The apartment smelled of lilies and copper.
Detective Lena Cross ducked beneath the yellow tape, her boots pressing into the soft carpet that was still wet with blood. The crime scene techs moved around her like ghosts, snapping photos, bagging evidence. On the coffee table, neatly centered, was a folded note.
She didn't need to read it. She already knew what it said.
Lena slid on gloves and picked it up anyway.
"I don't take no for an answer."
Same handwriting. Same phrasing. Third time in six months. But no one else saw the connection.
Captain Mendez brushed past her. "What do we have?"
"Thirty-two-year-old female. Name's Carrie Roth. Nurse. No forced entry, but she was strangled. And left with a calling card," Lena said, holding up the note.
Mendez sighed. "Not this again."
"It is him. Same M.O. All three women were independent, mid-30s, and recently reported a stalker or creepy date. But no one listened."
"Coincidence. Different jurisdictions. No physical evidence. You've got a hunch, Lena. That's not enough."
Lena clenched her jaw. Her sister's face flashed in her mind—Jessica, with her wild curls and quiet laugh—gone ten years now, unsolved, forgotten. "It's not just a hunch."
Mendez turned away, already walking. "Make it more than that, or drop it."
Lena looked back at the body, pale and still, hand curled like she'd tried to fight.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "He's not getting away this time."
_____
Meanwhile...
Ethan Ward straightened his cufflinks in the hotel mirror.
He smiled at his reflection. Not too smug. Just enough charm.
He adjusted his tie and looked into his own eyes. "You don't take no for an answer."
He chuckled. "Damn right."
Behind him, on the bed, the sheets were still warm.
And the next note was already written.
_____