Chapter 1 - The Crime Scene on Willow Creek
The ride to Willow Creek Drive felt like a fever dream. Harper drove her beat-up hatchback while I stared out the window, my hands numb against my knees. The neighborhood looked completely normal from afar—manicured lawns, sprinkler heads spinning in rhythmic circles, pastel-painted shutters—until we turned onto our street. Yellow police tape stretched from the porch railing of my parents' house to the trunk of an ancient oak tree in the front yard. Two patrol cruisers sat parked at odd angles in the driveway, their roof lights casting quiet red and blue reflections against the white vinyl siding. As I stepped out of the car, Officer Jackson Reid approached us. He was a tall man with tired eyes and a stern, weathered face that suggested he had seen far too many terrible things in this town. He held a clipboard under his arm and glanced at my ID before unhooking the yellow tape to let us pass. Inside the house, the atmosphere was suffocating. The golden retriever, Buster, was sitting in the back of one of the patrol cars, panting nervously but physically unharmed. Officer Reid walked me through the front entryway. The heavy oak door bore splintered wood around the deadbolt—a violent, deliberate entry. Yet as we walked through the foyer, nothing seemed out of place. The expensive antique vase sat untouched on the console table. My father’s flat-screen television was still mounted securely on the living room wall. My mother’s silver tea set shone undisturbed in the dining room cabinet. Whoever had forced their way into the house hadn't come for valuables. They had bypassed everything on the ground floor and gone straight upstairs to my bedroom. When Officer Reid opened my bedroom door, my breath caught in my throat. The room had been utterly destroyed. Mattress sliced open, desk drawers dumped onto the carpet, clothes torn from their hangers and shredded across the floor. On the center of my bare desk lay a piece of torn cardboard, pinned down with a kitchen knife. Written across it in jagged, thick black permanent marker were those five horrifying words: Ivy was supposed to be here. The realization settled over me like a sheet of lead. Whoever kicked down that door wasn't an opportunistic burglar looking for jewelry or cash. They were hunting a person. They were hunting me.
And if I hadn't walked out the back door yesterday evening to stay at Harper's apartment, I would have been sitting right here when they arrived. Officer Reid watched my reaction closely, taking notes on his pad. "Miss Barnes, do you have any idea who would leave a message like this? Any former partners, disgruntled acquaintances, or someone you've had conflict with?" I shook my head, my voice barely a whisper. "No one. I work as an accountant at a small firm. I go to work, I come home, I pay my bills. I don't have enemies." Reid frowned, adjusting his belt. "Well, someone knew you were supposed to be the only person in this house this weekend."
