The room was cold. The stinging smell of bleach clung to the absence of blood on the floor, the scene scrubbed clean. But the chill came from something else. Something wrong.
Detective Eva Jaw pulled on her gloves, crouched next to the lifeless man. Mid-fifties. Clean-shaven. No signs of forced entry. No sign of a struggle. The apartment was pristine – almost too pristine. Like someone had cleaned it before leaving. But not in a panic. No. This was deliberate. Every drawer closed. Every surface wiped. And yet, not a single fingerprint. No DNA. No shell casings. No clue.
Just a body soaked in bleach. A cheap dart from a dartboard game buried deep into the socket of his right eye. Missing two fingers. Several teeth. Abdomen opened – guts arranged like an autopsy gone wrong.
Eva stood still. The silence hummed in her ears.
“What do we know?” she asked her partner.
“Name’s Deen Eden. Lived alone. Retired teacher. Neighbors say he kept to himself. No visitors. No enemies. No wife, no kids. One of the neighbors used to bring him food now and then. Said he didn’t cook much. She found the body – came by with a casserole, smelled the bleach through the door, and called it in.”
Eva blinked at the name. Eden. Something in her stomach churned. But she brushed it off.
She questioned Deen’s distant family and friends. They spoke only praise. Said he was a religious Catholic, devoted, kind, and endlessly generous with his time – especially with children.
Deen was loved by all. Soft-spoken. Polite. A man who volunteered for community work.
He had wanted a job close to children. And he had found one.
If only their parents had known.
His mementos were small toys. Plastic figurines. Marbles. Wind-up robots. Trophies taken from tiny hands. Toys sold by the millions – mass-produced memories. To the world, meaningless. To some, the only piece left of what was stolen.
“This is your shot, Eva,” the Captain had told her. “Make something of it. Find the killer. Prove you deserve that badge.”
She wanted to. She had to. But something about the scene felt… familiar. Not the man. Not yet. But the layout. The stillness. Like she’d been here before.
She scanned the room again. The torture. The symbolism. The surgical coldness wrapped in personal rage.
This wasn’t random. This wasn’t impulsive.
This was revenge.
That night, the dreams began. And this time, she wasn’t watching. She was doing.
As Eva drifted into sleep, her mind returned to the apartment – not as it was after the bleach, but before. The walls pulsed with the metallic scent of blood. Knives glinted under yellow light. The floor was sticky. She saw the tools. The aftermath. But never the killer.
Then morning came. And with it, doubt.
When she returned to the scene, a chill crept over her. Everything from the dream – the blood under the table, the broken chair leg – was exactly as she had seen it.
She couldn’t sleep well for the next few days. No dreams came – just a hollow blackness. Still, she kept investigating.
Then one night, after a few drinks, she fell asleep again. And the dream returned.
Same apartment. Same silence before the bleach. Same sticky blood.
She looked for clues. And she noticed something chilling: Every tool used every rope, knife, even the dart had come from Deen’s house. Nothing was brought in.
The killer used what was already there. That meant something.
The toys were sent for analysis. One – a small doll with bright blue eyes and the name Caroline stitched on her dress – caught her fingers. She didn’t recognize it. Didn’t feel anything. She put it back.
But it was hers. Years ago. Lost. Taken. Her mind had wiped it clean. To protect her.
The toys carried faint DNA. None matched anyone in the system.
Back at the precinct, something gnawed at her. The body hadn’t just died. It had suffered. Bones broken. Nails ripped out. Stuffed with toys? But why? Why toys?
This was personal.
The cleaning. The precision. Someone who knew protocol. Someone from the force. But who?
She glanced at her colleagues.
Deen Eden.
Even his name felt like a trick. Holy. Clean. Rotting underneath.
She whispered it aloud. Once. Twice. Again.
Was it the files she had been reading? The allegations? Why were there so many? Did Deen pay them off? Cover them with silence and God?
It must be someone he knew.
And then – A girl’s voice. Hers. Sobbing in a bathroom stall. A hand over her mouth. A belt.
She dropped the file.
His records were spotless. Reports buried. Allegations resolved. Kids who never came back.
She stared at her reflection in the monitor. No comfort. No answers.
She knew.
The eyes looking back – they weren’t surprised.
They remembered.
She dreamt again. This time, clearly.
He was there. Older. Smug. Pretending.
She wasn’t watching. She was doing. Her hands moved with terrifying certainty. Every movement calculated.
She stood in the room. “How many were there, Deen? One?”
She cracked one of his fingers. The sound wet. Sharp. Bone almost visible.
“Two?” Another break. Flesh split.
“Deen the Catholic,” she hissed. “You spent years praying for forgiveness, didn’t you?”
“Those children… marked for life.”
“Why did you do it?”
She moved like herself. But she couldn’t control her voice. Her questions came like a tide – rising, drowning.
She walked to the dartboard. Picked up one. “I still want to play, Deen,” she said. “Do you want to play too?”
Silence.
“Of course you do. You’re just a child, aren’t you?”
She threw. Thud. Into the wall. Again. And again.
Then, one final dart – Straight into his right eye.
He didn’t scream. He just took it. Like he had taken everything.
She whispered: “I remember now, Deen.”
She opened his chest, slow and steady. No hesitation. Then, the final insult: She stuffed it with his trophies along with Caroline. A marble. A plastic soldier. One after another.
“It seems your stomach is full, Deen.”
To the world, Eva was kind. Soft-spoken. But something had awakened in her. Something hungry for justice.
It had no name. But it had her hands. And her rage.
She woke with blood in her mouth. Not real. Was it?
Her hands trembled. But there was no guilt.
She went to the station. Typed up her report. The forensic lab backing her without them knowing.
“Crime scene analysis inconclusive. No forensic evidence. No leads. Case remains unsolved.”
She signed her name. Detective Eva Jaw.
Later that night, she poured a glass of water. And there she was. In the reflection. Eyes calm. Face blank.
She wasn’t chasing the killer. She was the killer.
And as she clicked “Cold Case,” she smiled.
She had stopped dreaming about this.
She no longer needed to.
How did the story make you feel?
