First Kill (A Layla Caine Suspense Thriller—Book 1) E-Book

Ava Strong

• Herausgeber: Lukeman Literary Management
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Layla Caine Suspense Thriller
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 269

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

"This is a chilling, suspenseful page turner that just might leave you scared at night!" —Reader review for Not Like Us ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Former actress Layla Caine is an invaluable Profiler for the LAPD, with her unique ability to see through people and her deep knowledge of Hollywood. But when an elusive killer terrorizes Los Angeles, Layla finds herself in a game of cat and mouse with a killer always one step ahead… A killer claims victims in a macabre tribute to their cinematic triumphs, and Layla must channel her past to unmask the murderer who stages each crime scene with eerie perfection—before the final curtain call. "The plot has many twists and turns, but it is the ending, which I did not see coming at all, that totally defines this book as one of the most riveting that I have read in years." —Reader review for Not Like Us ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ This is BOOK #1 in a long-anticipated new series by #1 bestseller Ava Strong, whose bestsellers have received over 1,000 five star ratings and reviews. A gripping mystery series featuring the compelling and intricate protagonist Layla Caine, this crime thriller delivers relentless action, tension, and surprising narrative turns that promise to hold your attention and keep you enthralled long past bedtime. Fans of Mary Burton, Kendra Elliot, and Lisa Regan are sure to fall in love. Future books in the series are also available! "Very intriguing, kept me turning page after page… Lots of twists and turns and a very unexpected ending. Cannot wait for the next in this series!" —Reader review for Not Like Us ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "A roller coaster ride of events… Can't put down until you finish it!" —Reader review for Not Like Us ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Excellent read with very realistic characters that you become emotionally invested in… Couldn't put it down!" —Reader review for The Death Code ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "An excellent read, lots of twists and turns, with a surprising ending, leaving you wanting to read the next book in the series! Well done!" —Reader review for The Death Code ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Well worth the read. Cannot wait to see what happens in the next book!" —Reader review for The Death Code ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Quickly became a story I couldn't put down! I highly recommend this book!" —Reader review for His Other Wife ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "I really enjoyed the fast-paced action, plot design and characterization... I didn't want to put the book down and the ending was a total surprise." —Reader review for His Other Wife ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "The characters are extremely well developed… There are twists and turns in the plot that kept me guessing. An extremely well written story." —Reader review for His Other Wife ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "One of the best books I have ever read… The ending was perfect and surprising. Ava Strong is an amazing writer." —Reader review for His Other Wife ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Holy cow, what a rollercoaster… Many times I absolutely KNEW who the killer was—only to be proven wrong each time. I was completely surprised by the ending. I have to say, I am thrilled that this is the first in a series. My only complaint is that the next one isn't out yet. I need it!" —Reader review for His Other Wife ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "An incredible, intense, spellbinding, enjoyable story. It will keep you captivated until the end." —Reader review for His Other Wife ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Leseprobe

F I R S T

K I L L

(a layla caine suspense thriller —book 1)

a v a   s t r o n g

Ava Strong

Ava Strong is author of the REMI LAURENT mystery series, comprising six books (and counting); of the ILSE BECK mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the STELLA FALL psychological suspense thriller series, comprising six books (and counting); of the DAKOTA STEELE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising six books (and counting); of the LILY DAWN suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the MEGAN YORK FBI suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the SOFIA BLAKE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the AMY RUSH FBI suspense thriller series, comprising seven books; of the ELLE KEEN FBI suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the LEXI COLE suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); and of the LAYLA CAINE suspense thriller series comprising five books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Ava loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.avastrongauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

BOOKS BY AVA STRONG

LAYLA CAINE SUSPENSE THRILLER

FIRST KILL (Book #1)

FIRST MISTAKE (Book #2)

FIRST GIRL (Book #3)

FIRST CHANCE (Book #4)

FIRST FEAR (Book #5)

ELLE KEEN FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IN THE DARK (Book #1)

IN THE WAY (Book #2)

IN THE EYES (Book #3)

IN THE NIGHT (Book #4)

IN THE SILENCE (Book #5)

AMY RUSH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

TWISTED TRUTH (Book #1)

TWISTED GAME (Book #2)

TWISTED SECRET (Book #3)

TWISTED FATE (Book #4)

TWISTED VOW (Book #5)

TWISTED NIGHT (Book #6)

TWISTED PAST (Book #7)

SOFIA BLAKE FBI SUSPSENSE THRILLER

NO ONE THERE (Book #1)

NO ONE LEFT (Book #2)

NO ONE HOME (Book #3)

NO ONE TO HELP (Book #4)

NO ONE LIKE THIS (Book #5)

MEGAN YORK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

YOU’LL BE SORRY (Book #1)

YOU’LL BE NEXT (Book #2)

YOU’LL BE MINE (Book #3)

YOU’LL BE FIRST (Book #4)

YOU’LL BE GONE (Book #5)

LILY DAWN FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

STILL ALIVE (Book #1)

STILL HOPE (Book #2)

STILL AWAKE (Book #3)

STILL HERE (Book #4)

STILL MAD (Book #5)

REMI LAURENT FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

THE DEATH CODE (Book #1)

THE MURDER CODE (Book #2)

THE MALICE CODE (Book #3)

THE VENGEANCE CODE (Book #4)

THE DECEPTION CODE (Book #5)

THE SEDUCTION CODE (Book #6)

ILSE BECK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOT LIKE US (Book #1)

NOT LIKE HE SEEMED (Book #2)

NOT LIKE YESTERDAY (Book #3)

NOT LIKE THIS (Book #4)

NOT LIKE SHE THOUGHT (Book #5)

NOT LIKE BEFORE (Book #6)

NOT LIKE NORMAL (Book #7)

STELLA FALL PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER

HIS OTHER WIFE (Book #1)

HIS OTHER LIE (Book #2)

HIS OTHER SECRET (Book #3)

HIS OTHER MISTRESS (Book #4)

HIS OTHER LIFE (Book #5)

HIS OTHER TRUTH (Book #6)

DAKOTA STEELE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

WITHOUT MERCY (Book #1)

WITHOUT REMORSE (Book #2)

WITHOUT A PAST (Book #3)

WITHOUT PITY (Book #4)

WITHOUT HOPE (Book #5)

LEXI COLE SUSPENSE THRILLER

FEAR THE DARK (Book #1)

FEAR THE SILENCE (Book #2)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

PROLOGUE

Emilia Stance stood center stage in the solitude of her apartment, a halo of lamplight casting her shadow across the gleaming hardwood floor. She clutched a piece of paper with trembling hands, the inked lines of her acceptance speech a testament to countless revisions. Her eyes, lids brushed with violet shadow, flickered over the words, lips mouthing silent phrases.

“Esteemed colleagues,” she began, her voice a controlled quiver, “I stand before you not as an individual, but as a representative…” She trailed off, a bead of perspiration tracing the curve of her jawline. Emilia squared her shoulders, the fabric of her evening gown whispering against her skin as she shifted her weight.

The award ceremony wasn’t until several nights away, but everyone would be watching.

She’d trained for this day… How many countless years of obscurity, hours and hours on set?

And now?

A small smile, and she nodded, a sort of imperious flick of her head.

This was her moment. The stage was finally hers to command.

“Of the countless actors in our field who are often overlooked…” she continued, staring into a space filled with invisible spectators, her voice gaining conviction with every word.

A soft scraping sound suddenly broke the quiet rhythm of her speech. Emilia froze, the paper in her hand rustling against the tense silence. She turned slowly, glancing over her shoulder. Her apartment stretched out before her—a scene of stark whites and sleek grays, punctuated by bold splashes of color from her eclectic art collection. Her eyes ran across each piece, searching for an anomaly in her meticulously curated sanctuary.

On the far end of the room, a dull glow emanated from beneath a closed door leading to the study. Emilia’s pulse quickened, adrenaline rushing through her veins like a raging river. The study was where she kept all her awards: her hard-won trophies of past battles against obscurity and mediocrity. There should be no light there. She had not been in there all evening.

Abandoning her speech, she padded softly across the room, the carpet underfoot muffling her steps as she approached the suspect door. The light beneath it flickered irregularly.

Why was the light on? Was someone there? How? Why? Should she call the police? And then—what? Just wait here until the cops arrived to turn off a light she forgot she turned on?

Emilia swallowed, trying to clear her suddenly dry throat, uncertainty and anxiety spiking as she pressed herself against the cool wall next to the door, heart pounding like a tribal drum against her ribs. A chill ran down her spine.

She’d been feeling sensations like this a lot recently. A quiet part of her mind yelled at her to stop being ridiculous. The fear was residue from her recurring role on the most recent crime series… She’d filled her head with research on the most horrible acts one human might perpetrate against the other. It wasn’t good for the soul, she’d decided. But it was a good-paying job, and it came with recognition.

But it also came with fear. Nothing tangible. Just fear.

Emilia took a couple of steadying breaths. She pushed the door open slowly, peering in.

Empty.

The room was empty. But the door to the terrace was open, the drift of air pressure from the open door and window causing a drape to flutter.

Her breath caught in her throat once more, and she glanced past the fluttering curtain leading to the balcony, frowning.

She hadn’t left that door open, had she?

Emilia shook her head, hurrying in high heels toward the entrance. A late-night chill blew in, carrying with it the earthy scent of rain-soaked asphalt, the distant murmur of Los Angeles nightlife.

She reached out, fingers grazing the cold brass knob, before yanking the door shut with a resounding click. Cutting out the sounds on the night air, the room felt suddenly still and quiet.

There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, like a film reel spinning out of control, and she cast her gaze around the room hastily, the tension in her body pulling tight as a string.

Suddenly, she heard it—a subtle sound, barely noticeable over the beating of her heart: the creaking of floorboards, breathing. Her eyes darted around wildly, seeking the source, unseen and lurking in the shadows. Then came a voice—a low, husky whisper from somewhere behind her—sending chills trickling down her spine.

“Fame is such a fickle lady, isn’t she? One moment she’s lifting you up and the next…”

The terror was immediate and immense, squeezing the air from her lungs.

Emilia spun around wide-eyed as the figure emerged from the darkness of the corridor. His eyes gleamed ominously under his hat brim, his features wreathed by shadow. He continued speaking in that same eerie whisper, words falling like heavy drops into the chilling silence.

“Locked inside your ivory tower, yet no one hears your screams,” he said with an ominous grin as he approached. Emilia backed away. Her breath hitched.

The shape materialized, solidifying into the form of a person where only shadows had danced moments ago. Emilia’s first instinct was to freeze, her practiced poise dissolving into raw alertness. The figure loomed in silence, a dark mass that seemed to absorb the light around it.

She tried to speak, but her throat was hoarse. She couldn’t find the words.

A joke.

A sick joke.

It had to be.

She stumbled back, tripping on the high heels she’d insisted on wearing to prepare for her speech. Her pulse hammered in her ears, a rhythmic drumbeat that filled the room with its cadence. The paper crinkled between her fingers, the sound disproportionately loud in the stillness.

Her gaze never leaving the figure, Emilia inched backward, feet silent on the floor. The distance between them remained constant, as if the figure’s presence were rooted to the space itself, an anchor in the darkness.

He kept coming toward her.

She shot a frantic look toward the front door, then turned and ran, screaming as she sprinted. Finally, her voice was loosed as the grip of terror released her throat.

She tried the handle.

Locked.

The door was locked. Her fingers fumbled for the chain. Unhooked it. Tried the door again.

Stalkers had come to her apartment before, looking for a photograph or their five minutes of fame. One had even been let in by a guest of hers one night. That was why her front door didn’t use a simple latch. It was locked by key on both sides. She and she alone had complete control of who came and went by this door.

The locks were secure. Safe.

Emilia tried the handle, struggling against the door with a short, urgent groan.

Locked. Locked inside. Her hands spasmed, instinctively reaching for pockets and a purse that were not on her. The keys. Where had she left them? Where were the damn keys!

Panic surged through her veins like ice water as she realized the truth: she was locked in. With the intruder. The weight of her own security measures, once comforting, now crushed her with cruel irony. She hammered at the door with the side of her fist, the sound loud in the confines of her apartment.

The metallic taste of fear felt bitter on her tongue. Her screams echoed through the cavernous apartment, rebounding off the high ceilings and polished stone countertops. Yet, it was as if she were encased in glass—her cries for help still trapped within the confines of the room. The figure behind her moved with a deliberate slowness, relishing her screams.

“Screen goddess reduced to a damsel in distress,” the cold voice commented from behind her. It was a strange cadence, as if he were reading lines off a script.

Emilia turned sharply, back pressed against the door, her breath hitching in short gasps. The figure now stood under the chandelier, bathed in an eerie pool of light that did nothing to dispel his sinister aura.

His gloved hands were relaxed at his sides, but there was an undeniable threat suggested by the way his fingers twitched sporadically. His eyes were hidden beneath the brim of his hat as he continued his maddening monologue.

“Fame has locked you inside this gilded cage,” he said, extending an arm toward Emilia’s opulent surroundings. “But what use is all this luxury if it can’t save your life?”

Emilia felt bile rise in her throat at his words. Was he insane? He spoke like a crazy person, like a mad, self-important murderer from one of her crime thrillers.

As if sensing her desperation, he chuckled, a low sound that filled the room with its deceptively mirthful undertones.

The figure’s voice slithered through the shadows, a chilling whisper that cut straight to Emilia’s core. “Fame,” it said, “an undeserved crown for the lucky few.”

Emilia’s pulse hammered in her ears. The room shrank around her, each tick of the clock marking her heartbeat. She swallowed hard, the sound deafening in the silent apartment, and she opened her mouth in a silent false start before she found her voice.

“Who are you?”

“An observer,” came the reply, each syllable laced with malice.

Her eyes flicked from corner to corner, the sleek lines of her designer furniture now menacing obstacles. Emilia’s breath grew shallow, every nerve ending screaming for action. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered moonlight, but no exit—they were sealed shut, far above the ground.

“Leave me alone.” Her stance tightened, a statue bracing against an unseen storm.

“Alone?” the figure taunted. “Isn’t that what you fear the most?”

He continued speaking in that strange cadence… like a hack actor reading off an equally poor script.

Emilia sidestepped, inching toward the kitchen, her eyes casting about for anything that could serve as a weapon: heavy cutlery, a fire extinguisher, the glittering metal edge of a new and expensive toaster oven. Her thoughts raced, her muscles tense as she sidled through the open doorway between rooms, the man following her at a languorous pace.

“Justice,” the figure hissed. “It comes for everyone.”

Her hand found the cold marble countertop, fingers crawling across it, seeking something, anything, to defend herself. The man took a step closer. The space between them seemed to shrink with alarming speed, the thick air of dread compressing around Emilia like a vise. She could smell his breath now, stale and acrid.

“No,” she rasped, voice shaking as she finally found something under her trembling fingers.

Without looking, Emilia whipped the knife forward, the blade coming up with a flash in the kitchen lights. But the figure merely laughed again, the sound echoing around the room like mocking applause.

Her fingers clenched tighter around the handle of the narrow utility knife, knuckles whitening under the strain. She didn’t respond to his words; instead, determination hardened in her eyes. They were wide and wild, reflecting the soft glow of the overhead lights as cleanly as the steel of the slender knife.

“Get out!” Emilia screamed, her hands and voice trembling.

But he only moved closer.

The figure reached out, gloved hand stretching toward her. His movements were slow and deliberate—tormentingly so—each second stretching out.

With a sharp, animal sound, Emilia lunged forward—both hands cramped together, gripping the knife—and stabbed him.

It struck his chest…

The blade collapsed.

Horror.

A prop knife. This wasn’t hers… had he planted it? A stupid, plastic prop knife.

The man grinned, and both his arms shot forward in a sudden, violent shove, sending her tumbling to the floor.

He loomed over her, leering down, a smirk on his lips, his face a haunted jack-o’-lantern of shadows under the brim of his hat.

CHAPTER ONE

The clang of metal echoed through the LAPD facility as Layla Caine powered through the last set of deadlifts. Sweat glistened on her porcelain skin, a stark contrast to the matte black of the weights she hoisted with precise control. Each rep strained her tall frame.

Her golden-blonde hair, pulled back in a tight ponytail, swayed with the rhythm of her exertions. She dropped the barbell; it hit the ground with a dull thud, vibrations rippling across the floor.

Layla straightened, chest heaving as she caught her breath. She reached for the towel hanging on the nearby rack, the rough fabric scraping against her skin as she wiped away the sweat from her brow. Her heart-shaped face, usually animated and bright, settled into a mask of resolve. The faint beauty mark above her lip accentuated the sternness of her expression.

A quick glance at the clock told her the training session was over. Layla’s hands found her hips, fingers pressing into the firm flesh as she took a moment to appreciate the burn in her limbs, the clear sign of pushed boundaries, of progress.

“Good work, Caine,” a voice called out from across the gym. She glanced over.

It was Don. A coworker who’d asked her out on more than one occasion, and he always seemed to end up in the gym at the same time she did.

Layla gave a curt nod, acknowledgment enough.

Then, remembering herself, she added a quick million-dollar smile which only cost her a penny.

She remembered the old movie quote: You’re saying funny things, Smiley, but I don’t think you’re smiling.

The quote flashed across her mind, summoned from an enormous reservoir of movie theater memory, then washed away just as quickly.

Don began making his way to her, raising a hand. But she pretended to busy herself as if she hadn’t noticed. She grabbed her water bottle, ice-cold to the touch, and took a long gulp. The chill spread from her throat down to her core, a welcome respite.

Back in her movie days, she’d tended to her body just as stringently.

She finished with a sharp exhale, droplets escaping from the corner of her mouth to trace a path down her chin.

She could feel a couple of the other gymgoers watching her.

Men liked watching her. The five-foot-ten blonde ex–movie star with those movie star good looks… She was used to the attention. And she often used the attention. In her new line of work, which she’d been involved in for the last five years, any small advantage could turn a chance encounter into a proper lead.

Don still had his hand raised, clumsily trying to orient himself to be better seen, but Layla raised her own hand to her ear, pretending she had an earbud in.

She tossed the water bottle back into her bag, packed up the rest of her gear. The cool fabric of her workout clothes clung to her damp skin as she made her way across the room. A brisk nod served as her goodbye to the other familiar faces pumping iron and working the surrounding machines.

Don watched after her as she left, wearing a familiar forlorn expression that Layla had learned to ignore. Nothing about Don interested her, but she knew the man’s gluttony for her attention was bottomless, and she had no intention of being roped into another awkward date invitation vaguely disguised as the man talking about his weekend.

Layla turned out of the building, then hastened up the stairs. She lived above the gym, and in a way, this suited her personality better than anywhere else she’d lived.

The building facade was nondescript, blending into the urban tapestry, which also suited her. After years of standing out, it was nice to have a place that let her fall into the background, a place that almost felt camouflaged by its indifference to keeping up appearances.

At the top of the steps, Layla keyed in the security code with a swift sweep of her fingers, waiting a single heartbeat for the cranky buzz of the electronic lock, and pushed through the heavy door.

Inside, the air was cool, a stark contrast to the lingering heat of the gym, and Layla let out a contented sigh as she crossed the threshold of her apartment door and stepped into the quiet order of her living space. The walls stood as silent witnesses to her former glory, adorned with frames that cradled the triumphs of another life. Glass reflected back her image, a myriad of awards capturing moments frozen in time—a golden statuette for Best Newcomer, a crystal plaque etched with her name for Outstanding Performance.

Each accolade was meticulously dusted, their surfaces free of fingerprints. They were relics now, memories on the periphery of her current existence. Layla’s gaze drifted across them, her reflection trailing in the glass.

There was no pride in her eyes, only acknowledgment—a nod to the path that had led her here. She turned away, the glint of trophies dimming as she moved deeper into the room. Her past was a foundation, but it was not where she chose to dwell.

Layla shed her jacket, the fabric folding neatly over the back of a chair.

She stood in the center of her living room, a stillness settling over her as she let her gaze linger on the stark white wall. The late afternoon sun spilled through the window, casting long shadows that reached across the hardwood floor to where she stood. She breathed deeply, the air tinged with the scent of lemon polish.

Her eyes traced over a framed poster from her breakout role—the one that had promised a meteoric rise. Layla remembered the lights, the adoration, the intoxicating rush of applause. But beneath it all, there lurked a memory, sharp and unbidden. A night painted in terror, a moment when the facade cracked. It was the night that snuffed out the spotlight and pushed her into the shadows of criminal minds.

The director… he’d called her his muse. Had called her all sorts of things.

She’d cared for him… loved him like one might the father she’d never had.

She pushed the thoughts away.

Her phone rang out, shattering the silence with frustrating sharpness, and Layla seized the device before a second ring could irritate her any further. She was about to dismiss the call when she saw the name on the screen and raised an eyebrow in sudden concern.

“Captain,” Layla answered.

“What do you know about the Nightingale Awards?” There was no preamble in Captain Torres’s words, no wasted time or breath. The woman was a paragon of efficiency, and Layla blinked with a sort of verbal whiplash, her mind taking a moment to absorb the question before she replied.

“Oh… umm, a new award show. Still gaining traction. I think it’s happening sometime this week, actually… A lot of indie films…” Layla trailed off, her jumbled explanation interrupted by her mental question of why her captain was calling her about the Nightingale Awards.

She checked the clock on the wall.

Nearly evening. She was supposed to be off the clock, but here she was, getting a call from Captain Torres herself. What was going on?

She pictured the captain’s hard expression and often furrowed brow. She was a small woman. Nearly a foot shorter than Layla at only a shade over five feet, and yet she commanded respect. Not through an authoritarian rigidity, but through the character she displayed. Captain Torres had backed Layla on more than one occasion, and the two of them had something of an agreement.

A large component of the LAPD had been skeptical of Layla’s psychological training and behavioral expertise, feeling it surely had to be a gimmick or exaggerated rumors about the former movie star, not actual skills or training that could be used in the field. Many had gone so far as to call bringing Layla Caine onto the force the same as bringing a shopping mall psychic or TV star for a ride-along. It had been Captain Torres who’d bridged the gap.

Torres could also be expected to cut to the chase.

“Layla, we have a new case. I want you on it. You know Nightingale, at least these kinds of award shows, and I believe you knew the victim as well.”

“Oh?” Layla frowned, feeling ambushed and fumbling for how to reply for a moment. “Who is it?”

“Emilia Stance.”

The name hit Layla like a punch to the gut. The air left her lungs. She knew Emilia—used to know her—back from those days in the limelight. A kindred spirit, a true friend in the world of fake smiles and brighter-than-life personas. Emilia, with her infectious laughter and heartbreaking monologues that could bring even the toughest directors to tears.

The room suddenly felt too small, their shared history crowding in around Layla. Memories flooded back—nights spent rehearsing lines until they were hoarse, confessions over cups of strong coffee, Emilia’s incessant pranks that somehow always managed to lift the mood.

“Layla?”

She blinked, coming back to the present only when she realized Torres had stopped talking. “Sorry. I’m here. I just—what happened?”

“Murdered,” Torres continued, the word slicing through the stillness of the apartment.

“Tell me everything.”

Torres’s voice came through, clinical, detached. “Body found this afternoon, but coroner thinks she was killed last night. West Hollywood. Signs of struggle.”

“Found where?”

“Her apartment.”

“Signs of entry?”

“Forced. Terrace door was bashed in. Front lock was tampered with.”

Layla exhaled. Emilia, who had always been so full of life and vitality, was now just… gone. And worse, she was a victim—reduced to case notes and a crime scene.

Her gaze fell on a framed photograph taken at some premiere event. She and Emilia stood side by side, their faces illuminated with laughter, oblivious to the horrors that lay in their future. The contrast between the still image and what Torres recited felt jarring.

“Any leads or suspects?” Layla asked, her voice tight as she tried to rein in her emotions.

“Not yet,” Torres replied. “We’re working on it.”

For a moment, there was silence on both ends. Layla knew what Torres wanted from her, her unique perspective, her skillset that had been honed in the unforgiving world of Hollywood and later sharpened with rigorous training.

“You sure you want me on this?” Layla said abruptly. “You’re right. I knew Emilia, but isn’t procedure usually—”

“There’s no conflict of interest—unless you also wanted her dead,” Torres answered without hesitation. “I know policy is to keep people off cases with personal connections, but expertise comes before appearances. You’re the person for the job. As long as you think it won’t be an issue. If you say you’re too close or know something I don’t that could compromise the case, I trust your judgment, Caine. But let me know now if I need to pull in someone else.”

A heavy silence filled the space as Layla processed the news. It was one thing to delve into the minds of strangers—criminals whose actions were relegated to case files and sterile technical jargon—but to step into a murder investigation involving someone she knew intimately…

The questions started to roll like a film reel in her mind—when did Emilia move to West Hollywood? Why? Was anyone else present during the struggle?

Layla’s grip on the phone was vise-like, knuckles white. She paced the length of the room, each step a beat in a dirge for a fallen star. The light that filtered in through the blinds cast bars across her path.

“Anyone report anything yet?” Layla asked, her voice a monotone, pushing emotion down.

“Not yet. We need your eyes, Layla.”

“Understood. I’ll be there. On my way now.”

Her fingers slid over the phone’s surface, ending the call. The room was again filled with silence, but now it echoed with the grim news. Emilia, her friend, was gone.

Pushing off from the wall she had leaned on, Layla took a few aimless steps before pausing in front of the large mirror hung above her antique dresser. Her reflection gazed back at her. The same blonde hair fell over her shoulders, but there was no denying the change in her eyes. There was a dullness there now, a weariness: pain.

She turned away from the mirror and headed for her bedroom, slipping out of her sweat-soaked tank top and leggings as she went along. Her closet door creaked open to reveal rows of neatly hung clothing, a range of dresses, suits, blouses, and slacks. But no costumes or sequined gowns anymore. Those days were behind her.

Selecting a black pantsuit that mirrored Torres’s professionalism but still allowed for physical maneuverability, Layla quickly dressed herself. Next came her holster and gun; they slipped smoothly into place. How long had it been since she’d seen Emilia? A few years at least. Had it been since she’d started at the LAPD? Likely. Certainly likely. But still too long.

The final touch was a hat, an old habit from her acting days where a change in costume signified the transition into a new character. A fedora perched at a jaunty angle on her head completed the transformation.

A silly hat, she decided.

She smiled, nodding. It would do just fine.

Another movie quote, this one from The Woman in the Window (the 1944 version), flashed across her mind. The words spoken by an old-fashioned detective in a film noir: “The streets are dark with something more than night.”

Eyes hardening, she took a final look at herself in the mirror. Layla Caine, the actress turned profiler, stood ready to face whatever waited for her in the grim Los Angeles night.

CHAPTER TWO

The evening sun had already dipped below the horizon when Layla’s boots echoed on the polished concrete of the upscale apartment building. She glanced at the numbers on the doors as she passed, her pace brisk. She adjusted the brim of her fedora, a shield against the prying eyes that might recognize the former star turned profiler.

“Here we are,” she murmured to herself, stopping before apartment 307.

The door stood ajar, yellow tape with the words CRIME SCENE glaring back at her. Layla ducked under the tape, stepping into the dimly lit entryway. The apartment exuded style—modern furniture, abstract art pieces, and ambient lighting all spoke of a taste for the finer things. But the air was heavy, tainted with the stench of death and disinfectant.

“Layla?” said a gruff voice from off to her right.

A lanky tomcat of a man was leaning against a wall in a charcoal-gray suit. She turned toward her partner, Detective Mike Sandoval.

She flashed her million-dollar smile, approaching her colleague. He didn’t smile back, but she didn’t take it personally. Sandoval was more of the glowering type.

Though, he wasn’t bad to look at with his square jaw, short salt-and-pepper hair, and crow’s feet adding a certain rugged charm to his weary-eyed countenance. He was a little over six feet, and she’d been glad for this when the two of them had first been partnered together.

As a taller woman, she’d been nervous at the thought of a male partner shorter than her. Old habits die hard, and it was difficult not to imagine the aesthetics of how she and her partner would look walking into a room together. Not to mention the number of shorter men she’d known who’d been put off, intimidated, or spiteful to her simply for being taller—and stronger—than they were.

Thankfully, neither were issues with Detective Sandoval. And as she returned her attention to her partner, Layla saw his keen eyes studying the scene before him with a grim determination that matched his sturdy build. Mike Sandoval was the embodiment of a seasoned detective—weather-worn, resolute, and meticulous in his work.

“Evening, Mike,” Layla greeted, adjusting her fedora as she stepped closer, her gaze sweeping over the crime scene.