, always looking for a story. Like me, I guess.

No one answered when I knocked, so I used the spare key. Landlords—always have an excuse.

He hesitated before telling me this part, like he knew it sounded bad. But landlords always had a spare, and he wasn’t the type to wait around if rent was late. I could hear the guilt in his voice.

As soon as I opened the door, a blast of warm air and rot hit me. The smell made my stomach twist.

The way he described it, you could almost smell it—sweet, sickly, the kind of stench that clings to your clothes and won’t let go. I fought the urge to gag just listening.

Then I saw her—Quinn, lying on the sofa in her red dress, a rope around her neck, mouth taped shut, manicured nails leaving three bloody scratches on the floor. The image burned behind my eyes.

The image was burned into his mind, and now it was burned into mine. The red dress, the rope, the blood—details you couldn’t forget, no matter how hard you tried. I shivered.

Detective Mike Dalton from the local station was my childhood friend. Grady always made a point of saying that, like it gave him credibility.

Grady always mentioned Mike, like it gave him some kind of credibility. “My buddy’s a cop,” he’d say, as if that made everything above board. I rolled my eyes.

Over drinks, he told me Quinn wasn’t an influencer at all, but a high-end club hostess. Figures.

He said it with a smirk, as if he’d known all along. “Girls like that don’t just rent anywhere,” he’d add, swirling his glass. He loved being in the know.

The killer was a regular named Frank Lee, a building-supply contractor. Grady spat the name like it was poison.

He spat out the name like it tasted sour. “Frank Lee, always thought he was hot stuff. Big shot around town, but no better than the rest.”

They found a condom with Frank’s DNA at the scene. That detail made my stomach twist.

He recounted the details like reading from a police report, proud of how much he knew. “That’s how they got him. Science, these days. Can’t hide from it.”

“Classic fight over money,” Mike said, flicking his cigarette ash. “When they caught that bastard, he still had unused tape and rope in his trunk.”

Grady mimicked Mike’s gruff voice, flicking imaginary ash onto his carpet. He loved that detail—the idea that the killer had been caught red-handed, evidence and all.

After Grady’s story, every hair on my body stood on end. I felt like I’d swallowed ice water.

I tried to hide it, but my skin crawled. I shifted in my seat, suddenly aware of every creak and groan in the building. The whiskey did nothing to steady my nerves.

This seemingly harmless old man had let me move into a murder scene without batting an eye! I wanted to scream.

I stared at his smiling, wrinkled face, suddenly sensing a hidden calculation behind those lines. My stomach churned.

When he described Quinn’s death, his tone was as casual as if he were talking about the weather. No big deal, just another Tuesday.

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Happens everywhere, kid. That’s life.” But I could see something flicker behind his eyes—regret, or maybe just the memory of easy money.

“Someone died in that apartment? Why didn’t you tell me before?” My voice was tight, barely more than a whisper.

I tried to keep my cool, but the words came out sharper than I intended. I could feel my hands balling into fists in my lap. I didn’t trust myself to say more.

Old Grady waved it off, his smile even creepier. “Ah, it was years ago! We had a preacher come say a prayer. And come on, where else are you gonna find this location at this price?”

He chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s all in the past. Besides, you’re getting a steal.” I wanted to scream at him, but all I could do was stare, stunned by his indifference.

My ears buzzed. All I could think about was his description—red dress, strangled woman, the stench of rot in a heated room. The images crawled under my skin.

I felt sick, like I was about to throw up. The images from his story looped in my mind, mixing with the fragments of my dream. The line between reality and nightmare was getting thinner by the minute.

This old bastard!—I wanted to shout, but bit my tongue. My fists clenched.

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to keep from saying something I’d regret. He just kept smiling, swirling his whiskey like he’d already won.

I wanted to storm out, but there were three women in my dream, and Grady had only mentioned one. My gut twisted. Something was off.

Something didn’t add up. My heart pounded. I needed answers, but I knew I wasn’t getting any more from him—not tonight, anyway.

With shaking hands, I opened the state court records website. My fingers trembled on the keys.

I fumbled with my phone, barely able to type. My fingers felt numb, but the adrenaline kept me moving. I had to know the truth.

As a legal affairs reporter, my instincts made me dig deeper. I couldn’t help myself.

Old habits die hard. I’d spent years chasing leads, digging through public records, piecing together stories no one else wanted to touch. If there was something to find, I’d find it. Always.

When I searched for “Frank Lee homicide,” the verdict that popped up made me spill my coffee all over the floor. My heart dropped.

My mug hit the linoleum with a thud, coffee splattering everywhere. I barely noticed. The headline on the screen was enough to make my heart skip a beat.

November 30, 2017. Silver Hollow’s cold wind carried flurries of snow. I could almost feel the chill seeping through the screen.

I could picture it—the way the snow muffled the city, the way the cold seeped into your bones. That day was burned into the town’s memory, whether people talked about it or not.

After Grady’s call, even the most seasoned detectives were chilled by the scene. The details were brutal.

The cops who showed up that day never forgot it. I read their statements, their words heavy with a kind of dread you can’t fake.

The room was a mess. The wardrobe was wide open, clothes scattered everywhere, drawers yanked out, contents dumped. The bedsheet was a crumpled heap, the lamp on the nightstand knocked askew, bulb shattered. Chaos.

The chaos was deliberate, almost theatrical. It looked like a tornado had ripped through the place, but there was a method to the madness—someone wanted it to look like a robbery gone wrong.

In the trash, several used condoms stood out. The detail made my skin crawl.

That detail stuck out in every report—deliberate, damning, and impossible to ignore. It was the kind of thing that made detectives mutter under their breath, knowing this case would be anything but simple.

On the wall calendar, the page for November 29 had a string of numbers scrawled in red marker. I could picture the bold, frantic handwriting.

A clue, maybe. Or a warning. The numbers jumped off the page, out of place among the scribbled reminders and grocery lists. Someone wanted them to be found.

“Looks like a robbery-murder,” whispered young Detective Luke Miller. His voice was shaky, barely above a breath.

He was new to the force, still green enough to flinch at the sight of blood. The older cops rolled their eyes, but no one had a better theory.

But team captain Mike Dalton frowned. His gut told him something was off.

Mike had seen it all, or at least pretended he had. He didn’t like things that didn’t fit, and this scene didn’t fit.

He noticed some drag marks on the floor—the direction was off. The details didn’t add up.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but Mike had an eye for details. The marks went the wrong way, like someone had cleaned up after themselves, then tried to cover it up.

Like someone had cleaned up with a mop, pulling it backwards. Too neat, too careful. Not a panic job.

He crouched down, tracing the marks with his pen. The pattern was off, too neat, too careful. He looked up at his team, eyes narrowed.

“Someone staged the scene,” Mike said firmly. No room for argument.

He didn’t raise his voice, but everyone in the room heard him. The case had just gotten a whole lot messier.

The initial autopsy made things even murkier. Nothing was simple here.

The coroner’s report was full of question marks. Nothing about this case was straightforward.

Quinn Harper, 26, new to Silver Hollow. Cause of death: asphyxia due to ligature strangulation, clear marks on her neck. The details jumped out at me.

She’d only been in town a few months, barely enough time to unpack. The marks on her neck were unmistakable—someone had meant to kill her, and they’d done it up close.

Time of death: between 3 and 4 a.m. The window was tight.

The window was narrow. Whoever did this knew her schedule, knew when she’d be alone. Creepy.

She had sex before dying, and the DNA in her body matched the semen in the condom from the trash. That fact echoed in my mind.

That detail sealed Frank’s fate, at least at first. The evidence was damning, but something about it felt too perfect.

But what shocked police most—wasn’t the violence. It was the lack of evidence.

It was the kind of thing you only see in movies. The detectives couldn’t believe it.

There wasn’t a single usable fingerprint in the whole apartment! Now that was weird.

Not on the doorknobs, not on the light switches—nothing. Someone had gone to great lengths to erase every trace of themselves.

Door handles, wardrobe, nightstand, even Quinn’s own comb and toothbrush—all wiped clean with some kind of cleaner. Not a print in sight.

Bleach, probably. The smell lingered, sharp and acrid. The killer wanted to leave nothing behind, but in doing so, left a different kind of clue.

“This wasn’t a simple robbery-murder. The killer not only murdered her, but meticulously cleaned the scene—and even left certain clues on purpose,” Mike said during the case meeting. His tone was grim.

He pointed out the details, his voice tense. “This is no amateur. Someone wanted us to find certain things, and not others.”

The phone number on the calendar quickly pointed to a suspect. Too easy, almost.

It was almost too easy. The number belonged to Frank Lee, and suddenly, everything pointed to him. Too perfect.

Frank Lee, 35, local building supplies boss, married, with a five-year-old daughter. He looked good on paper.

On paper, he was a family man. The kind of guy you’d see at Little League games or PTA meetings. But everyone has secrets.

To family and colleagues, Frank was a "decent, honest man," always home on time, spent weekends at the playground with his kid, rarely socialized. A regular guy—until now.

No one wanted to believe he could be involved. But the evidence kept piling up. Denial only goes so far.

In the interrogation room, Frank was eerily calm. Too calm.

He sat with his hands folded, eyes steady. It was the calm of someone who thought he had nothing to hide—or someone who’d practiced his story a hundred times.

“I knew Quinn. Met her in an Uber last year,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “We kept in touch. Met about once a month.” His voice was flat.

He spoke like he was reading from a script, each word measured. But there was a tremor in his voice he couldn’t quite hide.

“What was your relationship?” Mike asked, locking eyes with him. The question hung in the air.

Mike leaned in, elbows on the table. He wasn’t going to let Frank off easy.

Frank hesitated, then admitted, “We were lovers.” Shame flickered across his face.

He looked down, shame flickering across his face. The room went quiet, the admission hanging in the air.

With DNA evidence, he couldn’t deny sleeping with Quinn, but he insisted he hadn’t killed her. The desperation in his voice was real.

His voice grew desperate. “I swear, I didn’t do it. I was with my family all night.”

“I was home with my wife and kid on the 29th! I never went out! Check the surveillance!” He was finally getting agitated. His voice cracked.

He slammed his hand on the table, voice cracking. The detectives exchanged glances. They’d heard it all before.

Police checked the security footage from Frank’s building. Sure enough, he hadn’t left that night. His alibi was airtight.

The cameras told the truth—or at least, part of it. Frank’s alibi was solid, but the evidence still pointed his way.

The case seemed to be at a dead end. The detectives hit a wall.

The detectives argued late into the night, files spread across the table. No one wanted to admit it, but they were stuck.

Just as they were about to close it as a prostitution-related dispute, a discovery by the forensics team changed everything. One last clue.

It was a rookie who found it, digging through Frank’s car for the third time. Sometimes, all it takes is one missed detail. Luck, maybe.

The rope in Frank’s car trunk was tied in exactly the same way as the rope on Quinn’s body. That was no coincidence.

Same knot, same tightness. It was the kind of thing only an expert would notice.

“That’s impossible! I never tied her up!” Frank’s face went pale. He looked ready to faint.

He looked like he was about to faint. The detectives pressed harder, but he just kept shaking his head.

Mike compared the knot reports and suddenly sneered. “The killer was too ‘professional’—not something a regular person could pull off.”

He tapped the photos, pointing out the details. “You see this? That’s a reverse knot. You learn that in the military, not at Home Depot.”

Most people tie knots haphazardly in a panic, but the rope on Quinn was tied with a professional reverse knot, used in climbing or military training. That stuck out.

Mike scribbled notes, his mind racing. Someone was trying to frame Frank, but they’d made a mistake—a mistake only a pro would make.

Even weirder, the knots on the rope in Frank’s trunk matched exactly. Too perfect.

It was too perfect. The detectives started to suspect that someone had gone out of their way to mimic Frank’s habits. That was no accident.

“Someone was deliberately mimicking Frank’s habits—maybe even studied his car in advance,” Mike thought. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Not a chance.

He started digging, calling in favors, pulling up records no one else bothered with. The case was far from over. Not by a long shot.

Police dug into Quinn’s background. The more they found, the stranger it got.

They interviewed everyone—coworkers, neighbors, old friends. The more they learned, the stranger the story became.

She’d worked at the Blue Lake Spa, but quit six months earlier. The place had a reputation.

It was the kind of place that changed names every few years, always just barely above board. Quinn kept her past close to the vest, but the spa girls remembered her well.

A coworker, who asked to remain anonymous, told police, “A guy in a black Escalade used to pick her up. Heard he just got out of prison.” The rumor mill spun fast.

She spoke in hushed tones, eyes darting around the break room. Everyone had heard rumors, but no one wanted to get involved.

Surveillance showed the Escalade belonged to Warren King, 38, who’d served eight years for fraud and was released six months ago. That name set off alarms.

Warren was a ghost—no job, no fixed address, just a long record and a lot of enemies. The kind of guy who made people cross the street when they saw him coming.

Even more shocking: when police looked into Warren’s social circle, they found—another connection. Too close for comfort.

He’d dated Frank’s younger sister, Mindy Lee! Small town, small world.

The connection was too close to be coincidence. Suddenly, everything started to make sense.

“The Lee family was dead set against it. Especially Frank—he publicly called Warren an ‘ex-con’ and threatened to break his legs,” a patrol officer reported. Family drama, Silver Hollow style.

Family drama, old grudges—Silver Hollow was full of them. But this one had turned deadly.

After getting out, Warren told friends, “I’ll make the Lee family pay.” No one took him seriously—until now.

He didn’t hide his anger. Everyone in town knew he was trouble, but no one thought he’d go this far.

Warren was brought in for questioning. He strolled in like he owned the place.

He sauntered into the station like he owned the place, eyes cold, lips curled into a half-smile. He wasn’t afraid of cops—he’d seen worse in prison.

This man, once a con artist, was eerily composed. He looked almost bored.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You got nothing on me,” he seemed to say, without saying a word.

“I was just friends with Quinn,” he shrugged. “She’s dead? What a shame.” His tone was ice cold.

His words were empty, but his eyes flickered. The detectives pressed harder, but he just smiled.

But when police showed him key testimony—Mindy Lee confirmed Warren had repeatedly asked about Frank’s whereabouts, what car he drove, his habits—he went stiff.

Warren’s face finally changed. He looked away, jaw clenched. The mask slipped.

He looked away, jaw clenched. The room grew tense, the air heavy with anticipation.

Under intense pressure, he confessed the whole thing: a six-month, carefully planned revenge. The words spilled out fast.

He broke, finally, the words tumbling out in a rush. The detectives scribbled notes, barely able to keep up.

Six months ago, Warren spotted Quinn at the spa. The plan formed fast.

He saw an opportunity and took it. He was a planner, a schemer—he knew how to wait for the right moment.

“Her mom had cancer, needed money. I told her, help me with one thing, and you’ll get $20,000,” Warren sneered. Cold as ice.

He dangled the money like bait, knowing she was desperate. He didn’t care about her, only about his own twisted sense of justice.

He had Quinn get close to Frank and collect evidence of their affair. Every move was calculated.

He wanted to ruin Frank, destroy his family, make him pay for what he’d done to Mindy. Revenge, plain and simple.

“I wanted to ruin him.” No emotion, just fact.

The words were flat, emotionless. Warren didn’t regret a thing.

The night of the murder, Quinn followed the plan—slept with Frank, then called Warren for the rest of her money. She thought she was done.

She thought it was over. She thought she could walk away. But Warren had other plans.

“She said if I didn’t pay, she’d go to the cops.” Warren’s eyes went cold. “So I went to her place.”

He drove over in the dead of night, hands shaking with rage. He’d made up his mind—no one was leaving that apartment alive.

He strangled her with a rope, then—no hesitation. Brutal.

He didn’t hesitate. The act was quick, brutal. He’d done worse in prison.

Used Frank’s condom to stage the scene. The perfect frame job.

He rifled through the trash, looking for anything that would tie Frank to the crime. The condom was perfect—a smoking gun.

Stole tape from Frank’s car to bind the body. He knew exactly where to look.

He’d followed Frank, watched him, learned his habits. The tape was easy to find, tucked away in the trunk.

Wiped every surface with bleach to remove fingerprints. Not a trace left.

He worked methodically, scrubbing every inch. He’d learned a thing or two about crime scenes in prison.

Ransacked the room to fake a robbery. The chaos was just for show.

He tossed drawers, scattered clothes, smashed the lamp. It was all for show—a final insult.

“I wanted him to have no way out,” Warren grinned in the interrogation room. Sick pride in his voice.

He was proud of what he’d done. The detectives stared at him in disbelief, unable to hide their disgust.

But in the end, his “perfect” frame-up gave him away. No one gets away with everything.

No crime is perfect. There’s always a mistake, always something left behind.

The knots were too professional—not something a layman would do. That’s what caught him.

It was the kind of detail that only an expert would notice, but it was enough.

The cleaning was too thorough, exposing the cover-up. Irony at its finest.

The detectives saw right through it. The harder he tried to hide, the more obvious his guilt became.

Finally, forensic techs found Warren’s skin under Quinn’s nails. She’d fought back.

She fought back, even in her final moments. The evidence was damning—no way to explain it away.

“She scratched him before she died,” Mike sighed. The case was closed.

He closed the file, exhausted. The case was over, but the damage was done.

Under Quinn’s pillow, police found a bank statement—$1,500 balance, transfer note: “For mom’s treatment.” The heartbreak was complete.

She’d never see the money, and neither would her mother. The tragedy was complete.

Warren was sentenced to death for murder. Justice, maybe. But no one cheered.

The verdict was swift, the town breathing a collective sigh of relief. But no one felt any safer.

Frank’s life was destroyed by the affair—his family fell apart. He lost everything.

He lost everything—his wife, his daughter, his reputation. The affair was the least of his sins, but it was the one that cost him most.

And Quinn’s mother never got the life-saving money her daughter promised. It was all for nothing.

The saddest part was that it was all for nothing. The money sat in the bank, untouched, a cruel reminder of what might have been.

After learning the whole truth, my scalp tingled, a chill shooting up my spine. I felt like someone had walked over my grave.

I leaned back in my chair, hands shaking. The pieces of the puzzle fit together, but the picture they formed was uglier than I’d imagined. I almost wished I hadn’t looked.

That nightmare that haunted me—woman in red, long hair, sobbing softly at my bedside… It all made sense now.

Now I realized—it was Quinn! The woman from my dream, the one who never spoke.

I saw her clearly now—the red dress, the bruises, the way she stood at the foot of my bed, silently pleading. The dream wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory, a message, a warning. I shivered.

Her figure, her posture, even the blood-stained red dress matched the crime scene perfectly. Too perfect to be a coincidence.

The details lined up too neatly. I couldn’t ignore it anymore. She wanted to be seen, to be heard, to be understood. I owed her that much.

But the case was closed, the evidence solid, the real killer caught—so why did she keep appearing in my dreams? What was she trying to say?

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was unfinished. Maybe justice had been served, but not peace. Not for Quinn. Not for me.

Maybe… the case wasn’t truly over? The thought wouldn’t leave me alone.

The thought nagged at me, burrowing deep. What if there was more to the story? What if the dreams were a sign that something had been missed? My mind raced.

My temples throbbed. A huge question gnawed at my mind. I needed answers.

I rubbed my forehead, trying to focus. I needed answers, and I wasn’t going to stop until I found them. No more running.

Why was there a clear discrepancy between Grady’s story and the official records? Something stank.

Grady’s version was too neat, too rehearsed. The facts didn’t line up. Someone was lying, or hiding something. I could feel it.

Did Grady’s old friend, Detective Mike Dalton, deliberately cover up the truth? I wouldn’t put it past him.

It wouldn’t be the first time a small-town cop bent the rules for a friend. I’d seen it before—sometimes justice was a matter of who you knew, not what you did. That’s just how it went.

And what chilled me even more—there were two other blurred women in my dreams. Quinn wasn’t alone.

The dreams weren’t just about Quinn. There were others—faces I couldn’t quite see, voices I couldn’t quite hear. They were trying to reach me, to tell me their stories. My skin crawled.

Who were they? The question echoed in my head.

I stared at the drunken old man before me, his wrinkled face flushed unnaturally, reeking of booze and cigarettes. There was something he wasn’t saying.

He slumped in his chair, eyes glazed over. But I could see the fear lurking beneath the surface. He knew more than he was letting on. I was sure of it.

This old fox definitely knew something. He wasn’t fooling me.

He’d played dumb, but his hands shook when I pressed him. I wasn’t the first tenant to ask questions, and I probably wouldn’t be the last. The secrets in this building ran deep.

I forced down my nausea and poured him another shot. Maybe this time, he’d slip up.

The whiskey sloshed in the glass, catching the light. I watched him closely, hoping the liquor would loosen his tongue. Come on, old man.

“Come on, Mr. Grady, have another drink.” I forced a smile, even as my jaw clenched.

I tried to sound friendly, but my voice was tight. I was running out of patience—and time. The clock was ticking.

“This place didn’t just have Quinn’s case, did it?” I asked, trying to sound calm. My heart hammered in my chest.

I kept my tone light, but my heart was pounding. I watched his reaction, looking for any sign of guilt. He couldn’t hide it forever.

His hand shook so hard he spilled most of his drink. The glass slipped, whiskey pooling on the table.

The glass slipped from his fingers, whiskey pooling on the table. He cursed under his breath, fumbling for a napkin. His nerves were shot.

He fumbled to wipe it up with his sleeve, but I clearly saw a flash of fear in his eyes. He was rattled, no doubt.

It was quick, but unmistakable—a flicker of panic, gone as soon as it appeared. But I saw it.

Now, I told myself. This was my opening.

I seized the moment, leaning in. This was my chance. No backing down now.

I filled his glass again, lowering my voice: “What about the woman in the red business suit?” I watched his reaction like a hawk.

His glass clattered onto the table, eyes bloodshot and wide, lips trembling. “You! How do you know?!” He was terrified now.

He stared at me, mouth open. For a second, I thought he might bolt from the room. The fear was real now, raw and unfiltered.

Judging by his reaction, I was right. I’d finally hit a nerve.

I’d hit a nerve. The pieces were starting to fall into place, but I still didn’t have the whole story. Not yet.

The woman in the red business suit was a victim, just like Quinn. I could feel it deep down.

I could feel it in my gut. There was another story here, another tragedy waiting to be uncovered. My hands shook.

But what happened to her? I needed to know.

I needed answers. I leaned in, voice steady but urgent. No more games.

I grabbed his shaking shoulder, staring into his cloudy eyes. “Tell me, who was she? What happened to her?” My voice was hard.

He tried to pull away, but I held firm. He looked at me, eyes pleading. I could see the weight of years pressing down on him. He was crumbling.

Old Grady’s breathing grew ragged, boozy breath washing over me as he slumped into his chair like a sack of wet laundry. He was breaking down.

He sagged, all the fight gone from his body. The room felt colder, the shadows deeper. I waited, hoping for something—anything.

His pupils were already unfocused, but he kept mumbling, “More… another drink…” The words barely made sense.

He was slipping away, lost in the haze of alcohol and memory. I realized I wasn’t getting anything else from him—not tonight. Not a damn thing.

Clearly, I wasn’t getting anything else from him. I let go, defeated.

I let go, sighing. I’d have to find another way. The night wasn’t over yet.

I needed another plan. Back to square one.

I stood up, stretching my stiff legs. The night was far from over, but I was running out of options. My mind spun.

I dragged the dead-drunk Grady to his bed. He was heavy as lead, limp as a corpse. Dead weight, literally.

He muttered something unintelligible as I half-carried him down the hall, dropping him onto his sagging mattress. I pulled the blanket over him, more out of habit than kindness. He didn’t even notice.

When I left his place, it was late. The building was silent, heavy with secrets.

The hallway was quiet, the building asleep. My footsteps echoed off the peeling linoleum as I made my way to the front door. Every step felt loud.

Standing under the streetlamp, I glanced toward home—my window was a black void, like an eye staring back at me. I shivered.

The light cast long shadows across the parking lot. I shivered, pulling my jacket tighter. My apartment looked different now—darker, more menacing. I couldn’t bring myself to go back inside. Not yet.

No way I was going back. Not after everything I’d learned tonight.

Not tonight. Not with those dreams waiting for me. I’d rather sleep in my car than face those women again. No contest.

The nightmares had me on the edge of a breakdown. I could feel myself unraveling.

I could feel it—the tension coiling in my chest, ready to snap. I was running on fumes, nerves frayed to the breaking point. Not much left to give.

Every time I closed my eyes, the three women appeared—standing at my bedside, silently watching me, as if they wanted to tell me something. Their silence was suffocating.

Their silence was the worst part. I’d beg them to speak, to explain, but they just stared, eyes full of secrets and sorrow. The weight of their gaze was crushing.

I forced myself to calm down. Breathe. Just breathe.

I took a deep breath, counting to ten. I needed to think, to plan, to act. Panic wouldn’t help me now. I needed a clear head.

Running wouldn’t solve anything. I knew that, deep down.

I’d learned that the hard way. If I wanted answers, I had to face the truth head-on. No more hiding.

If restless souls really existed, the only way to put them to rest was to uncover the truth. That was my job now.

It was the oldest rule in the book—no peace without justice. I owed it to them, and to myself, to see this through. No matter what.