The second file is more sinister than imagined.

"Rust, help me request a day off and let Gretchen know that Holden and I are heading to Santa Monica today… mm…" Dean had the phone tucked between his left shoulder and ear, a plate of spaghetti with tomato meatballs in his left hand, and a fork in his right, shoveling food into his mouth.

After hanging up, Dean quickly finished the rest of his meal, swapped his t-shirt for a newly-bought, elegantly simple black suit with notch lapels.

He glanced in the mirror: broad shoulders, slim waist, tall and straight posture, sharply defined features, large eyes, high nose bridge, thick brows like swords—sunny and handsome. Though his chin was nearly clean-shaven, he looked far more mature and trustworthy than the high school kid he once was.

Dean smoothed his short hair, adjusted his collar, and declared, "Let's go!"

At seven sharp, he drove his Bronco to the station to pick up Holden. Soon, they were on Interstate 15.

"Not bad, you finally look presentable in that suit," Holden, in the passenger seat, remarked bluntly. "Now taking you out on a case isn’t embarrassing."

"I have a girlfriend, so I can't dress too casually," Dean replied, turning the steering wheel. "But I remember you've been in Las Vegas for nearly half a year, always at the station, never going home. I’ve never seen you with a woman either."

"Holden, you must be thirty-five by now—still not married?"

The FBI agent shook his head, squinting at him. "Why so chatty today?"

"Can't I care about my partner? By the way, Thomas Allen once told me, and I’ll pass it on: a man who doesn’t marry and have kids past a certain age becomes very frightening."

"Listen, kid, you’re too young to understand. I’ll give you some advice: marriage is a man’s prison. A man alone is most comfortable, and women only bring trouble—nothing as interesting as a case," Holden leaned back contentedly. "Besides, no matter how much you tease me, you can't hide how nervous you are. What are you worried about?"

Dean’s relaxed smile vanished, and the car suddenly accelerated.

"What if this investigation leads nowhere?"

"Then your hypothesis from yesterday was a dead end. But it’s alright, you’re young—you have plenty of chances to make mistakes." Holden’s gaze softened.

Dean took a deep breath, focused on driving, retracing the old summer road trip route from Las Vegas to Santa Monica.

But this time, he had no mind to admire the sweeping scenery; the car was filled with a heavy silence.

Holden took the initiative to explain the relationships between the district attorney’s office, the courts, and the police department that Dean had been curious about.

After a five-hour journey, the sun blazed at noon. The Bronco entered Santa Monica’s commercial district, and their first stop was a mall that sold Adidas tracksuits.

But the purchase had been nearly half a month ago—the staff had no memory of it, and there were no security cameras inside or nearby.

The jacket lead went cold.

The car turned, passed Santa Monica College—one of the best community colleges in the nation—and entered the local police station.

Compared to the towering buildings of LVPD, this station was compact and stylish, with a sunny, beach-inspired décor—bright and airy.

Though it was daytime, there were few officers inside; most were out keeping order in the tourist hotspot.

Holden led Dean to a plump, round-faced middle-aged officer named Cole Carter. After introductions, the man exclaimed, "Holden Ford, when will you do another criminal psychology lecture for us?" He shook their hands enthusiastically. "What you taught last time was really useful—some of the guys here used basic profiling to catch a murder suspect!"

Holden smiled, "I'd love to enjoy beer, seafood, and bikini-clad beauties in Santa Monica and catch up with old friends, but work keeps me busy. If you need guidance, check out ‘Psychological Dialogue’ by Professors Wendy Carr and Bill Tench from Boston University."

"They’re top in the field, and the book details profiling rules and methods—far more comprehensive than my lectures."

"It’s not for public sale yet, only limited internal circulation. You can apply to read it."

"Noted, I’ll definitely check it out," Cole replied seriously. Dean made a mental note.

Holden continued, "About what I mentioned last night on the phone…"

"No worries—the last three years’ worth of child-related case files, right?" Cole led them into a maze of shelves in the records room, finally retrieving a stack of files from a glass cabinet and placing them on a desk.

"All here."

Dean eyed the mountain of documents, longing for the future convenience of searching with a few keystrokes instead of manually sifting through files. But computers wouldn’t be common for another decade.

"I’ll leave you two to it," Cole said, then paused, "The FBI doesn’t come out for nothing—what’s special about these cases that brought you from Nevada to California?"

Holden glanced at Dean. "We’re looking for a possible serial killer—extremely brutal and skilled at disguise."

Cole sighed. "What’s wrong with the world… In the past decade, these cases keep getting worse. The motives and methods are more twisted than ever."

"At least one reason," Holden mused, "is that as society advances, more people develop psychological issues. Some of them commit terrible acts because of mental illness."

Cole stood in silence for a moment, then left.

…

"Alright, kid, get to work!"

Bathed in daylight from the window, the two men sat on opposite sides and buried themselves in the files.

Dean was soon stunned, gaining a deeper understanding of the darkest sides of humanity.

He read about a man hallucinating after drug use, mistaking his three-year-old daughter for a pet, strangling her, and tossing her in the yard—her body only found days later by a neighbor.

A respected university professor, a white man in his sixties, repeatedly abused his own granddaughter out of twisted desires, only discovered when the family took the child to a doctor.

Twin five-year-old girls, left in a sweltering car by their careless mother, only to die of heatstroke.

But most records were missing children cases—America was vast, and most missing kids were never found, their fates unknown.

…

Two hours later.

The files were nearly depleted, and Dean’s heart raced.

He hadn't found a single case resembling Bucky Flynn’s death.

His investigation was dangerously close to a ridiculous, dead-end conclusion.

But when he glanced at Holden, he saw the man staring, transfixed, at a file—mouth slightly open, visibly shaken.

Something was up!

Dean leaned over to look at the document.

At the top of the first page was a photo of a pretty white girl, with a description below.

Victim: Kelly Scott

Age: 7

Gender: Female

Time of death: July 22, 1980, between 4 and 5 p.m.

Place of death: Park beside Santa Monica University

Cause of death: Multiple traumatic injuries

…

July 22—that was the day Dean’s group had been in Santa Monica for their beach trip.

Dean’s heart jumped. He held his breath and turned to the second page—instantly confronted by a shocking photo.

She lay in the grass, covered in blood, her princess dress soaked, her eyes dark and empty.

She looked like a half-torn rag doll.

Dean closed his eyes.

Bucky Flynn’s brutalized body flashed through his mind. Compared to Kelly Scott, the injuries were at least ninety percent similar.

"A breakthrough—an enormous breakthrough!"

Excitement surged through him like electricity, making his face flush and goosebumps rise all over.

"The system was right! Our theory isn’t some joke—a real serial killer struck in another state before framing Abby." Dean stared at the girl’s photo. "Santa Monica was the previous crime scene!"

…

Holden nodded silently and pulled out another file, this one bearing the photo of a rugged young Asian man.

Name: David Lee

Age: 30

Gender: Male

Occupation: Physics teacher at Santa Monica University

Details: On July 22, 1980, at 4 p.m., lured Kelly Scott into the park and brutally murdered her.

Three eyewitnesses identified David Lee from multiple photos.

The murder weapon and the victim’s body contained Lee’s blood, saliva, skin cells…

Afterward, he was captured on camera at several malls, beaches, and restaurants.

August 12.

David Lee was sentenced to life in prison, currently held at San Quentin State Prison.

…

The file ended there.

Dean, barely containing his excitement and confusion, turned to Holden, whose eyes sparkled.

"Surveillance footage, DNA evidence, eyewitnesses—doesn’t this seem familiar?"

"It’s not just familiar—it’s identical. Unbelievable!" Sweat beaded Holden’s neck as he looked at Dean with awe, as though seeing him for the first time. "How did you do it? Carl and I spent days poring over shallow evidence, but you, with some wild deduction, landed on this unexpected discovery?"

"I told you—it’s not a shot in the dark. It’s my intuition," Dean replied, offering a vague explanation.

"An astonishing intuition." Holden gazed at the ceiling, his fixed ideas in shambles—a case that had seemed nearly closed now had a massive twist.

But facts were facts—Dean’s theory was vindicated. Holden instantly tossed aside all previous complaints and doubts. "What’s your next move?"

Dean rested his chin on his hand, staring out the window, his mind racing:

According to the file,

Nearly two months ago, on July 22, David Lee killed Kelly Scott, then wandered Santa Monica’s restaurants and amusement parks, leaving a trail of surveillance footage.

That same day, Dean’s group was at Santa Monica Beach celebrating Brittany’s birthday. That night, Abby’s wrist was slashed.

The events matched up!

David Lee and Abby Clark—

Two accused murderers, both present on July 22 at Santa Monica Beach.

Without question, it was David Lee who left that mysterious scar on Abby!

But what did this mean?

Some strange force, passing like a plague between chosen victims through the scar?

Dean’s imagination ran wild, but until he spoke with David Lee, he couldn’t be sure.

Still, the file was proof enough—David and Abby were both innocent victims, wrongfully accused. The real killer remained hidden in the mist.

Progress jumped to fifty-five percent.

"Life imprisonment—David Lee is still alive, right?" Dean’s eyes shone. "Partner, arrange a visit to San Quentin. We need answers."

"I have a feeling we’re close to the truth," Holden said with conviction. His trust in Dean leaped to a new level. "San Quentin is one of California’s oldest and most unique prisons. We’ll need an appointment to visit an inmate, even as FBI. The soonest I can arrange is tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, then." Dean pondered. "Does the file list Kelly Scott’s or David Lee’s home addresses? Let’s visit their families."

…

After finding this nearly impossible file, both men were energized—Holden’s attitude shifting from perfunctory to fully committed.

He felt a strong urge to uncover the truth behind this baffling case. Perhaps, when he did, he’d open the door to a whole new world.

Holden jotted down the two addresses, made several calls at the station, and printed out files on both the suspect and the victim.

They drove to a residential area near Santa Monica University, 286 Arizona Avenue—a two-story red house.

The door was opened by a young, elegantly dressed woman in a floral dress.

The two introduced themselves and showed their FBI badges.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and patiently explained, "David Lee’s family hasn’t lived here for a long time. After he was arrested, his parents had some kind of accident—they’re gone."

"Both parents gone? Are you sure?"

"Yes, that’s what everyone said at the time."

Dean and Holden exchanged a disappointed glance.

"Ma’am, did you know David Lee well?" Dean pressed. "Did he seem like the kind of person who’d hurt a child?"

"I was a colleague of his. He had a great reputation, was easygoing and an excellent teacher," the woman replied, her melodious voice tinged with sadness. "He was caring and often volunteered for charity causes. When that happened, all the teachers were shocked."

She sighed and glanced at her watch. "I have to get to class. I only knew David Lee in passing, and the school’s made the incident taboo for the sake of its reputation."

"Very well, ma’am, we’ll leave you be," Holden said, signaling Dean as they returned to the car. "His family is gone—tomorrow we’ll have to ask him directly. Next stop, Kelly Scott’s home."

…

The Bronco wove through Santa Monica’s broad, clean streets and, in less than fifteen minutes, reached a more modest neighborhood, stopping before a small house with no front or back yard.

Bang, bang.

Bang, bang!

Their knocking echoed down the street.

Five minutes passed with no answer.

Dean switched to a God’s-eye view—inside, the house was dark, empty within ten meters, and the furniture was draped in dusty sheets.

Had it been abandoned?

Creak—

The door of the neighboring house opened.

"Who are you?" A middle-aged man in a vest and shorts, his hair dyed yellow and his demeanor disheveled like a petty thug, poked his head out.

Holden flashed his badge and introduced himself.

"Do you know where Kelly Scott’s family went? We’re reopening her case and wanted to talk."

"You’re too late," the man shook his head regretfully. "Poor little Kelly’s family was cursed. Not long after her death, her grandmother died of a heart attack, her mother, overwhelmed by grief, crashed her car and died, and her father…"

He paused, a flicker of fear in his eyes. "Her father couldn’t bear the loneliness and shot himself. The whole Scott family is gone. I can’t help you."

"What? Kelly Scott’s entire family is dead?" Despite the harsh sunlight, Dean felt a chill down his spine. "But the case was only two months ago—how is that possible?"

"You’re young—you don’t have children yet, do you? It’s understandable you don’t get it," the man replied in a world-weary tone. "A child is a family’s hope. Lose the child, and parents and grandparents are overwhelmed by grief. If they can’t bear it, they follow after."

"What a shame—they were all good people," he added with deep sadness.

"Sorry to bring up painful memories. We’ll leave you alone," Holden said, dragging a dazed Dean away.

The man sighed, closing his door.

"This isn’t normal," Dean frowned deeply. "For the victim’s whole family to die within two months—that’s too strange. Could death really spread like a plague?"

"Death doesn’t spread, but grief does," Holden replied, ushering him into the car. "And what about the killer’s family? Remember what that woman said—David Lee’s parents died in an accident."

"That means both the victim’s and the suspect’s families are nearly wiped out, with only David Lee—possibly wrongly accused—still alive in prison!"

"As much as you might prefer a mystical explanation, I think it’s just coincidence. Haven’t you heard the saying: misfortune befalls the unfortunate," Holden said uncertainly, starting the car. "You’ve spent all day driving—get some rest at the hotel. Tomorrow, we’ll talk to David Lee."

"Just coincidence?" Dean gazed at the blur of green trees outside, a vague sense rising within him—

The killer lurking behind all this was far more evil than he’d imagined.

Thank you for your generous support! And thanks to everyone for their monthly and recommendation votes!

(End of chapter)