Even after the sun had sunk deep below the horizon, Miami in June had not listened to her patrons pleas to cool down. It wasn’t just hot—it was an oppressive weighted blanked—bearing down on everyone like a restless beast.

Erynn Peters adjusted her blouse and popped a third button through its hole, trying to get some airflow as she switched off the headlights of her White Sedan and wiggled feet first from the faux leather seats.

At this point she could have cared less if anything she was doing was unmodest——though she had a habit of priding her sainthood.

She had more than a dozen times now, seen the other ladies at the Ledger, do much worse for much less that the urge to not keel over during their first night internship.

Over the course of a month, Erynn had grown accustomed to the daylife of journalism. Her mornings were filled with fresh coffee, treats, and almost all happy-go-lucky smiles. Some folks mosied around, keeping to themselves. Others gave her a glance, pursed lips, skin pulling tightly into a squint around the eyes,but for the most part, everyone was nice. . .to her face.

People definitely talked——that's what they do——judge the newbie.

Erinn couldn't say she didn't like it though. It wasn't a fun fun job. She was not sure if they're even was such a thing. But she had always been fond of any idea that meshed writing with real life——the real stuff——the ooey goey mess of life.

She just never thought murder, madness, and mayhem would be her calling. Who even enjoys that?

Two answers: writers and serial killers.

One of which, she was.

Hours of college classes had only made her more sure of her path. After her dissertation: It's not always sunny in Philadelphia——or in this case, Miami. She felt as if she had truly captured the essence of what she was meant to do, write. About what? Miami. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

Like most young adults, she had been told that you never know what you really want in your twenties. Bullshit. She couldn't disagree more. She turned twenty-one last week, graduating a year early with a research associate, honors, and a Master's in journalism. Barely a month into her internship at the Miami Ledger and everything fit like a latex glove. Her routine was solid, her mental state sound, and she felt like she was doing something she could enjoy forever——even with the early and accidental introductions to writing on blood, guts, and dismemberment.

It was a freak thing. Erinn had envisioned herself writing earnest pieces about local politics or heartfelt human-interest stories, not covering murders. But, everything happens for a reason, that much she knows.

It was a screw up on Kenny Bens part. Five days in and she was in a ride along, fingers tapping against her grey patterned slacks as she tried to commit every side street and alleyway to memory for future cases. Field journalists must know things like that.

The call came in without warning, as they all did. Homicide. Erynn didn't have time to blink, before Kenny swung the car one-eighty in a fury, nearly hitting an oncoming car in the opposite lane and flying out of the seat as he lead-footed it to the scene.

She didn't even close her eyes.

Kenny was out of the car with his camera and notepad before he had even put it in park. Rolling out of the cloth seat he wormed his way up from the ground and stumbled off into the fury of lights and sirens, bending over every few feet and picking up his pen as he dropped it in anticipation.

Erynn wanted to laugh, but she held it in with widened eyes as the Sedan rolled foreword. What a cluster——she unclipped her seatbelt and leaned over to hit the break pedal with the palm of her hand and threw the black Sedan into park. Wowww, no care for the regard of interns.

She reclined back in the passenger seat, a dark mass of people gathering ahead as they began to greedily block the yellow tape. There was no way in heaven, hell, or damn purgatory that Kenny Bens was going to squeeze his donut-eating-ass in that mass of living flesh.

As short as George Costanza from wish——oops sorry, Kenny Bens was, she knew he wasn't getting anywhere. Those short stubby legs and quivering needle like voice wouldn't get him a spot in an empty diner, let alone a fresh crime scene.

It didn't take much thinking——and Erynn always thought everything out. But the fact that this could be her story, her break, hers, had brushed away any doubts she may have had.

She'd seen bodies before. . .pictures of bodies. . .which was in essence the same damn thing. One you can hold in the palm of your hand, the other, if optimistic, in your arms.

Rationalize. . .rationalize. . .rationalize.

She approached the crowd of wriggling flesh with an uncharacteristic internal feeling of sheer distain. Get out of the way—come on people. This was her. . .future. . .job for Christ's sake.

The streets glistened, slick with the remnants of an earlier rain. She couldn't see the body. So figuring out if the blood had pooled or was carried off was impossible. And that was important.

How can you write about something if you can't see the thing to describe it?

The air, heavy with the mingling scents of saltwater, exhaust, and something unnameable—something darker. Iron. Pungent and filling her nostrils as she shifted, leg over leg, shoulders brushing against men and women she would never know the name of, to secure her story. Her story.

Screw knockoff George Costanza.

Another minute and yellow tape wrapped around her midsection like a vice, stopping her very much alive in her  pursuit.

Distant sirens, their rhythm as erratic as a heart on the verge of giving out, dumped more adrenaline through her body.

She shivered in anticipation. The tension palpable.

Erynn Peters was, figuratively of course, ankle-deep in the mud of Miami’s underbelly, her Miami Ledger internship lanyard a flimsy shield against the onslaught of jumbled up questions that filled her brain like an undecipherable alphabet soup.

The side of her face caught the pulsing glow of whirling neon veins, and Erynn tried to find a familiar face. Where the fuck are you knockoff George Costanza?

She took a steadying breath, get a grip. Her hands instinctively went to her pen instead of her eyes, mouth, or hair.

Words had always been her refuge, her way of taming the chaos, but tonight the ink felt inadequate. How could she possibly capture this?

Body of Man. Blood lots. Rain. Heavy police presence. Empty lot. Warehouse. Rmbr - Miami Vice.

Now, Erynn cranes her neck to the right, trying to catch sight of night watch or their cars, which she had commited to memory. Tonight was the night she was supposed to be tagging along with some of the night crew, pulling doubles to try and get the rest of her internship hours in so the Ledger could make a final hiring decision.

Chris Cranston was supposed to be her mentor. Him and another guy she knows only as Cooke.

Chris was, a loner to say the least. She had met him once and it was a short meeting, clamy handshake and a retreat to his office.

Erynn overheard one of the reporters joke that he might be a vampire due to his adversion to the sun. Which, despite the supernatural factor, sounds about right. What if vampires didn't suck blood and instead just couldn't be in the sun—what if they just had an adversion to good old fashioned vitamin D. What if. . .they were Irish?!

——Where the hell was the Ledger?

Erryn hadn't been this close to screaming and ripping her hair straight from the scalp since finals week when the computers went down. 

People had begun to arrive in droves. Neighbors, nosy locals, and of course reporters——Erynn was feeling less than optimistic. Fuck vampires.

Oh, she was totally going to call night watch that once she was inducted fully.

Vampires. She shook her head in annoyance to her own self amusement. That's so stupid. 

She almost considered turning back and going home. But when she caught site of her favorite, and only because she worked with him the most, knockoff George Costanza——she took off after him without much a second thought.

"Geor——shit——Kenny!" Her voice fell on deaf ears as he turns on his fat ankles and waddled off from the badge he was talking to and over to another. Oh my God, he's not George Costanza, he's fucking Danny Devito. . ."Kenny!" She trotted across the darkened concrete, her shadows long and silhouetted against the dim street lights.

So this is what chasing the story means——if she wasn't trying to save her breath and catch up to report Danny Devito, she would have chuckled at the irony.

"Peters?" She felt a brush against her shoulder and then fingers, long fingers, gripping flesh, ouch. Her mind raced at the idea of missing out——I'm so close——"Hey Erryn!" Yet so far.

Erryn turned, prepping her face with a smile. "Vince! I'm trying to work a case here." If laughter had no sound, yet an expression, Vince Masuka's face would have been it.

"You and everyone else. You're not going to get anywhere with that pig——uh not you Barnes!" The young unfamiliar detective next to Masuka cracked a half-smile as he shook his shoulder.

Barnes looked older than Masuka by a few years. Not many, but a few. Erryn could not tell of it was from maturity or actual age.

Masuka rattled off. "We'll get you behind the scenes. But you gotta send pic——"

"Vince." Erynn gave him a pursed look, head dropping into an almost Kubrick look as Masuka stepped back and held up his hands. "I can't do it for free." He said, arms crossing over his chest. "I'm broke"

She stomped her heel, frustration evident. "Twenty bucks?" She was just as hard up, if not more so for money than he was. So not fair. She waits for his answer, which he draws out for a moment, pretending to think hard as he looked between her and Barnes, humming. "Masuka!"

"Undo another button and twenty bucks."

"What the——no!"

"Then no help from my end."

"Oh, come on."

"Another button——"

Barnes stepped foreword and placed a hand in front of Masuka. "I'll take ya, don't worry about Mr hard up for skin and cash." Erryn's head whipped towards him, she hadn't exhamined him closely, being too occupied arguing with her old classmate, but Barnes was undeniably cop. Tall, brown hair, nice jawline, kind of a pretty boy. . .she blinked as he motioned for her to follow.

"Lets go, gotta beat Ma-suka."

Masuka lets out a huffy whine. "Erryn you can't betray me like this!"

"Suck. It."

The precipice is in sight.

She clutches her notebook tightly under her arm and twirls her mechanical pencil between her itching fingers. Her usual advantage of long slender legs, did nothing to aid her in trying to keep up with him as he stalked through the crowd. God he was tall. For every single stride, Erynn had to take two and a half skip just to stay within arms reach of him.

She didn't know if Masuka followed and she wasn't eager to ask him to, her mind focused soley on writing and writing only. Well, and now Barnes.

Her velvet red kitten heels, clack against the pebbled concrete and she let out a sigh of relief as the familiar yellow tape came into sight.

Barnes waved his hand and the crowd stepped back, like a modern Moses and the parting of the red sea. "Y'all step back, we're tryna work here." He had a weird accent, twangy, Erryn didn't pick up on it before. It's not exactly southern, similar, but more twang.

She made a mental note to ask him about it later if she had the time.

As Barnes cleared a path through the throng of pedestrians. Erryn's pulse quickened. The yellow crime scene tape seemed like the finish line of a marathon she hadn’t even realized she’d entered. But she won. She won. And she couldn't help but feel some sort of pride at that.

Erynn Peter's straightened her blouse, looking up at Barnes who was intently looking out towards the crowd as she buttoned a button of her blouse for the sake professionalism. Her hands made her way down the orange silk, brushing imaginary wrinkles from the fabric, and squared her shoulders, determined to project professionalism despite the beads of sweat begging to trickle from her hairline and down her temples to mess her up her light dust of makeup.

Barnes looked down at her and held the tape up for her to duck under, his casual smirk betraying an amused awareness of her nervous energy.

She almost forgot she was at the scene of a murder as she looked up at him, his skin reflecting the blue and red of the police lights. Erynn Peters get a hold of yourself.

"Welcome to the show," he said, voice low enough to sound almost conspiratorial.

Erynn stepped into the taped-off area, and the world seemed to shift. Barnes let the tape down softly behind him, his hand lingering as he tried to work crowd control. She didn't look back, not fully.

The chatter of the crowd dulled and her mind took over. Calculating, riddling off possibilities and theories. Next to her, two officers exchanged clipped phrases, not bothering to I.D. her or recognize her presence.

A camera clicks, flashing white light blinding her, and she blinks. It was as if she’d crossed into another dimension—a grim, shadowed underworld where humanity’s darkest moments were laid bare under the harsh glare of floodlights.

She had never been this close before, had never been past the badges and barrier between government issued badges and regular civilians.

Erryn didn't think she'd ever be able to go back.

The scene opened up like the set of a noir thriller, bathed in the alternating flashes of red and blue from the squad cars. Erynn steps closer, her breath hitching. God its like eighty degrees over here. The humid air seemed to thicken, wrapping around her like a second skin as the reality of the crime scene set in.

She inhaled instinctively, her nose scrunching as her nostrils flooded with the smell of burning.

Barnes came up behind her, announcing his presence with a small cough. “This your first time at one of these?” She shook her head.

“Up this close, yeah. But I've worked a few of these.” Erynn admitted, adjusting her grip on her notebook. She kept her voice steady, despite the knot tightening in her stomach. The smell is horrible. “What’s the protocol? Don’t touch anything, right?”

Despite them standing about ten feet from decomp, Barnes let out a short laugh, the sound almost drowned out by the distant wail of another approching siren. “That’s a good start. Also, don’t faint, puke, or do anything that’ll make me regret letting you through.”

Erynn straightened her spine, determination flickering in her eyes. “I won’t.”

Barnes smirked, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned back to the scene. “Good. Stay close, but not too close. And whatever you do, don’t piss off Kingsley. Man’s got a short fuse.”

Erynn nodded, following his lead as he moved toward the knot of officers gathered around the body. She could feel the weight of their stares, some curious, others skeptical. She forced herself to meet their eyes with a level gaze, determined not to come across as skittish.

Skittish attracted skepticism, and skepticism would get her lanyard looked at and thrown right back out past the yellow tape, into the sea of rubber necks, where Kenny Bens was at.

She didn't envy Kenny Bens anymore——if she ever really did in the first place.

Barnes gestured toward the body, careful to keep his voice low. “Looks like our guy didn’t see it coming. Single stab wound, clean and deep. Not a lot of hesitation marks.”

Erynn glanced down at the victim—a man in his late thirties, slumped against a graffitied wall. "Why's he smell burnt?"

"It's the blood." Barnes explains. "Sometimes it smells metallic, but when it dries it usually has a burnt smell."

Write that down. . .write that down!

Erynn takes her notepad from under her arm and clicks her pen.

The man lay sprawled across the concrete lot, a jagged pool of blood spread outward like a macabre bloom. Erynn swallowed hard, her throat dry despite the humid air. The victim—a man in his late thirties, by her guess—was dressed in a once-crisp white dress shirt, now stained and rumpled with a deep crimson near his abdomen, the blood soaking into the concrete beneath him.

“Any witnesses?” she asked, her voice softer now, as if speaking too loudly would disturb the deceased.

Barnes shrugged, scanning the perimeter. “Couple of neighbors said they heard shouting about an hour ago. By the time anyone came out, it was too late. No one saw the killer, though.”

Erynn’s pen hovered over her notebook. “Any idea who he is?”

Barnes knelt beside the body, pulling a wallet from the victim’s pocket with a gloved hand. He flipped it open, scanning the ID. “Arthur L. Pearce. Thirty-nine. Local business owner, according to his card.”

Erynn scribbled furiously, her mind already racing with questions. Who would want a local businessman dead? Was it a robbery gone wrong, or something more personal? She glanced at the man’s face—pale and slack, frozen in an expression of disbelief—and felt a pang of sympathy.

He had been here awhile too. The blood on his shirt had dried into a solid crust.

“Anything else?” she pressed, trying not to sound too eager.

Barnes stood, slipping the wallet into an evidence bag. “Not much yet. But stick around, Peters. Something tells me this one’s gonna get messy.” He stepped back for a moment, handing the plastic bag to another officer. Erynn nodded, he didn't see her, but she pretended he did. Messy. Her heart pounding with a mix of nerves. What kind of messy?

Describe everything, she reminded herself. Details are everything.

She took another look.

The victim’s shoes were polished but scuffed, his tie slightly askew, the knot loose as if it had been yanked in haste. Erynn’s gaze drifted to his hands—one clutching a crumpled scrap of paper, the other reaching out toward something unseen. She itched to get closer, but a nearby officer gave her a warning glance.

“Anything catch your eye?” Barnes asked, breaking her concentration. "Fresh eyes are always a God-send."

Erynn blinked, realizing he’d been watching her just as intently as she had the victim. “Uh, the paper,” she said, nodding toward the man’s clenched fist. “What’s on it?”

Barnes crouched down, pulling on a pair of latex gloves with practiced ease. “Let’s find out.” He carefully pried the paper from the corpse’s stiff fingers, unfolding it to reveal a hastily scribbled message. His brows furrowed as he read it aloud.

“‘Everbody knows.’”

Erynn felt a chill creep down her spine, despite the oppressive heat. She leaned closer, shifting on her feet as her curiosity overpowered her unease. “Do you think it’s a suicide note?”

Barnes shook his head, rising to his full height. “Doesn’t look like it to me. No weapon, no defensive wounds. This guy didn’t go down without a fight.” Duh. Erryn wanted to slap herself upside the head. Instead, she clicker her pen once more and began to scribble furiously——trying to process the scene while keeping up with Barnes’s observations.

“So…what does it mean?”

Barnes smirked again, this time with a hint of dark humor. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”

Before she could respond, a sharp voice cut through the air. “Barnes!”

Erynn turned to see a stern-looking officer—Kingsley, she assumed—stomping toward them. His face was a mask of irritation, his finger jabbing in their direction like an accusation.

“Relax, Kingsley,” Barnes drawled, unbothered. “She’s with the Ledger. Just getting a closer look. She's good.” he motioned to Erynn, who rose to her full height, accentuated by her kitten heels. "She found a note." Barnes held it out for Kingsley, who slipping on a glove and hurummffed.

Kingsley's glare shifted to Erynn, and she felt her stomach tighten. “Stay out of the way, or you’re gone.”

Erynn nodded quickly, clutching her notebook like a lifeline. “Understood.”

Barnes gave her a wink as Kingsley stalked off, muttering under his breath. “Don’t let him scare you,” Barnes said. “He’s all bark, no bite.” Erynn managed a shaky smile, but her mind was already racing.

The note, the victim’s position, the subtle but unmistakable air of conspiracy—it was all starting to coalesce into a story. A dark, tangled story that she couldn’t wait to unravel.

This was it. Her first real case. And she was determined to make it count.

She hadn't known Barnes for more than fifteen minutes. But it all felt natural. Masuka was no where in sight when she turned, and so she looked up at him with pursed lips, tapping her pen to paper.

"Welp, I think I've got most everything victim wise. All I need now is your number for a follow up." That's a lie. He knows it's a lie—

"Of course," Barnes takes the pen from her and flips it to fit his fingers, jotting down his information and clicking the pen closed. "Masuka called a minute ago. Crowd closed in on him and he wasn't able to make it in." Erryn covered her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Well thanks for being my knight in shining armor rookie."

"Thanks, intern."

He tipped his head down at her, and ducked off, motioning something to another officer.

Erynn looked down at her paper, chickenscratch staring back.

Joseph Barnes.

"Thanks. . .Joseph? Joe?" She slips under the yellow line, joining the common folk once more.

Barnes turns to back to her, raising his hand for a small, pursed lipped wave. "Joe is fine!" He makes a telephone with his hand, thumb and pinky, and holds it up to his ear. "Call me! For case information. . ."

Yeah. She hums to herself, kicking her heels out for strut accentuation. For case information.