Chapter 1

The stakeout was a bust, a cold, damp twelve hours spent watching a warehouse that stayed stubbornly quiet. Rain slicked the Chicago streets, turning the city lights into a blurry watercolor painting. All I wanted was to get home, peel off my wet clothes, and maybe share a glass of wine with Jennifer.

Twenty years. Twenty years since her parents were murdered in their suburban home. Twenty years since a killer left a small, antique music box on their bodies, its distorted lullaby a permanent echo in our lives. The case went cold, but for me and Jennifer, it never did. It was a ghost that lived in our house, sat at our dinner table, and slept between us in our bed.

I turned onto my street and my heart stopped.

Red and blue lights strobed across the wet asphalt, painting the familiar houses in garish, frantic colors. Police cars, an ambulance, yellow tape. It was a scene I knew too well, but I never expected to see it here. My street. My home.

I slammed the car into park and ran, my badge already in my hand, my mind a screaming void. I pushed through the uniformed officers, my eyes scanning, desperate.

"Scott, what are you doing here?" a young officer asked.

"I live here," I said, my voice hoarse. "What happened?"

He just looked at me, his face grim, and pointed toward the house next to mine. Old Man Benton's place. A Vietnam vet who mostly kept to himself.

My partner, Andy, met me at the tape. His face was pale.

"Scott, maybe you should wait in your house," he said, his voice low.

"Don't do that, Andy," I snapped. "Don't treat me like a civilian. What is it?"

He sighed, a plume of white in the cold night air. "It's Benton. He's dead."

I ducked under the tape, my feet carrying me up the familiar porch steps. The smell hit me first. Copper and iron. The smell of death.

Inside, the scene was a perfect, horrific replica of the nightmare that had defined my life. Benton was on the floor, his body arranged in a way that was too deliberate, too ritualistic.

And there, on his chest, was a small, antique music box.

My breath hitched. It was the same. The exact same kind. The chilling, metallic plinking of a distorted lullaby filled the room, a sound I hadn't heard in two decades but could never forget.

The world tilted. It was him. The killer. After twenty years, he was back. He was taunting me.

My eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail, my detective's brain kicking into overdrive, fighting the wave of pure, unadulterated rage. Then I saw it. Through the window, in the crowd of neighbors gathered below, a figure was lurking in the shadows.

Caleb Benton. The old man's son. A twitchy, reclusive man I'd only ever exchanged brief nods with.

Our eyes met across the distance. A flicker of recognition, of panic, flashed in his face.

And then he bolted.

"He's running!" I yelled, my voice raw.

I didn't wait for Andy. I didn't wait for anyone. I vaulted over the porch railing, landing hard on the wet grass, and sprinted. Twenty years of frustration, of helplessness, of Jennifer's quiet tears, fueled my legs.

"Police! Stop!" I screamed into the night.

Caleb was fast, darting through backyards, his lanky frame a shadow against the fences. He scrambled over one, and I followed, my shoulder screaming in protest. We burst into a narrow, garbage-strewn alley. Rainwater splashed around my ankles.

I was closing the distance. I could hear his ragged breaths. Just a few more feet.

I launched myself forward, a guttural roar tearing from my throat. My arms wrapped around his legs, and we went down hard onto the grimy pavement. I was on top of him in an instant, my knee in his back, my hands fumbling for my cuffs.

"It's over," I gasped, the words tasting like victory and ash. "Twenty years. It's over."

Headlights flooded the alley's entrance. A car screeched to a halt. Jennifer and Andy.

"Scott!" Jennifer's voice.

I looked up, a grim smile on my face. "I got him, Jen. I got the son of a bitch."

But the look on her face wasn't relief. It was horror. It was a shattering, broken-hearted agony that I didn't understand.

She walked toward me, her steps unsteady. She wasn't looking at Caleb, pinned beneath me.

She was looking at me.

She pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Not mine. Andy's.

"Jen, what are you doing?" I asked, my blood running cold.

She knelt down, her hands trembling. She reached for my wrists. The cold metal clicked shut around one, then the other. She cuffed me.

"It's over, Scott," she said, and her voice broke, shattering into a million pieces.

"The music box... it showed me."

Her eyes, full of tears, met mine.

"The killer is you."