The sun hadn't even risen when Emma and I pulled up outside Victor Zaldivar's security firm. The building looked legitimate—glass windows, a receptionist in uniform, even a corporate mission statement printed on the wall.
But behind that gloss, something darker lurked.
We flashed our badges and asked to speak with Zaldivar. The receptionist hesitated, picked up the phone, and within seconds, two suited guards approached us. "Mr. Zaldivar isn't available."
"I think he'll want to make himself available," I said, flashing a copy of the crime scene photo—the blood-stained necklace. "Or we can come back with a warrant."
Moments later, we were ushered into his office.
Victor Zaldivar stood tall, clean-cut, too polished for someone with a criminal record. He looked at the necklace, then smiled faintly.
"I've never seen that in my life."
"Your fingerprint was on it," Emma replied.
He shrugged. "Must've been planted. You know how politics works, Doctor Reyes."
I stepped closer. "Two kids are dead. You want to tell me why your name keeps popping up in both the corruption files and the murder investigation?"
His smile dropped.
"You're messing with something bigger than you understand," he said coldly. "If you don't back off, they'll come for you too."
Later that day, Emma and I met Judge Vega in his chambers. We showed him everything—Zaldivar's prints, Lina's family history, Daniel's mysterious withdrawal, the crime scene photos.
Judge Vega leaned back, tension building in his jaw. "This goes higher than I thought. Zaldivar's firm has contracts with several government agencies. He's not acting alone."
Emma frowned. "Do we have permission to dig deeper?"
Vega hesitated, then handed us a classified folder. "This file wasn't supposed to exist. Lina's father was working as a whistleblower. He gave information linking top officials to offshore accounts, drug laundering, and bribery. That's why he was silenced. And now, they killed his daughter too."
Inside the folder were emails, transaction logs, hidden photos—evidence that could blow the case wide open.
My hands trembled as I realized what we were holding: proof of a conspiracy.
That night, Emma and I regrouped. We were being watched—we could feel it. Our phones, our cars… even our homes could be compromised.
"We have to go dark," Emma said. "If they know what we have, they'll come after us."
I nodded. "But we're not backing down. Not this time."
We made digital copies of the evidence and stored them on multiple encrypted drives. One was sent to an anonymous journalist. Another hidden in the university lab. A third—placed inside a music box in my daughter Israel's nursery, disguised as a keepsake.
They'd never think to look there.
As the chapter closed, we stood in front of a map with red strings, names, and pins. This wasn't just a murder case anymore.
This was war.
And we had just drawn the first line.