The rain falls in sheets, drumming against the windshield of Detective Maya Reeves' unmarked sedan. It's 3:17 AM, and the city is a blur of neon and wet asphalt, the streetlights casting orange halos through the downpour. The radio crackles with static, then a voice cuts through: "All units, we have a possible 187 at 147 Westwood Avenue. High-profile victim. Requesting senior detective."
Maya's hand tightens on the steering wheel. She knows the address. Westwood Avenue—the wealthy part of Riverside, where the houses have gates and the lawns are manicured even in winter. She's been there before, years ago, for a charity gala. She remembers champagne and string quartets and people who smiled with their mouths but not their eyes.
But tonight is different. Tonight, someone is dead.
She picks up the radio. "Detective Reeves responding. ETA five minutes."
The dispatcher's voice crackles back. "Copy that, Detective. Captain says this one's yours. Victim is Dr. Vincent Ashford. Name ring a bell?"
Maya's jaw tightens. "Yeah. I know who he is."
Everyone in Riverside knows Vincent Ashford. Child psychiatrist. Music therapist. Philanthropist. The man who "saved" troubled children with his innovative treatments. The man who closed Riverside Institute under a cloud of allegations but somehow walked away with his reputation intact.
Maya has never trusted him.
And now he's dead.
Maya pulls up to 147 Westwood Avenue at 3:22 AM. The house is a sprawling Victorian mansion, three stories of dark wood and ornate trim, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. The gate is open, and two patrol cars are parked in the circular driveway, their lights flashing red and blue against the rain-slicked pavement.
Yellow police tape stretches across the front steps. A uniformed officer stands beneath the portico, his face pale, his hand resting on his holstered weapon.
Maya steps out of her car, pulling her raincoat tight against the cold. The rain soaks through her shoes immediately, the water icy against her skin. She flashes her badge at the officer.
"Detective Reeves. Who's inside?"
The officer—young, maybe twenty-five, his name tag reads *MARTINEZ*—swallows hard. "Officer Chen and Officer Rodriguez. And the... the suspect. He's still in there."
Maya's eyebrows rise. "You didn't secure him?"
Martinez shakes his head. "He's not going anywhere, ma'am. He's just... sitting there. Staring. We tried to cuff him, but he didn't resist. Didn't even acknowledge us. It's like he's not even there."
Maya nods. "Anyone else in the house?"
"No, ma'am. We cleared the premises. It's just him and the body."
"Witnesses?"
"Neighbour called it in. Said she heard a crash around 11:30 PM but didn't think much of it. Then she saw the lights were still on at 3 AM and got worried. She didn't see anyone leave."
Maya makes a mental note. *Crash at 11:30. Four hours before the call. Why did he stay?*
She walks past Martinez, ducking under the police tape. The front door is open, the wood dark and heavy, carved with intricate patterns. She steps inside.
The interior of the house is as opulent as the exterior. The foyer is two stories high, with a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The floor is white marble, veined with gold. A grand staircase curves up to the second floor, the banister polished mahogany.
But the elegance is marred by the smell.
Blood.
Metallic, coppery, thick in the air.
Maya's stomach turns, but she keeps her expression neutral. She's been a detective for twelve years. She's seen worse.
Officer Chen—a woman in her thirties with short black hair—stands near the staircase. She looks up when Maya enters, relief flashing across her face.
"Detective. Thank God. This is... it's bad."
Maya nods. "Where's the body?"
"Music room. First door on the left."
"And the suspect?"
"Same room. He hasn't moved since we got here."
Maya walks down the hallway, her boots echoing on the marble floor. The walls are lined with framed photographs—Dr. Ashford shaking hands with politicians, accepting awards, standing with children at various charity events. In every photo, he's smiling. The smile is warm, paternal, trustworthy.
Maya has never trusted that smile.
She reaches the music room and pauses at the doorway.
The room is large, at least thirty feet by thirty feet, with high ceilings and tall windows. The walls are lined with bookshelves filled with sheet music, vinyl records, and leather-bound volumes. A grand piano sits in the center of the room, its black lacquer surface gleaming under the overhead lights.
But the beauty of the room is destroyed by the horror at its center.
Dr. Vincent Ashford lies on the floor near the piano, his body sprawled on its back. His arms are outstretched, his fingers curled as if reaching for something. His face is frozen in an expression of shock, his mouth open, his eyes wide and glassy.
The cause of death is immediately apparent: massive blunt force trauma to the skull. The left side of his head is caved in, the bone shattered, the skin split open. Blood pools around his head, dark and thick, soaking into the Persian rug beneath him.
The weapon lies a few feet away—a bronze statue of Frédéric Chopin, about eight inches tall and heavy. The base is stained with blood and hair.
Maya's gaze moves from the body to the rest of the room.
Blood spatter on the piano. Blood on the wall. Blood on the sheet music scattered across the floor.
And then she sees him.
Elias Verne
He's sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, about ten feet from the body. He's wearing dark jeans and a white button-down shirt, both soaked with blood. His hands rest on his knees, palms up, fingers relaxed. His hands are covered in blood—dried, crusted, dark red against his pale skin.
His face is beautiful in a way that's almost unreal. Sharp cheekbones, full lips, dark eyes that stare at nothing. His hair is black, slightly too long, falling across his forehead. He looks like a painting—something tragic and haunting.
He's not moving. Not blinking. Just staring.
Maya approaches slowly, her hand resting on her holstered weapon. "Elias Verne?"
No response.
She crouches down, keeping a safe distance. "Mr. Verne, I'm Detective Maya Reeves. Can you hear me?"
His eyes don't move. His chest rises and falls slowly, rhythmically. He's breathing, but it's like he's not really there.
Maya glances at Officer Rodriguez, who's standing near the door. "Has he said anything?"
Rodriguez shakes his head. "Not a word. He was like this when we arrived."
Maya turns back to Elias. "Mr. Verne, I need you to listen to me. You're under arrest for the murder of Dr. Vincent Ashford. Do you understand?"
Still nothing.
Maya reaches out slowly, carefully, and touches his shoulder.
His eyes snap to hers.
The shift is so sudden, so complete, that Maya jerks back instinctively. One moment, he was vacant, absent. The next, he's looking at her with an intensity that makes her skin crawl.
"Who am I?" he whispers.
Maya's breath catches. "What?"
"Who am I?" he repeats, his voice soft, almost childlike. "I don't... I don't remember."
Maya studies his face. His eyes are clear, focused, but there's something wrong. Something off. Like he's looking at her but seeing something else.
"Your name is Elias Verne," Maya says carefully. "You're a pianist. Do you remember that?"
He blinks slowly. "Elias. Yes. I'm Elias."
"Do you know where you are?"
He looks around the room, his gaze moving from the piano to the body to the blood on his hands. His expression doesn't change. "Dr. Ashford's house."
"Do you know what happened here?"
He stares at his hands, turning them over slowly, as if seeing them for the first time. "There's blood."
"Yes. Do you know whose blood it is?"
"His." Elias nods toward the body. "Dr. Ashford's."
"Did you kill him?"
Elias's gaze returns to Maya. His eyes are dark, bottomless. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I don't remember." His voice is flat, emotionless. "I was playing. Rachmaninoff. *Prelude in C# Minor*. He was listening. He always listened when I played."
"And then what happened?"
Elias's brow furrows, as if he's trying to recall a dream. "And then... nothing. A blank. Like someone turned off the lights. And when I woke up, he was dead."
Maya leans forward slightly. "You're saying you blacked out?"
"I don't know what happened. I just know... I wasn't there."
"You weren't where?"
"In my body." He looks at his hands again. "Someone else was."
Maya stands, her mind racing. Dissociative episode? Psychotic break? Or is he playing her?
She's seen suspects fake mental illness before. It's a common defense strategy. But something about Elias feels different. The way he looks at his hands, like they belong to someone else. The way he speaks, like he's reciting facts rather than living them.
"Officer Rodriguez," Maya says, "cuff him. We're taking him in."
Rodriguez moves forward with handcuffs. Elias doesn't resist. He simply holds out his wrists, his expression blank.
As Rodriguez secures the cuffs, Elias looks at Maya again. "Detective?"
"Yes?"
"Will you tell him I'm sorry?"
Maya frowns. "Tell who?"
"Dr. Ashford. Will you tell him I didn't mean to?"
Maya's jaw tightens. "He's dead, Mr. Verne. You can't apologize to a dead man."
Elias tilts his head, as if considering this. "Then I'll tell him myself. When I see him again."
A chill runs down Maya's spine.
Rodriguez leads Elias toward the door. As they pass the piano, Elias stops abruptly.
"The music," he says softly.
Maya turns. "What about it?"
"It's still playing. Can't you hear it?"
Maya listens. The room is silent except for the rain drumming against the windows.
"There's no music, Mr. Verne."
Elias's eyes drift to the piano, and for a moment, his fingers twitch, as if playing invisible keys. "It's always playing. In my head. It never stops."
Rodriguez pulls him forward, and they disappear into the hallway.
Maya turns back to the room, pulling out her phone to call the crime scene unit. But before she dials, she walks over to the piano.
The lid is open, the keys exposed. There's blood on the white keys—smeared, as if someone had been playing and then stopped abruptly.
Maya looks at the sheet music on the stand. It's Rachmaninoff's *Prelude in C# Minor*, the same piece Elias mentioned. The pages are splattered with blood.
She walks over to the body, careful not to disturb the scene. Dr. Ashford's eyes are still open, staring at the ceiling. His expression is one of shock, but also something else.
Recognition.
Like he knew what was coming.
Maya crouches down, examining the wounds. Six blows to the head, maybe more. The first blow would have been enough to kill him. The rest were overkill. Rage.
But there's no sign of a struggle. Ashford's hands are relaxed, his body positioned as if he'd simply fallen backward. He didn't fight. He didn't try to defend himself.
Why?
Maya stands and looks around the room. Something feels wrong. The scene is too clean, too controlled. If this was a crime of passion, there should be more chaos. Overturned furniture. Broken glass. Signs of a fight.
But there's nothing. Just the body, the blood, and the piano.
And Elias Verne, sitting on the floor, covered in blood, claiming he doesn't remember.
Maya notices something in the corner of the room—a vintage record player on a wooden stand. The turntable is still spinning, the needle scratching against the vinyl.
She walks over and lifts the needle. The record is Chopin's *Prelude in C# Minor*, the same piece Elias was playing on the piano.
But the record is damaged. There's a deep scratch across the surface, and the music skips and distorts.
Maya frowns. Why would Ashford be playing a damaged record?
She looks at the label: *Elias Verne – Live at Carnegie Hall, 2025*.
Her stomach drops.
This isn't just any recording. It's Elias's recording. His performance.
Ashford was listening to Elias play while Elias was in the room, playing the same piece.
Why?
Maya's phone buzzes. She pulls it out and sees a text from the captain: *Need your report ASAP. Media is already circling. This is going to be big.*
Maya types back: *Suspect in custody. Crime scene secure. Will send full report by 0600.*
She pockets her phone and takes one last look at the room.
The piano. The blood. The body.
And Elias Verne's words echoing in her mind: *"Someone else was in my body."*
Maya doesn't believe in ghosts. She doesn't believe in possession. But she believes in trauma. And she believes in the human mind's ability to fracture under pressure.
She's seen it before.
But something about this case feels different.
Something about Elias Verne feels different.
Maya walks out of the music room, pulling off her gloves. Officer Chen is waiting in the hallway.
"Crime scene unit is on the way," Chen says. "What do you think?"
Maya glances back at the room. "I think this is going to be complicated."
"You think he did it?"
Maya pauses. "I think he was there when it happened. Whether he remembers it or not."
She walks toward the front door, her mind already working through the case. She'll need to interview the neighbors, pull Ashford's phone records, review security footage if there is any.
And she'll need to talk to Elias Verne again. When he's calmer. When he's had time to process.
If he ever processes it at all.
As she steps outside into the rain, she pulls out her phone and scrolls through her contacts. She stops at a name she hasn't called in six months.
Adrian Cross.
Her ex-boyfriend. A forensic psychologist. Someone who specializes in cases like this.
She hesitates, her thumb hovering over the call button.
Then she puts the phone away.
She'll handle this herself. For now.
But she has a feeling she'll need Adrian before this is over.
As Maya walks to her car, she glances back at the house. The lights are still on in the music room, casting a warm glow through the rain.
And for just a moment, she swears she hears it.
Piano music.
Faint, distant, haunting.
Rachmaninoff's *Prelude in C# Minor*.
She stops, listening.
But the rain drowns out everything else.
She shakes her head and gets in her car. It's going to be a long night.