The Redding sun hung low, casting elongated shadows across the quaint neighborhood as Tori stepped out of her unmarked cruiser. Dust and unease lingered in the air, a tangible reminder of the earthquake that had clawed through the town's heart. Most of the homes looked unaffected, save the occasional missing shingle or disheveled facade.
But this particular home, a corner lot, was swarming with activity. Alone, Tori approached the yellow tape stretched around the perimeter, its stark contrast against the ruin serving as a grim marker.
Tori took a moment, her churning seas eyes scanning the scene methodically. Something felt off. It wasn't just the typical aftermath of nature's wrath; there was a dissonance in the chaos—a pattern disrupted.
She moved with purpose, noting the tilt of a mailbox, the scatter of debris that seemed inconsistent with seismic activity. The wind whispered through the shattered remnants of once-cozy homes, but Tori's attention zeroed in on anomalies that didn't align with its direction.
As she edged closer to the focal point of her investigation, the ground beneath her suddenly shuddered. A gasp escaped her lips before she could clamp it down, her training kicking in as she reached out, steadying herself against the rough brick of a nearby wall. The aftershock was brief but assertive, a rattling punctuation in an already tense atmosphere.
"Stay focused," she murmured to herself, pushing away from the wall once the trembling ceased.
With her heart resuming its regular rhythm, Tori stepped over a fallen beam, ducking beneath a precarious overhang of splintered wood. There were answers here, hidden within the rubble and despair, and she was going to find them.
The silence was oppressive. Tori’s gaze swept across the block, a mosaic of destruction ended with this corner-lot. Did an earthquake target homes? No… No, humans did that. Someone had made this house look worse than all the others. Bricks were strewn like breadcrumbs leading to an unseen gingerbread house—a trail of dark fairy tales. Her curiosity sharpened into focus, a blade honed by the need for answers.
She navigated through a labyrinth of debris with deft steps. As she neared the threshold of the yard, the stark reality of the situation unveiled itself with chilling clarity. There, in a tangle of garden ornaments and uprooted plants, lay Jane Arnett. The woman's body was enveloped in the detritus of her own home, an eerie stillness surrounding her.
Tori's training suppressed the initial surge of emotion. She couldn't afford the luxury of shock, not when every second counted. She approached cautiously, the instincts honed by loss and determination guiding her movements. The sight of Jane's pale face, eyes wide and unseeing, struck a chord within her. It was a look of pure terror, immortalized in the stillness of death—a silent scream that echoed in Tori's mind. Sammy's face flashed before her eyes, his own fear a distant memory that never faded, fueling her resolve.
"Who did this to you, Jane?" she whispered, not expecting an answer but asking all the same.
Jane Arnett’s last moments were written in the lines of her frozen expression. Tori knew that face would join the gallery of victims she carried with her, each one a steadfast reminder of why she could never stop.
Tori’s camera clicked methodically, the shutter capturing snapshots of tragedy in rapid succession. She documented the pattern of crushed grass underfoot, the splintered wood framing windows like fractured bones, and the way shadows clung to corners, harboring untold secrets. Every angle was considered, no stone left unturned in her visual inquisition.
She moved with precision, her feet navigating the uneven ground as she circled Jane's body from a respectful distance, lens focused on the grim tableau. Tori's fingers adjusted the zoom, honing in on minute details that might otherwise be swallowed by the broader scene – a tuft of fabric snagged on a jagged shard of glass, the inconsistent dusting of plaster across the lawn, the singular crimson droplet clinging to a petal of an uprooted flower.
Her blue-gray eyes, mirroring the stormy hues of uncertainty and resolve, scanned beyond the lens, seeking aberrations in the landscape of chaos. It was then that she noticed it—a subtle but telling disturbance in the grass leading away from the body. The blades were bent and broken, weaving a path of desperation towards the house.
"Jane, what were you running from?" Tori murmured, lowering the camera, her gaze tracing the trail etched in green. The grooves suggested a frantic energy, hands clawing at the earth, dragging a wounded body forward. It spoke of a struggle waged in silence, a bid for escape that culminated in this quiet horror.
The realization settled in Tori's gut like cold lead. It was a realization she’d already assumed, but the evidence of the happening caused her stomach to twist. This wasn't just a casualty of natural disaster; it was the aftermath of a calculated act. A story of survival turned to defeat, written in the language of disturbed grass and Jane Arnett’s final, terror-stricken repose.
Tori rose, tucking the camera against her chest, and allowed herself a moment to stand still, to breathe.
Then she moved again. Kneeling beside Jane Arnett's lifeless form, Tori brushed away a lock of hair matted with blood, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the body as if nature itself mourned the untimely death. But grief could wait; it was not for the living to indulge while justice hung in the balance.
Tori’s eyes, stormy with purpose, scoured the visible injuries—a stark contrast against the victim's pallid skin. There were punctures, precise and deliberate. She counted them silently, each digit a grim marker on an invisible tally. "Stab wounds," she whispered, her voice barely piercing the hushed stillness of the scene. This was no hallmark of an earthquake's indiscriminate wrath. These were calculated thrusts intended for one purpose only.
Rising to her feet, Tori's gaze fixed upon the house. It loomed ominously, its structure marred by fractures and splintered wood—damage that seemed to run deeper than the superficial chaos of the quake. With measured steps, she approached the threshold, her heart tapping a rapid rhythm against her ribs. Anticipation sharpened her senses, making her acutely aware of the distant creak of settling debris and the faint, underlying scent of spilled secrets.
She slipped past a forensic tech who was already busy photographing the scene.
The bedroom door hung askew on its hinges, granting her silent passage. Inside, the devastation bore the look of a giant's careless tantrum. Drawers gutted, their contents spilling like the innards of a disemboweled beast, photographs torn and trampled underfoot. A dresser lay on its side, a fractured sentry amidst the disorder.
Yet, beneath the surface havoc, something stirred in Tori's mind—a sense of incongruity that teased the edges of her perception. She moved through the disarray with the grace of a shadow, every step deliberate. Her fingers traced the jagged edge of a broken frame, then skimmed over the pages of an overturned book. Each object is scrutinized, cataloged, and dismissed until—
A drawer. Shattered in two pieces, more so than the violent jostle of seismic activity would suggest. Her breath hitched as she slid it open. Inside, the contents lay undisturbed, mocking the bedlam around it with their neat arrangement. Tori's pulse quickened. This was a clue, a whisper amid screams, and she clung to it like a lifeline.
She snapped a series of photos, capturing the anomaly before slipping her camera back into its case.
With the room documented, Tori stepped back, allowing herself one final surveying glance. Whatever transpired here was a prelude to a darker symphony, and she was determined to confront the maestro head-on.
Tori crouched near a toppled bookshelf, the scent of dust and old paper clinging to the air. Books lay scattered like fallen leaves in autumn, their pages crumpled and torn. A framed picture had smashed against the floor, its glass splinters reflecting the eerie glow of the setting sun. The chaos suggested violent tremors had shaken the room to its core, yet something felt amiss—a charade meticulously crafted.
Her eyes, storm-cloud gray, swept across the scene. It was too perfect, too deliberate. Real earthquakes were indiscriminate in their destruction, but here, the placement of debris seemed calculated, arranged with intention. Tori reached out, tilting a lamp that had fallen into an unnatural position. It was as if the room whispered secrets of deceit, each item a carefully positioned actor on a stage set for tragedy.
"Crafty," she breathed, recognition dawning on her.
Standing, Tori brushed off her hands and withdrew her phone. She accessed the regional seismic activity reports, her fingers dancing over the screen with practiced ease. Data streamed before her eyes—coordinates, magnitudes, timestamps—but none matched the narrative before her. There was no seismic event recorded for Redding, not even a minor disturbance. Her brows furrowed as the implications settled like lead in her stomach.
Why not?
The Early Warning programs were becoming more and more accurate.
So why wasn’t there any report for Redding?
"Manipulation," she muttered, the word tasting like betrayal on her lips. This wasn't the aftermath of nature's wrath; it was the premeditation of human malice. Someone had exploited the fear of natural disasters, turning the primal force of an earthquake into a weapon of distraction.
The deception was clever, hiding murder within an illusion of catastrophe, but it wouldn't stand. Tori pocketed her phone, her determination simmering. This scene was different. Jane had fled. Had put up a fight. She’d died in her lawn… not in this room constructed to look like a seismic event. At least, a greater seismic event. The one that had come through wouldn’t have caused this. More tampering with data and degree.
With the truth of the scene unveiled and her suspicions confirmed, Tori stepped back into the cool evening air. The calm beauty of dusk juxtaposed sharply with the turmoil inside.
Tori's gaze lingered on the horizon, where the last fingers of sunlight clawed at the fading day. She inhaled deeply, the scent of disturbed earth and broken concrete heavy in the air. The stillness was unnerving, a stark contrast to the chaos that had been staged within the house. As she exhaled, her breath formed a cloud before her—a momentary veil that seemed to shroud her next thought.
Then it hit her—the seismic reports, the very foundation of their predictive models, could have been tampered with. The Early Warning program was designed to provide precious seconds before disaster struck, but if someone within the system wanted to create an illusion of danger, who better than those with their hands on the pulse of the earth?
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place with a chilling clarity. Tori's eyes, the color of turbulent seas, narrowed as she processed the implications. A rogue element within the Early Warning program not only had the expertise to falsify an event but also the opportunity to orchestrate a murder undetected amidst the panic of a supposed natural disaster.
With purpose fueling her steps, Tori moved away from the crime scene, her mind already cataloging potential leads. Whoever had access to the seismic data in Northern and central California—be they researchers, technicians, or administrators—had the means to commit this heinous act. It was a list that needed narrowing down, and fast.
She reached her car, placing a call.
Javi answered on the first ring. “Anything?”
“Yeah. Stab wounds. Same as the others.”
“Shit. Our guy moves fast.”
She nodded but said, "Hey… did Tally say anything? Who asked him to send the funds?”
“He’s still keeping a lid on it,” Javi replied, frustration evident in his ton.
Tori felt a flicker of irritation. “Lawyer?”
“Already wheeling and dealing.”
"TSA confirm he was on that plane?"
“Yup. No way he was involved on scene with our murder. And this one,” Javi added. “Couldn’t have been in Redding. We saw him at that party.”
Tori let out a long sigh of frustration. “I think someone in the Early Warning program is involved,” she said. “Someone who knows where tectonic movements will occur.”
“Shit. What makes you think that?”
“Because there was no seismic activity reported here, Javi,” Tori revealed, her voice dark with certainty. “No tremor hit Redding, yet the crime scene was staged to look like it did. The killer is using this as a diversion, manipulating the reports to conceal his true motives. It’s all orchestrated to distract us while he strikes at unsuspecting victims.” Tori could almost hear the cogs turning in Javi's mind as he absorbed her words.
Javi breathed out. “But… the other victims. There were earthquakes.”
“I know… I know. He uses them when they occur, but he exaggerates the degree when he needs to. And in this case, he fabricated the data entirely.”
“So… he uses the earthquakes sometimes… but makes them up other times?”
“He’s obsessed with seismic activity, and is using it to his advantage when he can… My guess is he got a taste for killing, though. Couldn’t wait. So he had to make up his own. He’s escalating.
“We need to get ahead of this.”
Tori leaned against her car, staring at the darkening sky as if seeking answers in the encroaching night. “I’m putting together a list of names that have access to the data. We need to cross-reference it with any connections to recent victims or suspicious activities."
“I’ll get on it,” Javi promised, the determination evident in his tone.
As the call ended, Tori tucked her phone away and glanced back at the crime scene she had just left. The facade of natural disaster hung heavy over the house, but she saw through it now, piercing the veil of deception with a steely gaze.
The night stretched before her like an open book, its pages filled with shadows and whispered threats. Tori squared her shoulders, ready to delve into the heart of darkness that hid within the folds of seismic predictions and government-funded programs.