Astrid | Who Killed Me?

The call came in at 2:47 AM, dragging Detective Marcus Reid from the restless half-sleep that had become his default state. He'd been sprawled across his couch, case files scattered around him like fallen leaves, the blue glow of crime scene photos illuminating his stubbled face. "Reid." His voice came out as gravel. "We've got a body behind Murphy's Tavern on Crenshaw," Dispatch crackled through his phone. "Young female. Captain wants you on scene." Marcus rubbed his eyes, automatically reaching for the lukewarm coffee mug balanced on his chest. The liquid was bitter and cold, but it was caffeine. "On my way."

Twenty minutes later, he stood at the mouth of the alley, watching the crime scene techs work under harsh portable lights that turned everything stark and theatrical. The familiar ritual of death investigation unfolded around him—the photography, the measurements, the careful cataloging of a life interrupted. But something felt wrong. Not with the scene—Marcus had worked hundreds of homicides in his fourteen years on the force. It was something deeper, a tremor in his chest that he couldn't name. "What do we have?" he asked Detective Sarah Chen, his sometime partner who'd arrived first. "Astrid Novak, twenty-two. Bartender at Murphy's. Co-worker found her when she came out for a smoke break around two AM." Chen consulted her notebook. "Looks like sexual assault, then strangulation. No witnesses, but it's early." Twenty-two. The number hit him like a physical blow.

Marcus approached the body, his pen already tapping against his thigh in the unconscious rhythm that meant his mind was shifting into analysis mode. The victim lay face-down, dark hair fanned across the grimy asphalt, one arm stretched toward the alley's entrance as if she'd been reaching for help. The scene crystallized around him with terrible clarity. The positioning of the body. The torn clothing. The violent intimacy of it. His vision tunneled, and suddenly he wasn't standing behind Murphy's Tavern anymore—he was twenty-two again, running through his sister Emma's apartment building because she'd missed their dinner date and wasn't answering her phone. Emma was his fraternal twin and they were extremely close. He was finding her door ajar, calling her name into the silence, following the trail of overturned furniture into her bedroom where— "Reid?" Chen's voice seemed to come from very far away. "You okay?"

He blinked hard, forcing himself back to the present. The medical examiner, Dr. Patricia Reeves, was crouched beside the body with practiced efficiency. "I need to see her face," Marcus heard himself say. Dr. Reeves glanced up. "I was about to turn her. Give me a hand?" They moved with the careful choreography of professionals who'd done this dance too many times. As the body rolled over, Marcus found himself looking into the open, staring eyes of a young woman who could have been Emma's twin. The same delicate features, the same dark hair, even the same small scar above the left eyebrow that Emma had gotten falling off her bike when she was eight. His pen clattered to the ground.

Dr. Reeves reached down to close the victim's eyes, a final gesture of dignity in the indignity of violent death. Her fingers touched the eyelids— The world exploded. Marcus felt something invisible and forceful slam into his face with the power of a freight train. The alley spun wildly around him, the harsh lights streaking into comet trails as he flew backward. His head cracked against the brick wall behind him, and consciousness fled like smoke. The last thing he heard before the darkness took him was his own voice, echoing strangely in his head: "I'm sorry, Emma. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you."

When he woke up eighteen hours later in Metropolitan General Hospital, the doctors had plenty of theories about seizures and PTSD and the dangerous intersection of trauma and an overworked mind. They used words like "episode" and "breakdown" and "mandatory leave." But none of them could explain why, as Marcus stared at the fluorescent lights above his hospital bed, he could swear he heard a woman's voice whispering just at the edge of hearing: "Don't worry. We're going to help each other."

Three days of mandatory leave felt like three years. Marcus sat at his kitchen table, staring at a bowl of cereal that had long since turned to mush, while the morning news droned from the small TV perched on his counter. The department shrink, Dr. Helena Walsh, had been clear: no case files, no shop talk, no "diving back into work to avoid processing the trauma." So instead he sat in his sparse apartment, surrounded by the white noise of daytime television, trying not to think about open eyes and dark alleys and the way Astrid Novak's face had looked so much like Emma's that it made his chest tight.

The news anchor was discussing the city budget when the voice came. Not from the TV. Not from outside his window or the hallway beyond his door. The voice bloomed inside his skull like a flower made of sound, distinctly feminine and utterly impossible. "I'm here to help you find out who killed me."

Marcus shot to his feet so fast his chair toppled backward. His cereal bowl hit the floor with a ceramic crash, milk splashing across the linoleum. His heart hammered against his ribs as he spun in a slow circle, searching his empty apartment. "What the hell was that?" he said aloud, his voice cracking slightly.

"It's me." The voice was patient, almost gentle. "You saw me in the alley. My name is Astrid." "No." Marcus pressed the palms of his hands against his temples. "No, this isn't happening. This is—this is a breakdown. The doctors said—" "The doctors don't know about angels," Astrid's voice interrupted, and there was something almost amused in her tone. "Or about choice."

Despite every rational impulse screaming at him to call Dr. Walsh, Marcus found himself sinking onto his couch. Maybe it was the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights, or maybe it was the fact that he'd been talking to crime scene photos for years anyway. But he whispered, "Tell me."

"I was going out back to smoke. Stupid habit—I kept meaning to quit." Her voice carried a wry sadness that felt achingly real. "Someone grabbed me from behind before I even got my lighter out. Big hands. Strong. I couldn't see their face, but I could smell them. Cheap cologne trying to cover up sweat and something else... something chemical. Motor oil, maybe?" Marcus found himself automatically reaching for a pen, his hand moving to take notes before he caught himself. He was either having the most elaborate psychotic break in psychiatric history, or—

"They pulled up my skirt," Astrid continued, her voice growing quieter. "The assault was... violent. Angry. Like they wanted to punish me for something. And then their hands were around my throat, and there was this terrible pressure, and then... darkness." "I'm sorry," Marcus whispered, and meant it.

"When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't in my body anymore. I was... floating, I guess. Looking down at myself in that alley. And there were these beings—I know how it sounds, but they were beautiful and terrible and made of light. Angels, maybe, or something like them. They wanted me to come with them, said it was time to go 'home.'" Marcus leaned forward despite himself. "But you didn't go."

"I couldn't. Not yet. I looked down at my body and saw you kneeling beside me, and I could... I could see into you somehow. All the pain you carry. Your sister Emma—she had the same thing happen, didn't she? Same type of monster, same violence. Same dead eyes staring at nothing." His breath caught. He'd never told anyone about Emma's eyes. About how they'd haunted him for fourteen years.

"I saw your dedication, Marcus. The way you talk to the victims in your photographs, treating them like people instead of just cases. The way you carry their pain like it's your own. I saw the love you have for people you've never met, just because they deserved justice. And I thought... maybe we could help each other." "So you what—jumped into me?" His voice sounded hollow even to himself.

"The angels said I had a choice. Go with them and find peace, or stay and find truth. When Dr. Reeves touched my eyes, I made my decision. I reached out for you instead of them." A pause. "I'm sorry I knocked you unconscious. I didn't know it would be so violent."

Marcus rubbed his face with both hands. This was insane. He was talking to a voice in his head that claimed to be a dead woman. The rational part of his mind—the part trained in evidence and procedure and the scientific method—insisted he call Dr. Walsh immediately. But there was another part of him, the part that had been talking to crime scene photos for years, that whispered: What if she's real? What if she really can help?

"I can hear your thoughts, you know," Astrid said softly. "At least the loud ones. And yes, I'm real. As real as trauma and justice and the need to know why someone destroyed my life." "Okay," Marcus said finally, surprising himself. "Okay, let's say I believe you. Let's say you're really here, really talking to me. What do you want?"

"I want what you want, Marcus. I want to catch the bastard who killed me. I want to make sure he never does this to another woman. And maybe..." Her voice grew smaller, more vulnerable. "Maybe when we find him, we can both finally get some peace."

Marcus stared at the overturned cereal bowl, milk still pooling on his kitchen floor, and realized that for the first time in three days, the crushing weight of his own thoughts had lifted slightly. He wasn't alone with his ghosts anymore. "Alright, Astrid," he said quietly. "Let's catch a killer."

The precinct felt different when Marcus walked through the doors on Monday morning. Maybe it was the way conversations died as he passed, or how his colleagues' eyes followed him with a mixture of concern and curiosity. News of his "episode" at the crime scene had spread through the department like smoke.

"They're all staring," Astrid's voice whispered in his head as he made his way to his desk.

"I noticed," he muttered under his breath, earning a strange look from Detective Rodriguez. Dr. Helena Walsh was waiting by his desk, her perfectly pressed blazer and sympathetic smile setting his teeth on edge. At fifty-two, the department psychologist had the kind of unflappable demeanor that came from years of talking cops off various ledges.

"Marcus, good to see you up and about. How are you feeling?"

"Fine." He settled into his chair, deliberately not making eye contact. "Ready to get back to work."

"Well, that's what I wanted to discuss." Dr. Walsh pulled up a chair, sitting close enough that he could smell her vanilla perfume. "Captain Morrison and I have talked, and we think it would be best if you eased back into things. Maybe some desk work, cold cases that aren't so..."

"So what?"

"Emotionally triggering." Her voice was gentle but firm. "Marcus, what happened the other night was your mind's way of telling you that you're carrying too much trauma. The victim's resemblance to your sister, the similar circumstances—it's understandable that you had a breakdown."

"Tell her about me," Astrid whispered.

Marcus's pen began its familiar tapping rhythm against his desk. "What if I told you I need to work the Novak case?"

Dr. Walsh's eyebrows rose. "That would be inadvisable. In fact, it would be—"

"What if I told you it's the only way I'm going to heal?" Marcus leaned forward, his brown eyes intense. "Helena, I've been carrying my sister's case for fourteen years. Fourteen years of wondering, of seeing her face in every victim, of talking to crime scene photos because the dead are easier to deal with than the living."

"Good. Keep going."

"But this case—Astrid Novak—she's different. When I look at her photo, I don't just see Emma. I see... possibility. Like maybe if I can solve this one, if I can get justice for her, I can finally let go of some of the guilt I've been carrying."

Dr. Walsh studied him carefully. "Marcus, that's not how trauma works. You can't solve your way out of grief."

"Maybe not." His pen tapping intensified. "But I can sure as hell try. And if I don't—if you stick me behind a desk pushing papers while some other detective works her case—I guarantee you'll have me back in your office within a week, and next time it won't just be a seizure."

The threat hung in the air between them. Dr. Walsh sighed, running a hand through her carefully styled hair. "You'd have to agree to weekly sessions. And if I see any signs that you're spiraling—"

"You'll have my badge. I get it."

Two hours later, Marcus sat across from Captain Morrison's desk, officially assigned to the Novak case. The captain's weathered face showed deep skepticism, but the department was short-staffed and Marcus was their best detective when he wasn't falling apart.

"Don't make me regret this, Reid."

"Yes, sir."

Murphy's Tavern looked different in daylight—smaller, seedier, the kind of place that survived on cheap beer and cheaper conversation. Marcus pushed through the door, a bell jingling overhead, and was immediately hit by the smell of stale cigarettes and industrial disinfectant.

"I hated working here," Astrid said as he surveyed the dim interior. "But the tips were decent, and Jerry—that's the owner—he didn't ask too many questions when I needed time off."

The bartender looked up from wiping down glasses—a heavy-set man in his fifties with arms like tree trunks and suspicious eyes. "We're not open yet."

Marcus flashed his badge. "Detective Reid. I'm investigating Astrid Novak's murder. You must be Jerry."

The man's expression immediately shifted to something more cooperative, if not exactly friendly. "Yeah, that's me. Terrible thing about Astrid. Sweet girl, never caused any trouble."

"I need to know who was here Friday night. Everyone who might have seen her, talked to her, watched her."

"Start with the regulars," Astrid whispered. "There's this guy, comes in every Friday. Big guy, always sits at the end of the bar. Never tips worth a damn and stares too much. Tommy something."

Marcus pulled out his notebook, pen poised. "Tell me about your regular customers. Anyone who might have paid special attention to Astrid?"

Jerry's face darkened. "You thinking it was someone from here?"

"Just covering all the bases."

For the next hour, Jerry walked him through Friday night's crowd. The usual mix of construction workers, lonely hearts, and people with nowhere else to go. But when Marcus asked about the big man who sat at the end of the bar, Jerry's expression shifted.

"Tommy Kowalski. Yeah, he was here. Always is on Fridays." Jerry's voice carried a note of distaste. "Drinks too much, tips too little, and yeah—he did have a thing for watching Astrid work."

"That's him," Astrid's voice turned cold. "He made my skin crawl. Always making comments about my body, asking when I got off work. I complained to Jerry about him twice."

"Did he ever make Astrid uncomfortable?" Marcus asked, his pen moving rapidly across the page.

Jerry hesitated. "She mentioned he was a little too friendly once or twice. But hell, half these guys are. Comes with the territory in a place like this."

"Ask about his hands. And whether he works with cars."

"What's Kowalski do for work?"

"Mechanic, I think. Works at some garage on the south side. Big guy—probably six-foot-four, hands like baseball mitts."

Marcus felt his pulse quicken. Large hands. Motor oil. "Ask when he left that night."

"What time did he leave Friday?"

Jerry shrugged. "Around closing time, maybe one-thirty. But that's normal for him—always one of the last to go."

"He left right before I went out to smoke," Astrid whispered, her voice tight with memory. "I remember seeing him get up from his stool as I headed for the back door."

Marcus filled page after page with notes, his mind racing. Large hands. Chemical smell. Motor oil. Violent assault that felt personal, angry. A man who watched Astrid, made her uncomfortable, who left the bar minutes before she was attacked.

And as he wrote, a darker thought began to take shape. Tommy Kowalski was big, strong, worked with cars. Fourteen years ago, Emma had been found in her apartment, sexually assaulted and strangled. The case had gone cold, but Marcus remembered the few details they'd managed to gather: the attacker had been large, strong enough to overpower a young woman without much of a struggle.

"You're thinking what I'm thinking," Astrid said softly.

Marcus's pen stopped moving. "That maybe Tommy Kowalski has done this before."

"Maybe to a detective's sister. Maybe fourteen years ago."

The notebook trembled slightly in Marcus's hands. If Tommy Kowalski had killed Emma, if the same man who had murdered his sister had now killed Astrid...

"Jerry," Marcus said, his voice carefully controlled, "I need Tommy Kowalski's full name and address. And I need it now."

Tommy Kowalski's apartment building squatted on Riverside Avenue like a concrete tumor, its brick facade stained with decades of exhaust and neglect. Marcus climbed three flights of stairs that reeked of boiled cabbage and broken dreams, Astrid's voice a steady whisper in his head.

"I can feel him from here," she said, her tone uneasy. "There's something... heavy about his presence. Like emotional quicksand."

Marcus knocked on apartment 3B, his other hand resting instinctively near his service weapon. Heavy footsteps approached the door, and he heard the scrape of multiple locks being undone.

Tommy Kowalski was even bigger than Jerry's description had suggested—six-foot-five at least, with shoulders that filled the doorframe and hands that could palm a basketball. His thinning brown hair was slicked back with too much gel, and his pale blue eyes held the kind of startled look that came from being caught off-guard.

"Mr. Kowalski? Detective Reid, Metro Police. I'd like to ask you some questions about Astrid Novak."

The big man's face immediately crumpled into an expression of grief so profound it looked almost theatrical. "Oh God, sweet little Astrid. I heard... I heard what happened. Come in, please, come in."

Marcus stepped into the apartment and immediately felt his stomach clench. The living room was sparse—a threadbare couch, an old television, nothing remarkable. But through the doorway, he could see into the kitchen, and what he saw there made his hand move closer to his gun.

The entire kitchen counter was covered with newspaper clippings, printed articles, and what looked like dozens of photographs. All of Astrid.

"Jesus Christ," Astrid whispered. "I had no idea."

Marcus moved toward the kitchen, his detective's eye cataloging the obsession spread before him. Headlines about the murder. Social media posts printed out and highlighted. And photographs—dozens of them—clearly taken without Astrid's knowledge. Her serving drinks, wiping down tables, stepping outside for smoke breaks.

"I know how this looks," Tommy said quickly, his voice carrying a desperate edge, "but it's not what you think."

Marcus turned to face him, notebook already out. "Then explain it to me."

Tommy's massive hands wrung together like he was trying to squeeze water from stone. "I was totally in love with Astrid, but of course, I couldn't tell her. I know she thought I was a creep." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "She was such a precious child, an angel wearing a human body."

"This is getting worse by the second," Astrid muttered.

"Mr. Kowalski," Marcus said carefully, "taking pictures of someone without their knowledge, collecting information about them—that's stalking behavior."

"No, no, you don't understand." Tommy shook his head vigorously. "I would never hurt her. I just wanted to... to hug her, hold her, kiss her forehead, caress her hair like a grandfather would do with his little granddaughter."

The words hung in the air like a toxic cloud. Marcus felt his pen begin its unconscious tapping against his notebook.

"That might sound creepy, obsessive," Tommy continued, his pale eyes growing distant, "but I didn't have any desire to molest her. I only wished I could go back in time and adopt her as my own little girl. Protect her from all the bad things in the world."

"This guy is seriously disturbed," Astrid said. "But Marcus... I don't think he's lying. There's something childlike about his obsession, not sexual. Still makes my skin crawl, but..."

Marcus studied Tommy's face, looking for the telltale signs of deception he'd learned to recognize over fourteen years of interrogations. The big man seemed genuinely distraught, his grief over Astrid's death appearing real rather than performative.

"Where were you between one-thirty and three AM Saturday morning?" Marcus asked.

"Here. At home. I came straight back from Murphy's and went to bed." Tommy's voice grew stronger, more urgent. "Detective, I want to help. I want to help you find who did this to her and crush the life out of him with my bare hands."

He held up those massive hands, and Marcus could easily imagine them wrapped around someone's throat. But something felt off about Tommy as the killer. The obsession was there, yes, but it had an almost protective quality that didn't match the violent rage of Astrid's murder.

"If it isn't him," Astrid said thoughtfully, "maybe it's another mechanic. Someone he works with. Maybe he knows something without realizing it."

Marcus glanced again at the spread of obsessive documentation on the counter. Maybe, but I'm not convinced, he thought. His obsession with you might have a dark side that he isn't even aware of.

"What do you mean?"

Sometimes the line between protection and possession gets blurred. Sometimes people who think they love someone can become violent when that person doesn't return their feelings. Or when they see that person with someone else.

"Tommy," Marcus said aloud, "was Astrid seeing anyone? Dating anyone?"

The big man's expression immediately darkened. "She went out sometimes. With men who didn't deserve her. Men who only wanted one thing." His hands clenched into fists. "She was too pure for any of them."

"I went on exactly three dates in the past six months," Astrid said dryly. "And two of them were disasters. But Tommy's right—he always watched when guys would pick me up from work."

"Tell me about these men," Marcus pressed. "Did any of them upset you? Make you angry?"

Tommy's jaw worked silently for a moment, and Marcus caught a glimpse of something darker swimming beneath the surface of his childlike obsession.

"There was one guy," Tommy said finally. "About a month ago. Big truck, loud music. He grabbed her ass right there in the parking lot, and she didn't like it. I could tell she didn't like it."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing," Tommy said, but his voice carried a note of regret. "I should have done something. I should have protected her."

Marcus made a note, but his instincts were telling him that Tommy Kowalski was more symptom than disease—a broken man whose obsession had created a shrine to a woman who'd never known the depth of his fixation.

But that didn't mean he was innocent. And it didn't mean he didn't know who was.

"Tommy, I need you to think carefully. Did you see anyone else watching Astrid? Anyone at the garage, other customers at Murphy's, anyone who might have shared your... feelings for her?"

The big man's eyes lit up with an almost eager desire to help. "Yes, yes, I can think of people. There are others who noticed how special she was."

As Tommy began to talk, Marcus filled page after page with names, descriptions, and the tangled web of obsession that had surrounded Astrid Novak without her ever fully realizing it.

"God," Astrid whispered. "I had no idea I was living in the middle of all this."

Neither did Emma, Marcus thought grimly. And that might be exactly what got them both killed.

Dr. Helena Walsh's office always smelled like lavender and leather—a carefully curated atmosphere of calm that Marcus found oddly oppressive. He sat across from her, his notebook open on his lap, pages filled with names and observations from the past week of investigation.

"You look better," Dr. Walsh observed, settling into her chair with a cup of tea. "More focused. The Novak case is helping?"

"Tell her about the DNA results first," Astrid whispered. "Get the clinical stuff out of the way."

"Tommy Kowalski's DNA came back negative," Marcus said, his pen already tapping against his notebook. "No match to any evidence from the scene. But he's given me leads—a whole network of men who were... interested in Astrid."

"Interested how?"

Marcus flipped through his notes. "That's what I want to talk to you about. Helena, I need to understand what kind of man I'm looking for. Because the more I dig into Astrid's life, the more I realize she was surrounded by a very specific type of obsession."

Dr. Walsh leaned forward slightly. "Go on."

"Everyone uses the same words to describe her. 'Precious.' 'Angelic.' 'Pure.' Tommy said something that stuck with me—he called Murphy's Tavern a place of spiritual darkness, said that when Astrid was working, it was like someone had turned on a bright light that chased the shadows away."

"He wasn't wrong," Astrid said softly. "I could feel it sometimes. All that pain and loneliness in that place. I tried to be kind to everyone, but some of them..."

"What are you thinking?" Dr. Walsh asked.

Marcus stood and began pacing, his nervous energy demanding movement. "I'm thinking about predator psychology. About the kind of men who are drawn to women they perceive as innocent or pure. Astrid worked in a bar, Helena. She was on display every night—men could sit for hours, watching her, studying her, building fantasies about her."

"The stage theory," Dr. Walsh nodded. "Bartending as performance, with the patrons as audience."

"Exactly. In normal social situations, these men might never approach her. It would be rude, inappropriate. But in a bar, they have an excuse. They can order drinks, make small talk, get close to her without seeming threatening."

Marcus consulted his notes. "I've identified three distinct categories of men who were fixated on her. First, the protectors—like Tommy. They see her as someone who needs to be saved, kept safe from the world. Their love has a paternal quality, but it can turn possessive."

"Tommy wasn't the only one," Astrid confirmed. "There was this older guy, Frank, who always told me I was too good for 'a place like this.' He'd leave huge tips and lecture me about finding a nice man to take care of me."

"The second type," Marcus continued, "are the men who see her as a lost love. They're drawn to her because she reminds them of someone—a first girlfriend, an ex-wife, someone they loved and lost."

Dr. Walsh made a note. "Projection psychology. They're not really seeing Astrid at all."

"Right. And the third type..." Marcus paused, his pen tapping faster. "These are the men who are attracted to the contrast between her perceived purity and the environment she works in. They see corruption potential."

"God, that's dark," Astrid whispered.

"You think the killer falls into one of these categories?" Dr. Walsh asked.

"I think he might cross categories. Helena, what if we're looking for someone who started as a protector but became violent when he realized he couldn't actually save her? Someone who watched her night after night, built up this fantasy of rescue, but then saw her making choices he disapproved of?"

Marcus returned to his chair, leaning forward intently. "Tommy mentioned Astrid dating men he thought were 'no good for her.' What if our killer had the same reaction, but instead of just disapproving, he decided to punish her for it?"

Dr. Walsh considered this. "You're describing someone with a savior complex that's devolved into a god complex. 'If I can't save you, I'll destroy you rather than let you destroy yourself.'"

"That feels right," Astrid said. "The assault—it wasn't just sexual. It felt punitive. Angry. Like he was disappointed in me."

"There's another possibility," Marcus said, his voice growing darker. "What if we're looking for someone whose first love actually did look like Astrid? Someone who married that person, but the relationship turned toxic? Love transformed into hate, but the physical type remained the same?"

"Ah," Dr. Walsh set down her tea cup. "So he's attracted to women who look like his wife or ex-wife, but he's also filled with rage toward that type. Astrid becomes a surrogate for all his romantic failures."

"Exactly. He might even be currently married to someone who looks like her. Someone he once idealized the same way these men idealize Astrid."

Marcus flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. "So I'm looking for a man who's probably been watching her for months, maybe years. Someone who built up a fantasy relationship with her in his head. He's likely had failed relationships with women who share her physical characteristics. He has access to motor oil or similar chemicals—probably works with cars or machinery."

"Don't forget the violence," Astrid reminded him. "This wasn't his first time. The assault was too practiced, too controlled."

"And he's done this before," Marcus added aloud. "The level of violence, the control he exhibited—this wasn't a crime of passion. It was practiced."

Dr. Walsh made several notes. "You're describing someone who's been escalating for years. Probably started with stalking behaviors, maybe minor assaults, working his way up to murder."

"The question is," Marcus said, closing his notebook, "how many women like Astrid has he encountered? How many has he 'punished' for not living up to his impossible standards?"

As he left Dr. Walsh's office an hour later, Marcus carried with him a clearer picture of his target: a man who saw angels in broken places and decided that if he couldn't possess them, he'd send them back to heaven himself.

"We're getting closer," Astrid whispered as he walked to his car. "I can feel it."

So can I, Marcus thought. And I have a feeling when we find him, we're going to discover that Emma was just his dress rehearsal.

Back in his apartment that evening, Marcus spread his case files across the kitchen table like a macabre deck of cards. Coffee grew cold in his mug as he stared at the growing list of names, each one representing a man who had watched Astrid, desired her, built fantasies around her.

"Astrid," he said quietly, feeling only slightly foolish for talking to the empty room. "Can you travel, or are you stuck in my head? I need to visit these men, see their wives, girlfriends, other obsessions. I need to know if they look like you."

Her response came immediately, warm and oddly comforting in his mind. "I can't when you're awake—you hold me too tightly. Not that I'm complaining; I feel good in your arms, safe somehow. But when you sleep, I can travel. And so can you, Marcus. You just don't remember."

Marcus paused, his pen hovering over his notebook. "What do you mean, I can travel?"

"Your spirit, your consciousness—it's not as locked to your body as you think. Most people never realize they're traveling in their sleep, visiting places, seeing things. But you're different. You've been doing it for years without knowing. All those crime scenes you dream about? Sometimes you're actually there."

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like a missing piece clicking into place, explaining the uncanny accuracy of some of his hunches, the way he sometimes knew details about cases that weren't in the files.

"Let's see what you have in your notes," Astrid continued, "and I'll start lurking around tonight. I'll haunt some of these guys and see what I can find."

Marcus pulled out his laptop and opened multiple browser tabs—police databases, social media sites, public records. "Okay, let's build some profiles."

They started with the list Tommy had provided, cross-referencing names with Jerry's customer information and the few credit card receipts they'd managed to pull from Murphy's Tavern.

Frank Morrison, 58, divorced. Two DUIs, one domestic violence charge that was dropped. His Facebook showed pictures of classic cars and a conspicuous absence of women. LinkedIn said he worked at Morrison Auto Body on the south side.

"That's him—the one who always told me I was too good for the bar," Astrid confirmed. "Always left huge tips and had this sad, fatherly look."

David Chen, 34, married. No criminal record, but his Instagram told an interesting story—photos of his wife from five years ago showed a petite brunette with delicate features. Recent photos showed the same woman, but harder somehow, with bleached blonde hair and hollow eyes.

"I remember him. Quiet guy, always sat in the corner booth. His wife looks like me, or like I used to look."

Miguel Santos, 29, single. One arrest for trespassing, charges dropped. His social media was sparse, but what was there was disturbing—screenshots of conversations with various women, complaints about "modern dating," and several angry posts about women who "led men on."

Robert "Bobby" Hayes, 42, married. This one made Marcus sit up straighter. Three domestic violence calls to his address over the past two years, though his wife had never pressed charges. He worked at Hayes Mechanical, a garage that specialized in fleet maintenance. His wife's photos showed a progression Marcus had seen too many times—a pretty brunette gradually becoming more withdrawn, wearing more makeup to cover what looked like bruises.

"Bobby... yes, I remember him. He scared me. The way he looked at me wasn't lustful—it was angry. Like I'd done something to personally offend him just by existing."

Marcus made detailed notes next to Bobby's name. "Tell me more about him."

"He always ordered whiskey, neat. Never said much, but he'd stare at me for hours. Sometimes I'd catch him whispering under his breath, like he was having arguments with someone who wasn't there. And his hands..." Astrid's voice grew quieter. "They were always dirty. Motor oil ground into his knuckles, and they shook sometimes. Not from nerves—from rage."

Marcus pulled up Bobby Hayes's criminal record. The domestic violence calls painted a picture of escalating abuse. The most recent incident, just three months ago, had resulted in his wife being taken to the emergency room with a dislocated shoulder.

"Marcus," Astrid said softly, "pull up a photo of his wife."

He found her Facebook profile—Chastity Hayes, 28. The progression of photos over the past five years told a heartbreaking story. Early pictures showed a vibrant young woman with dark hair and bright eyes, bearing a slight resemblance to both Astrid and Emma. Recent photos showed the same bone structure, but the light had gone out of her eyes.

"Jesus," Marcus whispered. "She could be your sister."

"Or yours. Marcus, this man married someone who looks like both of us, and he's been slowly destroying her. What happens when he realizes he can't remake her into whatever fantasy he's carrying?"

Marcus made Bobby Hayes his priority target, but continued building profiles for the others. By midnight, he had detailed backgrounds on eight men, complete with photos, addresses, work schedules, and relationship patterns.

"I'm going to visit them tonight," Astrid said as Marcus finally closed his laptop. "See what their homes look like, who they're with, what they do when they think no one's watching."

"Is it safe? I mean, can they hurt you?"

"I'm already dead, Marcus. What are they going to do, kill me again?" Her voice carried a note of dark humor. "Besides, most people can't see me unless I want them to. And trust me—I don't want these men seeing me."

Marcus settled onto his couch, suddenly exhausted. "What do I need to do?"

"Just sleep. Let your mind relax its grip on me, and I'll slip out. In the morning, I'll tell you everything I've learned."

As consciousness faded, Marcus felt something he hadn't experienced in years—the sensation of not being alone with his ghosts. For the first time since Emma's death, he was actively hunting her killer with a partner who understood exactly what it felt like to have their life stolen by violence.

"Sweet dreams, Marcus," was the last thing he heard before sleep claimed him. "Let's go catch a monster."

In his dreams, he found himself standing in Bobby Hayes's garage, watching a man with motor oil under his fingernails and rage in his eyes work on a car while muttering angrily about women who didn't know their place.

And somewhere in the shadows, he could feel Astrid watching too, cataloging evidence that would bring them both the justice they'd been denied for so long.

Marcus jolted awake as what felt like a sledgehammer pounded against the inside of his skull. Pain shot through his temples in rhythmic waves, each one accompanied by an urgent, almost frantic presence.

"Okay! Damn, girl. That hurts. I'm awake," he groaned, pressing his palms against his eyes.

"Sorry, sorry!" Astrid's voice came rapid-fire, vibrating with excitement. "But Marcus, it's him. I know it. I saw him, his whole past, everything. Bobby Hayes—he's our killer."

Marcus sat up on the couch, instantly alert despite the lingering headache. "Tell me."

"He was abused, brutally and violently, when he was growing up. It twisted him, made him angry, highly narcissistic—I think it's a defense mechanism from all that trauma. But here's the thing about his wife, Charity—she's not just some random victim. She's highly empathic, one of those people who's drawn to broken, needy people."

Marcus reached for his notebook, his pen already moving. "Go on."

"He's forty-two. She's twenty-eight—fourteen years younger. Marcus, she gave birth to his daughter when she was only fourteen." Astrid's voice grew darker. "They've been together since she was fourteen. He was twenty-eight when he started 'dating' her. Her parents decided it would be better for her to marry him than to prosecute him."

"Jesus Christ," Marcus whispered.

"She adored him at first, loved him with all her heart, worshipped him. She knew he was damaged but she wanted to fix him. She would have done anything for him back then. But now that she's older, she understands what really happened to her. What she thought was love was really him grooming and molesting her."

Marcus felt his stomach clench. The pattern was becoming clear—a predator who targeted empathetic young women, someone who used their compassion against them.

"His ability to love is non-existent, Marcus. It's all control and ownership. She works at Sally's Beauty Parlor on Cedar Street. You need to talk to her—I think she'll be your best lead."

"Does she look like you?"

"Not exactly, but there's something more. Something I can't tell you yet because I don't want to get your hopes up."

An hour later, Marcus stood in Sally's Beauty Parlor, breathing in the chemical tang of hair dye and permanent solution. The salon was busy with the morning rush, stylists working on various clients while pop music played overhead.

"Excuse me," he said to the receptionist, flashing his badge. "I'm looking for Charity Hayes."

The young woman's face immediately grew concerned. "Oh, honey, she's in the hospital. Fell down the stairs or something yesterday evening. Poor thing—she's always having accidents."

Marcus felt his jaw tighten. "Which hospital?"

Metro General's ICU wing had the sterile, hushed quality of a place where life and death negotiations happened daily. Marcus found Charity Hayes in room 314, her face a patchwork of bruises, her left arm in a cast.

She looked younger than her twenty-eight years, with the kind of ethereal beauty that would have made her a target for predators even without her empathetic nature. When she saw his badge, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and something that might have been hope.

"Mrs. Hayes? Detective Reid. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your husband."

Charity's good hand immediately went to her throat—a protective gesture Marcus recognized from years of interviewing abuse victims. "I fell down the stairs," she said quietly. "That's what happened."

Marcus pulled up a chair beside her bed, his voice gentle but firm. "Charity, please. You're not stupid and neither am I. You've been abused. This is domestic violence."

The words seemed to break something inside her. Tears spilled over her bruised cheeks, and suddenly she was reaching for him, grabbing his hand like he was a lifeline in a storm.

"Oh, I know. I know," she sobbed. "But what can I do? He's all I've got, all I've ever had. But I guess... I guess it's time I grow up." She looked up at him through her tears. "Will you help me, please? I don't know what to do."

"She's so broken," Astrid whispered in his mind. "But look at her strength. She's ready to fight back."

"I'll certainly help you," Marcus said, meaning every word. "There are programs designed to help women like you get the support you need. You're young and beautiful and have a marvelous life ahead of you, if we can get you out of this situation. But I need your help too."

"How can I help?"

Marcus took a breath, knowing he was about to cross several ethical lines. "Charity, your husband is a suspect in a series of rapes and murders. This is delicate, and probably illegal, but I need to know—did you have sex with him right before he assaulted you?"

Her eyes widened, but she nodded slowly. "Yes. Why?"

Marcus pulled a long cotton swab from his pocket. "I don't have the evidence necessary to get a warrant for a DNA sample from him. But if there's a chance that there's something left from him inside you, can you help me get a sample?"

Charity stared at him for a long moment, suspicion and hope warring in her expression. Finally, she nodded. "If it helps catch him... if it helps other women..."

A few minutes later, Marcus carefully sealed the swab in an evidence bag, hoping he had enough for the lab to work with.

"Thank you, Charity. You're a brave woman, and I'm going to help you. I really am."

"I hope you're not lying," she said, but there was trust in her voice now. "And you have to help my daughter too. I sent her to stay with my parents when she turned thirteen. I could see the way he was looking at her, the same way he used to look at me when I was that age."

Marcus felt ice form in his stomach. "He wanted to abuse your daughter?"

"One of the reasons he beats me now is because I sent her away." Charity's voice was barely above a whisper. "I know what he wanted to do. I couldn't let him destroy her the way he destroyed me."

"Marcus," Astrid's voice was urgent in his head. "Ask her about other women. Ask her if she knows about his past relationships."

"Charity, before you, were there other women in Bobby's life? Other girlfriends?"

Her face grew pale. "There was a girl named Emma. He talked about her sometimes, especially when he was drunk. He said she was perfect, but she rejected him. He said... he said she got what she deserved."

The world seemed to tilt around Marcus. "Emma?"

"Emma Reid, I think. He said she was a detective's sister. Said the detective never caught him because he was too smart." Charity looked at Marcus with growing concern. "Detective, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"That's because he has," Astrid whispered. "Marcus, this is what I couldn't tell you before. Bobby Hayes killed your sister. And now we have the evidence to prove it."

Eight weeks later, Marcus sat in his car outside Charity's new apartment building, staring at his phone. The DNA results had come back three days after his hospital visit—a perfect match not only to evidence from Astrid's murder, but to his sister Emma's case and two other cold cases from the past decade.

Faced with overwhelming evidence and the specter of the death penalty, Bobby Hayes had confessed to all four murders. The confession had been clinical, almost bored, as if he were recounting a grocery list rather than describing the systematic destruction of four young women's lives.

Life without parole. It wasn't everything Marcus had hoped for, but it was justice.

"You did it," Astrid had whispered in his mind during the sentencing. "We did it. Emma can finally rest."

Now, two weeks after the trial ended, Marcus found himself thinking less about Bobby Hayes and more about the woman whose courage had made the conviction possible. Charity had been attending therapy twice a week, slowly rebuilding herself from the ground up. Marcus had gone to several sessions with her, ostensibly to provide victim support, but really because he found himself drawn to her quiet strength.

She was nothing like the broken young woman he'd met in the hospital. With each passing week, the light had returned to her eyes, her genuine smile replacing the fearful mask she'd worn for so long.

"You're in love with her," Astrid had said just yesterday, her voice carrying an odd mixture of warmth and sadness.

"Maybe," Marcus had thought back. "Is that okay?"

"More than okay. It's destiny."

Now, sitting in his car, Marcus finally worked up the courage to dial Charity's number. She answered on the second ring.

"Marcus! How are you?"

"Good. Really good, actually. Listen, I know this might be too soon, and if it is, just say so, but... would you like to have dinner with me? Not as a detective and a witness, just... as us."

There was a pause, then her laugh—the first truly joyful sound he'd heard from her. "I was wondering when you were going to ask. Yes, I'd love to."

"She's perfect for you," Astrid whispered, and Marcus could swear he heard tears in her voice. "Marcus, there's no way I can express how much I've grown to love you. You have no idea. But I have to tell you something now, because I have to move on soon."

Marcus felt his chest tighten. "What do you mean, move on?"

"Marry her. And here's the big secret I couldn't tell you before—you have to adopt her daughter. She's fourteen years old. Her name is Emma."

Marcus nearly dropped the phone. "Her name is what?"

"Emma. She's your Emma, Marcus. Not reincarnation exactly, but... souls find their way back to the people who love them most. She's been waiting for you her whole life, even if she doesn't know it yet."

Through the phone, Charity was still talking about dinner plans, but Marcus could barely hear her over the roaring in his ears.

"And when Charity is pregnant with your next child—a daughter, I hope—I'll be back too. Snuggling happily in your arms again. You're going to have so much love in your life, Marcus. Be happy. You deserve it."

Suddenly, Marcus felt something he'd never experienced before—a profound emptiness where Astrid's presence had lived for the past two months. The hole in his soul was so complete, so absolute, that he gasped aloud.

"Marcus? Are you okay?" Charity's voice was concerned.

"I'm... yeah, I'm fine. Just had a moment." He looked up at her apartment building, where a light glowed warmly in a third-floor window. "Charity, can I ask you something? Your daughter—what's her name?"

"Emma," Charity said, her voice soft with love. "Emma Grace. She's the light of my life. Why?"

Marcus closed his eyes, feeling tears he didn't know he'd been holding back. "Just curious. When do I get to meet her?"

"Soon, I hope. She's been asking about you. She says she's been dreaming about a man who would help us, and when I showed her your picture..." Charity's voice grew wondering. "She said you looked familiar, like someone she'd been waiting for."

"You better not be lying, Astrid," Marcus whispered to the empty air. "I expect to see you soon."

The silence in his head was complete, but somehow it didn't feel lonely anymore. It felt expectant, like the pause between lightning and thunder.

Marcus started his car and pulled into the parking lot. He had a dinner to plan, a woman to court properly, and a fourteen-year-old girl named Emma to meet—a girl who'd been dreaming of him, waiting for him to find his way back to her.

As he walked toward the apartment building, Marcus could swear he felt a gentle presence brush against his cheek—not Astrid, but something older, more familiar. His sister Emma, finally at peace, finally able to let go now that she knew he would be loved and cared for.

The hole in his soul began to fill with something new: hope for a future that included laughter and family dinners and teenage girls who rolled their eyes at their adoptive father's overprotectiveness.

Marcus Reid, who had spent fourteen years talking to the dead, was finally ready to start living again.

And somewhere in the space between one heartbeat and the next, he could swear he heard Astrid's voice one last time: "See you soon, my love. Take care of our family until I get there."

He smiled, straightened his tie, and went upstairs to begin the rest of his life.