Atlanta, Georgia – 9:27 AM


Talia sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at the message like it might disappear if she blinked hard enough. The sender had no name, no profile, just that one chilling line.


“Start with the night he said he was in Miami.”


She racked her memory. Marcus had gone to Miami two months ago for a supposed business trip with a developer named Kenyatta Briggs. She remembered the name because it had sounded like someone from a blaxploitation film. When he got back, Marcus had brought her a souvenir t-shirt and a bottle of rum—cheap souvenirs meant to mask expensive lies?


“Talia,” Marcus called from downstairs, “I’m heading out. Dinner tonight?”


“Yeah. Sure,” she called back, slipping her phone under a pillow.


She listened to the sound of his loafers tapping across the marble entryway, the click of the front door closing, the soft hum of his Tesla pulling away. Then she moved like a woman on fire.


In her home office, she dug through her desk drawer and pulled out an old MacBook she hadn’t used since grad school. Her firm gave her all new tech, but this one—this one wasn’t tracked. She booted it up and launched a secure browser.


Search: Miami suspicious death May 12th


It only took seconds.


Local artist found dead in hotel bathtub. No foul play suspected. Name: Isaiah Reed.


Talia’s pulse surged. Isaiah Reed… She clicked the link and skimmed the article. He was a mixed-media artist, 28 years old, known for provocative work and bold political themes. He was in Miami for an exhibition. Found dead in a hotel suite.


The location?

The same hotel Marcus had supposedly stayed at.


Her fingers trembled as she opened a new tab.


Search: Isaiah Reed + Marcus Taylor


Nothing. No direct hits. But when she searched Isaiah Reed + Kenyatta Briggs, she got something. A photo.


There they were—Isaiah and Kenyatta, side by side at a gallery opening, drinks in hand. But behind them… blurred, barely in frame… was someone tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned.


She zoomed in.


The photo pixelated, but not enough to erase that profile. That smirk. That watch.


It was Marcus.


He had been there. The same night Isaiah Reed died.


Talia sat back in her chair, breath shaky.


The house creaked—settling, or something more? Her heart thudded like a hammer in her chest.


Someone was lying.


And someone was dead.