Chapter 3

【Marcus's POV】

The dispatcher's voice was crisp and professional, cutting through the early morning stillness: "Detective Reid, we have a possible homicide at Mirror Lake. Female victim, Trinity State student. First responders are requesting homicide unit on scene."

I'd been awake anyway, nursing my second cup of coffee and reviewing case files from the previous week. Sleep had been elusive lately—too many open cases, too many unanswered questions. But this call sent a familiar jolt of adrenaline through my system, the same electric charge I'd felt during my first homicide case three years ago when I was still working mountain patrol in Eastern Washington.

Twenty minutes later, I stood at the edge of Mirror Lake, watching the crime scene photographers work while the March drizzle turned everything into a gray watercolor painting. The victim lay partially submerged near the southern shoreline, where the pine trees grew thick and dark. Even from a distance, I could see she was young—college-aged, just like the caller had reported.

"Detective Reid?" Officer Sarah Chen approached with her notepad already out. Chen was one of our newer uniforms, but she had good instincts and attention to detail. "I've got the witness statement from our jogger."

I took the notepad, scanning the neat handwriting. "Marcus Reid, Silver Wood PD Homicide Division," I introduced myself, more to organize my own thoughts than for Chen's benefit. "Walk me through the discovery."

The jogger—a nervous engineering student named Matt Powell—stood near our squad cars, wrapped in a police-issued blanket despite the mild temperature. College kids always looked so young in crisis situations, I thought. Made me feel ancient at twenty-eight.

"Mr. Powell was on his regular morning run," Chen reported. "He takes the same route every day, circles the lake twice before heading back to campus. Says he spotted what he initially thought was debris around six-fifteen this morning."

I approached Powell, keeping my voice calm and professional. "I know this is difficult, but I need you to walk me through exactly what you saw."

Powell's hands shook slightly as he gestured toward the crime scene tape. "I almost didn't stop," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "There's always trash around the lake—beer bottles, fast food containers. Students aren't exactly environmentally conscious." He paused, swallowing hard. "But something about the way it was positioned seemed wrong. The shape was too... regular. Too human."

"What did you do then?"

"I slowed down, got closer. When I realized it was a person..." He shuddered. "I've never seen a dead body before. I called 911 immediately, didn't touch anything. Waited right here until you guys arrived."

Our crime scene investigator, Detective Mike O'Connor, approached with the perpetually frustrated expression that meant bad news. Mike had been working CSI for eight years, and I'd learned to read his moods like weather patterns.

"Talk to me, Mike," I said, already knowing I wouldn't like what he had to say.

He pulled off his latex gloves with obvious irritation. "We've got problems, Marcus. It rained most of the night, and this morning's drizzle isn't helping. A lot of potential evidence has been compromised."

"How bad?"

"Footprints are mostly washed out. Any fiber evidence is going to be degraded or completely gone. The position of the body suggests she was dumped here rather than killed on-site, but the rain has eliminated most trace evidence that might have confirmed that theory."

I surveyed the scene, mentally cataloging what we could still work with. "Time of death?"

"Preliminary assessment suggests between midnight and one AM. The cold water and rain make it difficult to be more precise without the full autopsy."

"Cause?"

"Appears to be drowning, but there's evidence of blunt force trauma to the head. Could be from the fall, could be from assault. Dr. Wells will need to make that determination."

Dr. Aaron Wells from the County Coroner's Office was already on his way. Aaron was thorough and reliable, though sometimes his attention to detail slowed things down more than I'd like. Still, in a case like this, we couldn't afford to miss anything.

As Mike continued his preliminary examination, I walked the perimeter of the crime scene, trying to visualize what had happened. The victim lay near the water's edge, partially concealed by the overhanging pine branches. If this was a dump site, the perpetrator had chosen well—secluded enough to avoid immediate discovery, but accessible enough to dispose of a body without too much difficulty.

Tony Rodriguez, my senior detective, jogged up with information from the initial identification. "Got a preliminary ID on our victim," he called out. "Student ID card in her pocket identifies her as Jade Thompson, Trinity State, English Literature major. Twenty years old, senior."

Jade Thompson. The name would be burned into my memory now, along with all the others. Every homicide detective carried them—the victims whose cases became personal missions.

"Contact information?"

"Working on tracking down family. Looks like she's from out of state, possibly Montana based on her driver's license. We're also trying to locate her roommates for next of kin notification and witness interviews."

That's when I noticed the two young women walking quickly along the path that led from the crime scene toward the engineering building. There was something about their body language—urgent, purposeful, familiar in a way that made my detective instincts prickle. The shorter one with brown hair kept looking back toward our position, while her companion seemed to be leading her away from the scene.

"Rodriguez," I called out, gesturing toward the pair. "What's over there? Where are they headed?"

Tony followed my gaze. "That path leads to the science and engineering complex. Mostly academic buildings, some administrative offices."

I found myself studying the two women more carefully. The taller one had that expensive, put-together look that marked her as money—designer jacket, perfectly styled blonde hair, even the way she carried herself spoke of privilege. Her companion looked more typical college student: practical clothing, anxious expression, the kind of earnest seriousness that usually meant pre-law or pre-med.

Something about them nagged at me, but I couldn't put my finger on what. Maybe it was the way they'd deliberately avoided getting too close to the crime scene, or the obvious tension in their postures. In eight years of police work, I'd learned to trust those indefinable feelings that couldn't be explained by logic.

"Get me everything you can on our victim," I instructed Rodriguez. "School records, work history, social connections. Start with her dormitory—find out who her roommates are and bring them in for questioning. Also notify her family. This is going to be a difficult conversation."

"You got it, boss. Where are you going?"

I was already walking in the direction the two women had taken, following an instinct I couldn't quite articulate. "Just checking something out. Call me when you have the roommate information."

The path wound through a small grove of maple trees before opening up near the chemistry building. I caught sight of my targets again—they'd veered off the main walkway and were approaching a cluster of wild bushes that bordered the academic buildings. The expensive-looking blonde was moving with sudden urgency, almost dragging her companion along.

I saw her suddenly veer off, ducking under the yellow tape we'd put up and crashing into the bushes.

That's when things got interesting.

Warning bells went off in my head. This wasn't random curiosity—this was purposeful action.

"Miss!" I called out sharply, breaking into a jog. "You need to stop right there!"

But she didn't stop. If anything, she moved faster, crashing through the wet underbrush with complete disregard for her expensive clothing or the authority in my voice. Her friend stood frozen on the path, looking terrified.

I reached the edge of the bushes just as the blonde dropped to her knees, her hands closing around something in the wet leaves. When she straightened up, I could see she was holding a pair of wire-rimmed glasses—broken, twisted.

I approached her slowly, my hand instinctively moving to my badge. She was still kneeling in the wet earth, staring at the glasses with an expression of absolute devastation. Up close, I could see she was probably early twenties, definitely college-aged, with the kind of pallor that suggested either shock or hangover. Maybe both.

"I'm Detective Marcus Reid, Silverwood Police Department Homicide Division," I said, keeping my voice calm but authoritative as I displayed my badge. "How did you know there were glasses here? And what's your relationship to the victim, Jade Thompson?"

The mention of the victim's name hit both women like a physical blow. The blonde's face went completely white, her grip tightening on the broken glasses. Her friend—the brunette who'd been trailing behind—let out a strangled gasp.

"Jade Thompson is dead?"