Officer Dawson’s first impression of Lucy Gordon was this: she looked like a pale, broken doll.

Ashen white skin made of porcelain.

Eyes made of glass.

The only feature that gave her away was the crimson liquid that pooled by her head and her broken, bleeding fingernails caked with dirt. Lucy’s dark hair was splayed out and frozen to the ground; her mouth twisted open in an eternal scream in which no sound escaped. Her arms and legs were angled in a way that not even the best human contortionist could replicate. Her neck was in even worse condition. The tall grass around her body swayed as if dipping their heads in silent mourning.

Dawson ran a rough hand over his bald head and turned his gaze to the cliff face. There was no blood, no fragments of torn clothes. The only indication that she was even up there were a few engravings in the soil where he imagined she dug her fingernails into, fighting for life. For an escape.

“Geez. Do you think it was suicide?” Came a voice from behind. Dawson turned around to find Officer Brandy—his apprentice—staring at Lucy Gordon’s body with his hands in his pockets. Today he wasn’t wearing his wire-rimmed glasses. Dawson didn’t blame him. The rain was beginning to fall, and Brandy often complained about his lenses fogging up when he wore them during bad weather.

Dawson shook his head and sighed heavily. “Although it’s a possibility, we can’t rule murder out. This case is a high-profile one. Can’t afford to mess this up.”

Brandy nodded and pursed his lips, then said, “Lucy Gordon was the best of us. Real pretty, too. It’s a shame she died the way she did.”

Dawson nodded slowly, half listening as he crouched to inspect Lucy’s fingernails. They were a blackened, gnarled mess slathered in dried blood. It would be nearly impossible to extract foreign DNA from her fingernails—if there were any—considering that her fingernails were practically shredded. What trauma did she endure that led to not just the fractured condition of her fingers but her entire body? Dark thoughts swam feverishly in Dawson’s mind, and he stood up, about to excuse himself to a cigarette, when something glinted in the tall grass.

Dawson’s eyebrows furrowed. The rain was now coming down in currents, but he ignored the downpour as he lowered himself to the ground, the tall grass now towering above his head. He brushed his hands past the greenery, trying to find the source of light, when he suddenly froze.

Brandy wandered over to Dawson and squinted at him. “Boss? What did you find?”

Dawson picked up the object and curled his fingers over it, his blood roaring in his ears.

“Boss?”

Dawson slowly stood up and turned around. His face was stone cold and his eyes were dark—a telltale sign that he made a terrifying discovery.

“Brandy,” Dawson drew in shaky breath and uncurled his fingers, revealing the object. Brandy’s heart plummeted in his chest. He took a hesitant step back.

A shattered pair of wire-rimmed glasses laid in Dawson’s palm. Lucy’s dried blood was visible on the cracked lenses.

“Do you want to tell me what you were doing with Lucy last night, Brandy?”