The rain hadn't stopped all night. It fell slow and steady, like a tired breath spreading over the city, washing everything into shades of gray. Each drop on the windshield blurred the world outside, a mosaic of broken light and trembling reflections.
Clara watched the empty streets, her mind heavy with questions. Every time she thought they were getting close to the truth, something new slipped out of the dark to contradict it.
"We're almost there," Adrian murmured, eyes on the road.
The sign appeared at the end of a narrow street: 22 Magnolia Avenue. The building was old, its ochre paint flaking away, the walls cracked with age.
All the windows were shut tight, except one, where a thin sliver of light leaked through the blinds.
Adrian turned off the engine.
For a moment, the only sound was rain tapping against the hood.
"It looks abandoned," Clara whispered.
"Or someone wants it to look that way," Adrian replied, his tone careful, unreadable.
He got out first.
The air was sharp and wet, filled with the smell of rust and damp wood.
Clara followed, pulling her coat tighter as they climbed the slick steps to the door.
When Adrian tried the handle, it moved easily beneath his hand.
"It's open," he said quietly.
"Maybe someone left it that way."
Inside, the darkness felt thick, tangible, alive.
The air reeked of old paper, rainwater, and something faintly sweet that made Clara's stomach twist.
Adrian switched on his phone's flashlight.
The narrow hallway came into view: framed photos on the walls, faded by time, faces blurred as if refusing to be recognized.
The carpet was damp and muddy.
Adrian crouched down, tracing the floor with his fingers.
"Footprints," he said. "Fresh ones."
Clara pointed to a spot near the door.
Tiny reddish-brown droplets stained the wall.
"Blood?"
Adrian nodded grimly.
"She was taken here."
They moved slowly through the rooms.
The kitchen was eerily intact, a teacup on the table, a book left open, a silk scarf on the floor. Everything was neat. Too neat. As if someone had cleaned up a tragedy.
In the bedroom, the air was colder. The curtains were drawn, the bed neatly made, the nightstand perfectly arranged.
Too perfect.
Clara noticed a pill bottle resting beside the lamp. She picked it up and read the label.
Haloperidol. Her pulse quickened.
"It's an antipsychotic," she whispered.
"For hallucinations, paranoia… you can't get it without a prescription."
Adrian frowned.
"So Laura was in therapy. But with who?"
Clara scanned the nightstand again.
A folded paper peeked out from beneath the box. She unfolded it carefully, a medical report. At the bottom, clear and sharp, was a familiar signature.
Dr. A. Rinaldi.
Her breath caught.
"No… Adrian, look at this."
He read the page silently, then looked up at her.
"It's him. Laura was one of his patients."
Clara dropped the paper, her hands trembling.
"All of them, Adrian. All the victims were his patients. It's the same pattern."
Adrian's jaw tightened.
"The killer's using Rinaldi's list. He hunts them one by one."
The silence that followed felt heavier than the air itself. Outside, the rain struck the windows harder, as if trying to warn them.
Clara lowered her head.
"It's like we never really left that clinic. Everything still leads back there."
Adrian stepped closer. The flashlight cast their shadows across the wall, distorted, merged.
"No," he said softly. "This time we're not trapped. This time we're the ones breaking in."
He began to search the room, opening drawers, shifting papers, looking for anything that didn't belong. There were letters, photos, old receipts, fragments of a normal life, interrupted. Nothing explained why Laura had died.
Then, at the bottom of a drawer, something caught the light. A small, rectangular shape, edges singed black.
Adrian reached for it carefully.
A business card.
He lifted it, holding it close to the beam of his flashlight.
The surface was smooth, faintly glossy, embossed with faded gold letters. Smoke stains darkened one corner.
Clara stepped forward.
"What is that?"
Adrian didn't answer. He turned the card over in his hand, squinting to read the text.
The letters shimmered faintly under the trembling light.
Clara's heart started pounding.
"What does it say?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
He froze, still, silent, eyes fixed on the words.
Outside, thunder rolled like a distant growl.
The flashlight flickered.
For an instant, the gold letters seemed to pulse, alive, breathing.
Clara stared at him, her voice shaking.
"Adrian?"
He didn't respond. Just the sound of rain, steady and relentless, filled the space between them. The air felt charged, as if the room itself was waiting.
Clara took a hesitant step closer, her voice trembling now.
"What does it say?"
The question hung in the dark, unanswered and the silence that followed was heavier than any reply.