Chapter 5: Detective Reyes
Detective Sofia Reyes lit a cigarette she wouldn't smoke.
She hated the taste, but she liked the act—something about the ritual calmed her nerves. The click of the lighter. The smell of sulfur. The illusion of control.
She stood near the bleachers, squinting against the morning sun as officers combed the area. Yellow tape wrapped around the football field like a warning label on a broken machine. The body had already been removed, but the blood had soaked deep into the soil. She could still smell it.
Tyler Jenson. Eighteen. Football captain. Cause of death: blunt force trauma to the back of the head.
She flipped through the early reports.
"Someone knew what they were doing," the forensics tech beside her muttered. "No fingerprints, no weapon, nothing obvious. Even the camera above the parking lot was spray-painted over."
"Which means premeditated," Reyes replied.
"Not just a fight gone wrong?"
"No." She pointed toward the equipment pile. "That tarp was used to cover the body. Whoever did this didn't panic. They thought it through."
She lit the cigarette. Didn't inhale.
Behind her, Principal Ramirez was giving another statement to the media. Something about counseling services and grief. Reyes tuned him out.
She focused on the school.
Saint Delores High was a perfect-looking place from the outside—clean bricks, polished floors, smiling staff photos in the office. But Reyes had worked cases in places like this before. Places where pain hid behind pep rallies and pastel lockers.
She walked toward the building.
Her first stop was the guidance counselor's office.
"Shams Macas?" Ms. Bentley repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, he's our new transfer student. From the Philippines. Quiet kid. Very polite. Why do you ask?"
"Was he close with Tyler?"
"Oh, no," Ms. Bentley said quickly. "Quite the opposite. Tyler and his group... well, let's just say they didn't welcome him."
Reyes leaned forward. "They bullied him?"
Ms. Bentley hesitated, then nodded. "There was... an incident during lunch. A tray, some name-calling. Nothing that rose to suspension. I spoke to them both. Shams didn't even seem upset. He just said, 'It's fine.' With this strange, calm voice. Like it didn't touch him."
Reyes wrote that down.
"Can I see his file?"
Ms. Bentley pulled a thin manila folder from her drawer. Inside were placement tests, immigration forms, a scanned photo of a boy with still eyes and a flat expression.
"He's got average scores," Bentley said. "IQ around 100. No learning issues. But..." She hesitated. "I've seen that look before."
"What look?"
"The kind kids get after something breaks inside them."
Reyes stared at the photo.
No emotion. No hint of life behind the dark pupils. Not scared. Not angry.
Just still.
She tucked the file under her arm.
Later that day, she watched from the parking lot as students left for the afternoon. Some laughed, some cried, some walked in silence. She scanned their faces.
And there he was.
Shams Macas.
Backpack slung over one shoulder. White earbuds in. Walking like a shadow—half there, half somewhere else.
He passed her squad car.
Didn't look.
Didn't flinch.
Reyes didn't move. She just watched.
And when he disappeared behind the gate, she whispered to herself:
"Something's not right with that boy."
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