The crime scene was sealed by 5:00 a.m., but the feeling didn't leave with the body.
Amelia sat in the passenger seat of Alexis's rusted old Charger, flipping through her leather-bound notebook. Raindrops struck the windshield like small fingers tapping. Tap tap tap—like a code only the dead understood.
"You're quiet," Alexis said, eyes on the road, one hand lazily on the wheel. "That usually means your brain's doing that scary profiling thing again."
Amelia didn't look up. "Something's off."
"Well, yes. People are dying with symbols in their mouths and invisible ink on brick walls. I'd call that off."
"No, I mean the pattern. Three victims. All different ages, backgrounds, neighborhoods. They have no connections."
Alexis tilted her head. "Except the spiral."
"And the rain."
Alexis raised an eyebrow. "You're saying the killer controls the weather now?"
Amelia finally looked up. "I'm saying this isn't a traditional killer."
Alexis let out a long whistle. "Oh, good. Just what we needed—an untraditional killer. Those are always such a treat."
They turned off the main road and into the old industrial district—warehouses, half-dead factories, the bones of a city that had long since stopped pretending to thrive. The kind of place nobody noticed, even when bodies showed up.
"Where are we going?" Amelia asked, tucking her notebook away.
"Place called the Spiral Room," Alexis said. "Guy I know says it's been popping up in whispered conversations—freak show clientele, weird gatherings, symbols on the walls, that kind of thing."
Amelia narrowed her eyes. "What guy?"
Alexis smirked. "The kind I don't tell the FBI about."
"I'm not FBI anymore."
"Exactly."
They pulled up in front of a rust-streaked building with no signage. A single light above the door buzzed like an insect trapped in a jar. From the outside, it looked abandoned. From the inside?
Music. Low, distorted. Something between jazz and a nervous breakdown.
They stepped inside, and it was like falling down a rabbit hole.
The room was circular—appropriately. Walls painted in layers of black and crimson spirals. A bar in the corner served drinks with names like Deadlight and Memory Dust. Patrons moved like shadows. Nobody made eye contact.
A woman with an eyepatch and a voice like sandpaper greeted them. "First time?"
Alexis nodded. "We heard the art was... interesting."
The woman didn't smile. "There's a room in the back. Not open to the public. But I think it's been waiting for you."
Amelia stiffened. "Waiting?"
Eyepatch shrugged. "You'll see."
The door to the back creaked open on its own. The corridor behind it was long, impossibly so. The walls shimmered faintly—more spirals, almost moving if you looked too long.
They reached the room.
Inside:
A chair, facing the wall
Dozens of drawings pinned up
All spirals
All subtly different
In the center of the floor, a symbol painted in what looked like dried blood.
Alexis crouched beside it. "That's not paint."
Amelia's voice was low. "It's the same spiral... but look closer."
They both did.
The spiral was not flat. It descended. A design that gave the illusion of depth—except it wasn't an illusion.
From the center, cold air rose.
And something whispered up through it.
"She's remembering."
Both women froze.
"What the hell was that?" Alexis breathed.
Amelia's hands clenched. Her voice was steady.
"She's not talking about the victim."