Trust No One

The Dead Man in My Car

Vanessa's POV

The man who killed my sister was supposed to be dead. So why was his photograph waiting on my doorstep?

I stood outside my apartment, staring at the envelope beneath my door. My name was written across it in black ink. No stamp. No return address. I checked the hallway. Empty. Someone had been here while I was at work.

I picked up the envelope and slipped inside, locking the door behind me. Then I placed it on my kitchen counter and fetched a pair of scissors. Inside was a photograph.

I recognized the man immediately. Ethan Cole.

Three years ago, my younger sister, Sophie, had been found dead in an abandoned building outside the city. The police arrested Ethan after discovering his fingerprints at the scene. Before he could stand trial, he supposedly died in a prison transfer accident.

His death had closed the case. At least, that was what the authorities wanted everyone to believe. I turned the photograph over. Three words had been written on the back. ASK DANIEL CROSS.

I read the name twice. Daniel Cross was the detective who had investigated Sophie's murder. He was also the man who resigned from the police force shortly after Ethan's reported death. I'd tried contacting him once. He refused to speak to me.

I grabbed my phone and photographed the envelope and its contents. Then I examined the picture more closely. Ethan stood outside a café, wearing a dark jacket. His face was turned toward the camera, and the date printed in the corner was from last week.

Last week! My fingers moved across the screen as I enlarged the image. The photograph was recent. The café was real. I passed it several times on my way to work. But the most disturbing part wasn't that Ethan might be alive. It was that someone knew I had spent three years trying to find out what really happened to my sister.

My phone rang. An unknown number. I answered without speaking. Vanessa Cole? Who's asking? I asked. You received something this morning. I glanced at the photograph. Who are you? Forget what you saw. Burn the picture and stop digging into your sister's death.

My grip tightened around the phone. How do you know what I received? Because I know what happens to people who refuse to leave the past alone. The call ended.

I immediately dialed the number back. It was unavailable.

For a few seconds, I stood in silence. Then I opened my laptop. Fear wasn't going to solve Sophie's murder. Neither would obeying a stranger who thought he could frighten me into silence.

I searched for Daniel Cross. His address appeared on an old public record. He lived less than forty minutes away. I copied it into my phone. Before leaving, I slid the photograph into my handbag and took the stairs instead of the elevator. At the entrance, I paused beside the security desk.

Did anyone come looking for me today? I asked the receptionist. He shook his head. Not that I saw. Could you check the visitor log? He turned the register toward me. A name had been written beside my apartment number. Daniel Cross. The time was 10:15 a.m.

I checked my watch. It was almost four. Did he come upstairs? The receptionist sighed. He said he was an old friend. I called your apartment, but you didn't answer. He left after a few minutes.

I looked at the signature again. Daniel had been here. And he had left without contacting me. Why?

I took a photograph of the visitor log, thanked the receptionist, and hurried outside. My car was parked in the underground garage. I reached it, pressed the unlock button, and opened the driver's door.

Then I saw the blood.

A dark stain spread across the passenger seat. For one brief moment, I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. Then I noticed the man's hand hanging beside the door.

Someone was inside my car.

I stumbled backward and struck the vehicle parked behind me. "Oh, God." The man was dead. He lay slumped against the passenger door, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. Blood had soaked through his shirt. One of his eyes was half-open, staring at nothing.

I forced myself to move. I didn't touch him.

Instead, I called the police and gave them my location. Then I stepped away from the car and waited near the garage entrance, watching the scene from a distance.

My hands shook, but I kept my phone ready. When the first patrol car arrived, I approached the officers. "That isn't my blood," I said before they could ask.

One officer instructed me to stand aside while another examined the vehicle. A third took my identification.

Do you know the deceased? He asked me.

No, I didn't. Have you seen him before? Never. Is this your vehicle? Yes. He looked at me carefully. Then I need you to explain why a dead man is sitting in it.

I would love to know that myself. He didn't smile. Within minutes, the garage was sealed. An officer photographed the car while another began questioning me about my movements.

I told them about the envelope, the photograph, and the anonymous call. When I mentioned Ethan Cole, the officer stopped writing. You believe the photograph shows a man who was officially declared dead? He asked.

I don't believe it. I know who I saw. Miss Cole, you understand how serious that allegation is? Someone left that photograph at my door. Someone threatened me. And now there's a dead man in my car. How serious do you think this is?

He exchanged a look with his colleague. That worried me more than his questions.

They weren't treating this as an ordinary murder investigation.

One officer returned from the vehicle carrying a clear evidence bag. Inside was a wallet. We found this in the deceased's pocket, he said. I moved closer. Do you recognize him? He asked. He turned the bag so I could see the identification. The name meant nothing to me.

Then the officer removed a second item from the wallet. A small photograph. My sister, Sophie, smiled up at me from the glossy paper. She was standing outside our childhood home, her arm around my shoulders.

I had taken that picture myself. I'd never given it to anyone. Where did you find that? I demanded. It was in his wallet. Who is he? We're still confirming his identity.

I looked at the dead man's face again. Why had he been carrying a photograph of Sophie? And why had someone chosen my car to leave him?

The officer closed the evidence bag. We'll need you to come to the station and answer some more questions. I'll come. But I'm not leaving until you tell me whether I'm a suspect.

We haven't established that. It wasn't an answer. As they escorted me toward the patrol car, I looked back at my vehicle. A few hours earlier, my biggest concern had been a photograph suggesting that my sister's killer might still be alive.

Now a stranger is dead, and the police had found Sophie in his wallet. I thought of the name on the visitor log. Daniel Cross. He had come to my apartment that morning. Someone had threatened me shortly afterward. And now the investigation had taken a turn I couldn't explain.

I pulled out my phone. The address I'd saved was still there. If Daniel knew something about Sophie's death, I intended to find out what it was. Even if the police advised me to stay away. Even if someone tried to stop me.

Because one thing had become painfully clear. Three years ago, someone had taken my sister from me. And whoever had done it wasn't finished.