The voicemail came through at 3:47 AM, and I knew before I even listened that everything was about to fall apart. "Maya, it's me. I—I need you. Please. I know we haven't spoken in two years, but you're the only one I can trust. Don't tell anyone you're coming. Especially not—" Static crackled through the line, swallowing whatever name she'd been about to say. "Just come. Apartment 4B. I'm so sorry for everything." My twin sister's voice, trembling with a fear I'd never heard from her before, not even when we were kids hiding from our father's rages. I was on the road within twenty minutes, breaking every speed limit between Portland and Seattle. The entire drive, I kept replaying that message, trying to decode the panic in Zara's tone. We'd been estranged since she'd started dating Marcus Webb—the same Marcus who'd been my partner in the detective unit, who'd taken a bullet meant for me three years ago, who I'd trusted more than anyone in the world until Zara had chosen him over our sisterhood. Now she needed me. The apartment building was one of those renovated warehouses in Pioneer Square, all exposed brick and industrial chic. I took the stairs two at a time, my service weapon a familiar weight against my ribs. The door to 4B stood slightly ajar. "Zara?" I pushed it open with my foot, hand on my gun. The apartment was pristine. Too pristine. Like someone had scrubbed it clean in a hurry. The morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated hardwood floors that gleamed with fresh polish. But I'd been a detective for eight years. I knew how to read a crime scene. The smell of bleach couldn't quite mask the metallic tang of blood. I found it near the kitchen island—a dark stain that someone had tried to scrub away, the grout between the tiles still rust-colored. My stomach dropped. There was too much blood. Way too much. "Zara!" I moved through the apartment, checking every room, every closet. Nothing. No signs of struggle beyond that one stain. No body. No sister. I was about to call it in when I noticed the bookshelf had been moved—scratch marks on the floor, fresh. Behind it, tucked into a gap in the exposed brick, I found a USB drive wrapped in a note. *Maya—If you're reading this, I'm either dead or they got to me. Don't trust Marcus. Don't trust anyone in the DA's office. This drive has everything. The trials, the victims, the money trail. They're killing people, and they made it look like mercy. I have proof. I'm so sorry I didn't believe you about—* The note ended there, torn off mid-sentence. My phone buzzed. Marcus. "Maya? Where are you? I got a ping on your badge—you're in Seattle? What's going on?" How did he know I was here? I hadn't logged my location. Hadn't told anyone. "I'm following up on a lead," I said carefully, pocketing the USB drive. "Personal matter." "At Zara's building?" His voice shifted, concern bleeding into something else. Something that made my instincts scream. "Maya, I need you to stay there. Don't touch anything. I'm twenty minutes away." I looked down at the bloodstain, at the too-clean apartment, at the fear in my sister's hastily scrawled note. "How did you know I was at Zara's building, Marcus? I didn't tell you which building." Silence stretched between us, heavy with implications. "We need to talk," he finally said. "Face to face. Wait for me." I ended the call and ran. ---