1970 - Killer Spouse

Ch 9: Little Trap

Emma sat at her desk, eyes scanning the files in front of her. The note from the killer, the one that taunted her, wouldn't leave her mind. "I'm really close by." The words haunted her every thought, and it felt like the walls were closing in on her.

She had barely slept in days. Every case detail, every scrap of evidence—she had to be missing something. The killer was close. Too close. But no matter how hard she pushed, she couldn't find the missing link.

But something about the latest victim's placement—the body found right outside the detective headquarters—didn't sit right with her. It felt... deliberate. Almost like the killer wanted her to find it.

She flipped through the case files again, stopping on the newest autopsy report. The pattern of the murders had always been erratic—victims scattered throughout the city with no clear connection. But something in this latest killing seemed different. The way the body was posed. The timing. The note.

"Find me, Emma."

Emma felt a chill run down her spine. Could it be possible the killer was actually giving her clues? Was this some sick game?

Her thoughts were interrupted when her phone rang, pulling her back to reality. She answered quickly.

"Detective Stewart?" a voice crackled on the other end. "We've got something. One of the analysts picked up on a location tied to the murders. A secluded warehouse near the docks."

Emma's heart raced. A location. Finally, a break.

"Send me the details," she said, hanging up and grabbing her coat. As she stood up, her mind spun with possibilities. Could this be it? Could this be where the killer would strike next?

Alex was waiting for her in the lobby, as he had been nearly every day for the past week. He looked up from his book as she rushed past, his concerned expression immediately catching her attention.

"Emma? What's going on?" he asked, standing and approaching her.

"I think we have a lead," she said breathlessly, throwing her coat on. "There's a warehouse by the docks. It might be where the killer's heading next."

Alex's eyes widened, but a flicker of something darker passed over his face—so quick she almost missed it. "The docks? Are you sure?"

Emma nodded, her adrenaline spiking. "I have to go. I can't wait for backup. If this is our chance to catch him..."

"Emma, wait," Alex said, gently grabbing her wrist. "It's dangerous to go alone. What if it's a trap?"

Emma paused, torn between her gut instinct and the rational part of her brain that screamed caution. But the opportunity to catch this killer—finally—was too tempting to ignore.

"I'll be careful," she said, giving him a reassuring smile. "I promise."

Alex stared at her for a moment longer, then slowly let go of her wrist. His expression was unreadable, but inside, his mind was racing. He had set the trap. She was walking right into it.

"Just... be safe, okay?" Alex's voice was soft, almost pleading.

Emma nodded, gave him a quick kiss, and was out the door in seconds.

As she disappeared into the streets, Alex stood still for a moment, his pulse quickening. Everything was falling into place. She would find the warehouse, but what she didn't know was that everything inside was designed to mislead her, to throw her off the scent. And if she wasn't careful, she'd be walking straight into danger.

He couldn't wait to watch it unfold.

The Warehouse

The docks were deserted by the time Emma arrived. The night was cold, a thick fog rolling in from the water, making the air damp and heavy. The warehouse loomed ahead, a hulking structure of rusted metal and broken windows. It was exactly the kind of place a killer would hide out. Isolated. Forgotten.

She parked her car a few blocks away and approached on foot, her gun strapped to her side. Her heart pounded in her chest, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. She was going in alone, but this might be her only chance to stop the killer.

Emma paused outside the entrance, her breath visible in the cold air. She reached for her gun, her fingers tightening around the handle as she pushed open the door.

The warehouse was dark, the only light coming from flickering overhead lamps. The inside was a maze of old crates, long-abandoned equipment, and the distant drip of water. Every step she took echoed, her senses on high alert.

Suddenly, she spotted something in the far corner—movement. Emma crouched low, her gun raised, and crept forward. Her heart raced, each step heavier than the last.

And then she saw it. A chair in the center of the room, and on it... a mannequin, dressed in bloody clothes. The sight made her stomach churn. It was a gruesome scene—designed to mimic the killer's past victims.

But as she stepped closer, she realized something even more disturbing. There was a note pinned to the mannequin's chest.

Emma's hand shook as she reached for the note. It was handwritten, just like the one from the previous murder scene.

"You're getting warmer. But not warm enough."

Her blood ran cold.

"Dammit," she whispered under her breath. This had been a wild goose chase. The killer had set her up, lured her here just to taunt her again. He was playing her like a puppet, pulling the strings, and she was dancing to his tune.

But as she stood there, cursing herself for being fooled, she heard a sound. A soft creak. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She wasn't alone.

Emma spun around, gun raised, scanning the room. Her eyes darted between the shadows, her pulse pounding in her ears.

"Who's there?" she called out, her voice firm but laced with fear.

There was no response, only the silence of the warehouse and the distant hum of machinery. But then, she heard it again—a faint rustle, like someone shifting behind one of the crates.

She took a step forward, gun pointed in the direction of the noise. Every nerve in her body screamed for her to run, to get out of there, but she couldn't. Not now. Not when she was this close.

Her breath hitched as she caught sight of a figure moving swiftly behind a row of crates. She followed, her heart thudding wildly as she rounded the corner—only to find empty space. Nothing.

But before she could react, something cold pressed against her throat. She froze.

A hand snaked around her waist, pulling her back against a solid chest. The gun was at her throat, pressing lightly against her skin. She felt the breath on her ear, warm and mocking.

"Not so fast, Detective," a voice whispered, low and dangerous.

Emma's blood turned to ice. She knew that voice. She knew it all too well.

Alex.

She didn't dare move, her mind racing to make sense of it. He was the killer. It had been him all along. The nights of passion, the moments of vulnerability—they had all been a cover. A way to manipulate her.

"I warned you," Alex murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. "You've stepped into something you shouldn't have."

Emma's heart pounded as realization flooded her. She had been hunting him the whole time—and he had been right by her side, laughing at her efforts.

The real game had just begun.