The warmth of the afternoon lingered as the family packed up. Little July stirred from her nap, rubbing her tiny fists against her eyes. A bubble of drool sat by her chubby cheek as she blinked up at her parents from the trolley, still lost in the haze of sleep.
The park had begun to empty. Families trickled out, leaving behind only the occasional jogger, a few friends walking their dogs, a man alone on a bench feeding pigeons, and the steady rhythm of passing cyclists.
John secured July's buckle and smiled. "Alright, kiddo. One last stroll before we head home?"
He kissed her small hand. July frowned and wiped it against her dress with exaggerated disgust, as if to say, Ew.
Jane laughed, stretching. "Let's go by the lake. The view will be beautiful at this time."
They followed the winding path, the golden hues of the setting sun spilling over the water. July babbled happily, gripping the handle of her stuffed bunny as Jane pushed the trolley. Birds skimmed across the lake, their reflections breaking into ripples. The air had cooled, the breeze threading through the trees in a hushed whisper.
John paused to tie his shoe. Jane adjusted the strap of the picnic basket slung over her shoulder. Just a second. Maybe two. A brief shift of attention—so innocent, so harmless.
A rustling behind them. A blur of movement.
Jane turned.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The trolley was empty.
"July?" Her voice cracked, the name barely escaping her lips before panic surged through her chest.
John spun around, eyes wild. "Where is she?"
The world tilted. The air, suddenly too thick to breathe. Jane's heart pounded as her gaze darted—over the path, the grass, the trees—no curls, no tiny hands reaching up for her.
Then—movement in the distance.
A shadow slipping through the trees.
John was already running, his voice raw with desperation. "HEY! STOP!"
Jane followed, feet pounding against the dirt path.
The figure was fast, moving with purpose. Dark clothing. Gloves. A mask.
He was cradling something. Small. Fragile.
July.
The masked man disappeared into the trees.
Jane's scream tore through the park.
And then, people started moving
---
precariously atop a stool placed over a chair, reaching for the peculiar web of drawings pinned to the wall.
"Did you hear about the dentist who became a brain surgeon?" he muttered, stretching as far as he could. "His hand slipped."
He chuckled at his own joke—then frowned.
"So why can't my hand reach this?"
Conors had been a freak for precision. His things were always arranged at eye level. But this? This was just slightly lower.
Something didn't add up.
Colhoun had already found the diary—filled with sweet, almost sickeningly affectionate entries about Conors' wife and their unborn child. A sentimental relic, discarded like trash.
And then there was Conors' final message:
"Beware of my sin? Style? Student? Sibling? Son? Saliva? Socks?"
Too many unanswered questions. But answers always came. Maybe the killer even knew that.
No son, Colhoun thought. Conors' child had been… aborted? Lets just say so for now.
Conors had been a corrupt man—a stain on society. And yet, he had wished for something good. Adoption.
The thought jolted Colhoun. Somewhere in that diary, Conors had mentioned adoption.
He rushed to the case files.
No listed son.
No official adoption records.
Then—Gregory Wallace. The fourth victim.
Except… what if Wallace wasn't a victim? What if his death was a symbol?
"Beware of my son."
Jasmine.
Conors' wife was Jasmine.
Colhoun's pulse quickened. If the killer had been anyone else, they might have gotten away. But a hound knows the scent of another hound.
He flipped through the police records until he found the file he was searching for.
His gaze settled on the image inside.
A smirk tugged at his lips.
"Why did the chicken cross the road?" he murmured. "To get to the idiot's house."
And then, softly—almost to himself—he whispered,
"Knock,....