The city never slept, but tonight it felt like it was holding its breath.
Elena Carter stood outside the apartment she used to call home, the winter air biting at her skin, slicing through her coat and nerves alike. Her gloved fingers trembled slightly—not from the cold, but from the weight of the key in her hand. A key she hadn't used in six months. Not since her brother, James, died.
Accident, the police report had said. Unfortunate fall. Case closed. But nothing about James's death had ever felt right.
She stepped inside, inhaling the scent of old wood and fading aftershave—his. The apartment hadn't changed. Her aunt had kept it neat, untouched, like a shrine to a life stolen too soon. Sunlight barely filtered through the drawn curtains, casting long shadows over the worn couch, the stacks of books, and the camera resting atop the bookshelf. James's favorite camera.
She didn't know why she reached for it. Maybe because he always told her: "The truth is in the details no one looks at." Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was fate.
The camera felt heavier than she remembered. She turned it over in her hands, heart pounding as her fingers found a latch near the film compartment. When she popped it open, she expected the usual—a roll of undeveloped film, perhaps. But tucked behind the film spool was a folded square of paper. Torn at the edges. Carefully hidden.
She unfolded it slowly.
It was a photograph.
And it shouldn't have existed.
James was in the photo. Alive. Smiling.
Beside him stood a man Elena didn't recognize—tall, dark hair, face partially shadowed by a streetlamp. The timestamp in the corner read: 2:46 AM. March 3rd. The day James died.
But James had supposedly died alone. In a construction alley. At 2:50 AM.
Her fingers tightened around the photo. Her brother was not alone. Someone was with him—someone who had never come forward.
Someone who might have killed him.
A creak on the floorboards jolted her. She spun around, breath hitching.
The man in the doorway was tall, lean, dressed in dark jeans and a black coat. His eyes met hers—startlingly grey and unreadable. He didn't look surprised to see her. That was the first thing that unsettled her.
"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly.
Elena's hand inched toward her phone. "Who the hell are you?"
He didn't move. "I could ask you the same."
"This is—was—my brother's place," she said, keeping her voice steady.
He took a step forward. "James Carter?"
"You knew him?"
He nodded once, slowly. "He was a client."
A pause.
Elena narrowed her eyes. "You're a cop?"
He gave a faint, humorless laugh. "Far from it. Private investigator."
She sized him up. He had that look—messy hair like he ran fingers through it too often, shadowed jaw, posture like he was always bracing for something. Dangerous. Quiet. But the way he said "client" was heavy. Like it mattered.
"He hired you? For what?"
The man hesitated. "Something he didn't want the cops involved in. And he told me not to trust anyone—not even family."
The words stung. Elena looked at the photo still in her hand.
"I found this in his camera," she said, holding it out.
He took it, his brows furrowing. "I've never seen this before."
"But you said—"
"I said he was a client. Not that he told me everything." His eyes flicked to hers. "What's your name?"
"Elena."
"Elena," he repeated. "I'm Luca Bennett."
His name was unfamiliar, but it hit something in her gut anyway. Luca looked back at the photo, then at her.
"Where did you find it?"
"In the camera. Hidden."
Luca studied her, then tucked the photo inside his coat. "We need to talk."
"We're talking now."
"Not here. Someone's been coming back to this apartment. Looking for something. If they find you—"
"Who?" she asked. "Who's looking?"
"People who don't want James's secrets found."
Her breath caught. "What secrets?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."
A silence stretched between them, thick with uncertainty. Then Luca reached into his coat and handed her a business card. Plain. Name. Number. No logo.
"If you want answers, come find me."
He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "And Elena?"
She looked up.
"Don't trust anyone with this. Not yet."
Then he was gone, swallowed by the city's shadows as quietly as he had appeared.
Elena stood alone, the apartment suddenly colder than before.
Her brother's death wasn't just a tragedy.
It was a puzzle.
And she had just taken the first step into its heart. No