The clock in the Ashwood Police Department ticked faintly, marking the passing hours as Lucas sifted through the gruesome case files. The room was cloaked in a suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of papers. Sheriff Margaret Cole had left him to his work, a silent acknowledgment of his methodical persistence. The weight of Ashwood's secrets bore down on him now more than ever.
Four men. Four brutal murders.
Lucas leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he reviewed the victims once more:
1. John Carver, the mechanicâfound hanging from the oak tree on the town's edge. His body had been mutilated beyond recognition, and the details of the scene still churned Lucas's stomach.
2. Samuel Harper, the farmerâhis throat slit with surgical precision, his body dumped unceremoniously in the creek.
3. Aaron Moore, the teacherâhis eyes gouged out, his fingers twisted unnaturally, as if the killer had reveled in his agony.
4. Michael Ward, the masonâfound facedown in the dirt on a trail near the lake, arms spread out like a star, blood pooling beneath him in a dark halo.
Michael's body had been discovered just a week ago, during Emma's morning walk. Lucas had heard the tremor in her voice as she recounted the scene, her shock and horror unmistakable. Yet something else had lingered thereâa quiet fear that seemed deeper than just the sight of a body.
Lucas exhaled sharply, pulling himself back to the task at hand. He had been here beforeâhours of staring at evidence, waiting for something to click. But this wasn't just another case. This killer wasn't just violent; they were methodical, precise.
And they were leaving a mark.
Lucas had first noticed it while combing through the crime scene photographsâsmall, faint carvings on each victim's skin. The inverted triangle with a single vertical line wasn't immediately obvious. The cuts blended with the other wounds, easily overlooked. But it was there, consistent across all four murders.
It was deliberate, a signature.
Lucas stared at the photos now, the symbol glaring back at him like a challenge. It wasn't just a mark of ownershipâit was a message. The killer wanted them to see it, to understand that these murders weren't random acts of violence.
But what was the message?
Lucas pinned the crime scene photographs to the map of Ashwood. Each location was marked with a red tack:
· The oak tree where John Carver had been found.
· The creek where Samuel Harper's body was dumped.
· Aaron Moore's home, where the teacher had been killed.
· The trail near the lake where Emma had stumbled upon Michael Ward's lifeless body.
The locations weren't random, and Lucas knew it. He grabbed a ruler and traced the points on the map. The pattern wasn't immediately clear, but something about the spacing nagged at him. He leaned closer, overlaying a historical map of Ashwood he had pulled earlier from the archives.
That's when he saw it.
The murder sites corresponded to key locations tied to the town's history. The oak tree had been the site of public gatherings during Ashwood's founding. The creek had powered the old mill. Aaron Moore's home was near the remnants of the first schoolhouse. The lake trail, where Michael had been found, was part of the land once owned by the Whitakers, Ashwood's wealthiest and most infamous family.
"Damn," Lucas muttered under his breath.
This was no coincidence. The killer was deliberately choosing places connected to Ashwood's past. But why?
"Whitaker properties?" Sheriff Margaret Cole asked, her sharp eyes narrowing as Lucas explained his findings. "That family has been a stain on this town's history for over a century."
Lucas nodded. "The oak tree, the mill, the schoolhouseâthey're all tied to the Whitakers. Their influence was everywhere during Ashwood's founding, and it wasn't exactly benevolent. Corruption, betrayal, even murderâit's all in the records."
Cole crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. "You think the killer's targeting these sites as some sort of twisted homage to the past?"
"Or a reckoning," Lucas said. "There's something about these places. The victims don't seem connected to the Whitakers themselves, but the locationsâthey're deliberate."
Cole tapped her finger on the map, her mind clearly working through the possibilities. "If that's true, then the killer isn't just picking random people either. There has to be something about these victimsâsomething that fits their narrative."
Lucas nodded, though frustration gnawed at him. The connection wasn't clear yet, but he could feel it, just out of reach.
Later that evening, Lucas sat alone in his office, the glow of his desk lamp casting shadows across the walls. He stared at the photographs, the map, and the symbol sketched on a notepad beside him.
Then it hit him.
The victims were all working-class menâmen who had little power or influence, men who wouldn't leave behind anyone to ask too many questions. Lucas thought back to the Whitaker family scandals. They had a history of exploiting the working class, using them as pawns in their climb to power.
The killer wasn't just targeting historical sitesâthey were targeting a class of people tied to the town's darkest sins.
Lucas's thoughts drifted to Emma. She had been the one to find Michael's body, and though she seemed genuinely shaken, Lucas couldn't ignore the quiet unease he felt around her.
Why had she been out walking so early that morning? Did she know Michael? And why did she seem so deeply affected by the murders, as though they were personal?
Lucas shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. Emma was kind, thoughtful, and open with himâfar from the profile of a killer. But in Ashwood, he had learned, appearances could be deceiving.
As the night wore on, Lucas couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. The walls of his office seemed to close in, the shadows growing darker. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, a voice whispered that he was getting too close.
The killer wasn't just playing a game.
They were playing to win.