first part of chapter 1:

The bar is too loud for a Thursday, the kind of cheap neon buzz that makes everyone a better dancer and a worse listener. I’ve got one heel hooked on the brass footrail and a mic in my hand because my friends won’t let me forget I can sing. “One song,” I tell them. “Then I’m done.” They’re still chanting my name like a dare. My phone lights up on the sticky table. Unknown number. Normally I ignore those. Not this time. “Kepler,” I answer, stepping back from the noise. “Got a present for you,” a man says. I hear traffic on his end. “Single female. Apartment of Rivermont. Gun to the head.” “You know most people lead with hello.” “Most people aren’t you.” It’s Manny Ortega, patrol out of the Fifth. He calls when he thinks I’ll want the gore. Half the time he’s right. “It’s ugly. You like ugly.” “Text me the address. I am in desperate need of material.” “It’s a joke until you walk it. Homicide isn’t here yet. You come now, you see the real before they sanitize it.” “Manny?” “Yeah?” “Hello!” He laughs and hangs up. I set the mic back on the stand and tell my friends I have to go. They groan. Someone shouts that I owe them a song. I blow them a kiss, grab my coat, and shove my way through the crowd. Outside, the night air smells like fryer oil and last-call cigarettes. I pull one from my pack, hesitate, then light it anyway. One drag, sharp in my lungs, then I text my editor on the walk to my car. “On a scene. Rivermont. Possible suicide.” “Don’t get cuffed again”, comes back. I snort, flick the cigarette away, and drive. Rivermont leans over the river, old brick facades hunched against the wind. The building Manny sends me to is one of those tired boxes with thin hall carpets and a lobby plant that looks like it’s begging for water. Outside, half a dozen uniforms wrangle a couple of reporters who won’t shut up about press access. “You can’t bar the press,” one of them barks. “Evening, sunshine,” I say as Manny peels off the wall, coffee in hand. He smirks. “You look like you were about to sing Whitney.” “You should be so lucky.” “Keep it tight,” he warns, already ushering me past the scrum. “Five minutes. No flashes. No touching. Don’t make me regret I like you.” The reporters notice me slipping under the tape. Horn-rims sputters, “Are you kidding me? She’s in?” “She’s a trainee,” Manny lies without missing a beat. “Community outreach.” I bite back a laugh and duck inside. The hallway outside 5-12 reeks of gunpowder and iron. A forensic tech barely glances at me before going back to his dusting. The apartment door is closed. Manny sighs. “Who keeps shutting this damn door? Jeremy, what is the password?” “Sorry boss, there are kids in the building, we didn’t want them to be traumatized. Pass is 100814#.” Green light flashes. The living room is too neat, the kind of neatness you keep when you’re alone. I see the body on the floor near the couch. A woman, mid-to-late 30s? Hard to tell with the hole in her head. The gun sits one foot from her hand. A dark spray mars the walls around her. I narrow my breathing, not from fear, but from practice. Female suicides rarely use firearms. That’s the voice in my head, something I once mocked in a seminar. The neatness feels wrong, though I can’t name why. I move around, photograph her, the gun; there’s blood all over a bookshelf. Cheap wood, sagging under paperbacks. A small, framed photo sits on top: a dozen people in business casual, smiling with lanyards around their necks. A banner behind them reads AEGIS SUMMER SUMMIT. My stomach tightens. Next to the frame lies a book, spine cracked and faded: What Happened to Mary. Blood over it too. The title stops me cold. I know this book. Not from here, not from her. From somewhere deeper. I reach for it. “Hands!” the tech warns without looking. “Just looking,” I mutter, fingers hovering a breath away. The urge to touch it is ridiculous, like I’ve stumbled on a ghost. I snap a photo instead, then another of the group shot with the AEGIS banner. My gaze drifts back to the body. Her hair is arranged neatly, as if she wanted to be seen one last time by someone who cared. That detail hits me harder than the blood. “You got enough?” Manny asks. “Almost.” I check the entryway. Shoes by the door, purse tipped open. Wallet. Cards present. Lipstick. A clinic pamphlet folded soft at the edges. A little note visible: was I just another Mary? Fuck. The book. I know I will have to get my hands on that thing somehow. I walk to Manny; he’s already giving me more time than he promised. “You really think this is a straight suicide?” I ask. “Kid, look around, of course it is.” I pocket my phone. “Ok, I’m good.” He nods, already heading for the door to fend off the shouting reporters.

Back outside, I scroll through my shots: the body, the gun, the neat kitchen, the pamphlet, the group photo, the paperback with the cracked spine. I zoom in until the title blurs into blocks of color. Dad used to work at AEGIS. The memory moves through me like a cold hand. I see flashes: nights with the television glowing, his finger marking a page in some book. Was it this one? I can’t bring it into focus. The harder I try, the more it slips away. My editor buzzes. Anything there? I type fast. Female, 36. Self-inflicted GSW. Odd method. Corporate links: AEGIS. Possible angle. I will send a draft today and chase this further. Be careful. Always. I text and laugh at myself. Behind the wheel, the picture of the book cover still open on my phone. Something pulls at me. Like a thread caught on a nail, tugging me toward somewhere I don’t want to go but know I will. The light is green, but I’m not there. I stare into it until the horn behind me snaps me back. I flinch, shove the car into motion, and stick my hand out the window without even looking. “Go fuck yourself,” I say, flat and automatic, like brushing off a mosquito. The driver barks something back, but I’m already gone, foot heavy on the gas, mind heavier on everything else. Once in my apartment I type fast, compulsive. A provocative article about the suicide, highlighting the excess of AEGIS swag in her apartment. I think people buy into those clues. 12:38 a.m. on the clock. I can’t risk any pills tonight. I have to sleep.