The hospital lights were harsh and sterile, buzzing faintly as Amber pushed through the front entrance. Her pulse raced, each step echoing like a thunderclap in her ears.
She didn't notice the nurses at the front desk, or the man who bumped into her in the corridor. All she could see was the hallway that led to the morgue. Alison's name had been on the call. The voice on the other end said body, not patient.
She wanted to believe they were wrong.
She turned the final corner and found them—Alison's family—clustered together near the steel double doors. Her sister, Sarah Thorne, was sitting with her face buried in her hands, shoulders trembling. Mrs. Thorne stood behind her, arms wrapped tightly around herself, as though trying to hold herself together. And then there was Mr. Thorne, rigid, jaw clenched, eyes like cold steel.
Amber slowed.
Her heart twisted as she stepped closer. She reached for Sarah first, kneeling in front of her, her own tears already falling. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, wrapping her arms around the girl who looked so much like Alison.
Sarah clung to her instantly, sobbing into her shoulder.
Mrs. Thorne's hand trembled as she brushed a strand of hair from her face, giving Amber a watery nod. "Thank you for coming," she said weakly.
But Mr. Thorne didn't move. He stared at Amber, lips pressed thin, eyes sharp with something that chilled her.
"She was coming to your place," he said, voice hard. "She should have stayed home."
The words hit Amber like a slap. She froze, still holding Sarah. The guilt surged up her throat like bile.
"Greg," Mrs. Thorne gasped, turning to him, "don't do that. Not now. This isn't her fault."
"She was safe with us," he growled, but quieter now, the rage folding into pain. "She was alive."
Amber couldn't speak. Her mouth opened, but there were no words—only the thunder of her heartbeat and the unbearable echo of Mr. Thorne's accusation.
She looked at Sarah, who hadn't looked up. What could she say? That Alison had texted her just twenty minutes before it happened? That she was supposed to pick her up, but she was running late? That she let Alison go out to make her feel better and alive but ended up being murdered.
That none of this was supposed to happen?
Her voice failed her.
She reached for Mrs. Thorne's hand, but the woman was already turning away, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, lost in her own world of grief.
Amber stood, silent, surrounded by the noise of sorrow, the wail of sirens outside, and the quiet beeping from the nearby nurses' station.
Sarah finally lifted her head, eyes red and distant.
"I didn't even get to say goodbye," she whispered.
Amber blinked hard, her voice raw when it finally came. "Neither did I."
The double doors opened, a nurse stepping out with a clipboard. She hesitated when she saw the family.
"Room three," she said gently. "Take your time."
No one moved.
Amber stayed behind as the family went in, her feet refusing to carry her forward. Her hands shook.
She had never felt so utterly helpless in her life.
***
Rain clung to the gothic arches of Campston University, its ancient stones now more graveyard than campus. The latest murder had turned a spiral of fear into full-blown panic.
Alison Thorne, honors student, and the fourth victim in as many weeks, was found yesterday that early morning- her lungs full of cold blood, her fingernails broken and bloodied. She'd fought.
Detective Elijah Carter stood near the edge of the pool, his dark coat slick from the drizzle. His eyes didn't blink much anymore. He was watching the way the forensic team swept the scene—careful, methodical, like every second might be the one that saved the next kid from dying.
Detective Isa Ramos wasn't handling it as calmly.
"This doesn't make sense!" she hissed, pacing back and forth beneath the covered stone walkway. Her soaked hair clung to her temples, jaw clenched so hard Carter thought it might shatter. "Four students. Four! All of them different majors, same social circles, different routines—and nothing ties them together except this goddamn campus and the fact the they were friends."
Carter said nothing. He let her burn.
"We don't have prints. We don't have footage. No witnesses. It's like this bastard's a ghost. And I swear to God if one more administrator tells me to 'keep it quiet for the sake of the school's reputation,' I'm going to scream."
She turned to face him. "Zade was found in the south quad, where the dogs are. Micha in the student housing rooms, her room. James, no freaking comment. And now Alison, here. None of them died the same way. No consistent weapon. No signature."
Carter exhaled slowly. "But the timeline's consistent. One per week. Always between Thursday night and early Friday morning."
Ramos slammed her notebook shut. "And what the hell does that give us? A damn calendar."
For a moment, Carter looked past her—to the students who'd gathered behind the yellow tape. Silent. Pale. Like they were waiting their turn.
He spoke low. "This isn't about a signature. It's about a message."
Ramos frowned. "You think it's personal?"
"Not to the victims. Maybe to the school."
Ramos let out a bitter laugh. "Great. So we're chasing a philosophical killer with a grudge against academia?"
"I'm saying," Carter said, turning toward the old library at the center of campus, "we're looking at the victims like they're the connection. But what if they're the consequence?"
There was a silence then. Heavy. Real.
Ramos's voice was lower when she spoke again. "You think someone's trying to punish the school?"
Carter nodded once. "I think someone's trying to make sure everyone remembers why."
They both looked back at the crime scene, where Alison's body had already been bagged and tagged.
Four students. Four locations. Four different methods. And not a single damn suspect.
Not yet.
But somewhere on that ancient, ivy-covered campus, the killer was still watching.
Still choosing.
And the week wasn't over yet.