The air smells like bleach and the kind of silence that sinks beneath your skin.
I don't rush in. I never do.
The forensics team cleared out two hours ago, but the place still echoes with the movement of boots, breath, and the shuffle of gloves on plastic. It's gone now. All of it. Just me, the walls, and what's left behind that no one else saw.
I stand in the middle of the living room and listen. Not with my ears-with my spine. With that cold space behind my ribs that hums when something isn't right.
The apartment is... too clean.
Not professionally. Not obsessively. Emotionally. Every object feels like it's been placed with intent. Like a stage, not a home.
The couch is aligned perfectly to face the TV, cushions plumped. A glass of wine on the coffee table-half-full, untouched. No fingerprints. No lipstick on the rim.
People don't live this neatly. They prepare this neatly.
I don't touch anything. Just walk.
The bedroom hits harder. The bleach hits first. That sharp, sterile smell is trying to convince me that nothing bad happened here.
But I see the shadows of it. The subtle discoloration on the mattress where blood was scrubbed. The indentation where her head rested, neck twisted to the left. Arms above her. Legs angled outward. Symmetrical.
Intentional.
He posed her. He chose that position.
I take a step closer and feel stillness. Not spiritual. Not peaceful. Something colder. Like he wanted the scene to feel... elegant. Like a ritual.
I move to the window. There's a cigarette on the sill. Half-burned. Balanced. The ash is long-unbroken. No wind. No movement. It burned in stillness.
He stood here.
While she died behind him. Not panicked. Not frenzied. Just waiting. My fingers curl slightly. Then I see it. On the dresser. A Polaroid. Facedown. I hesitate. Just for a second. Then I flip it.
She's still alive in the photo. Eyes open. Lips parted. Bound in silk. There's a softness to her expression. Not fear. Something quieter. Resignation, maybe.
Or worse - trust.
On the back of the photo, scrawled in clean in:
"What do you see when you look at her?"
That's all. No signature. No slogan. Just a question. Simple. Direct. Intimate.
I stare at it longer than I should. Is it rhetorical? Philosophical? Mocking? Or is it personal?
I slide the photo into the evidence bag, seal it. Step back. Another case. Another killer who think he's more clever than he is. They always think they're original. I leave the apartment without looking back.
I don't notice the second Polaroid hidden behind the dresser. No one does. Not yet.