SCARS OF THE PAST

The creak of Detective Carter's boots echoed against the tiled hallway as he stepped inside the house.
The air hung heavy, thick with the metallic tang of blood and the faint scent of decay. The crime scene was bathed in the sterile glow of forensic spotlights, their harsh light bouncing off the cream-colored walls now marred with violent streaks of red.

James' lifeless body lay sprawled across the living room floor. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle, his eyes wide open, staring into a void only he could see.

Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the fibers of the once-pristine rug. The jagged slash across his throat left no doubt that his death had been neither swift nor merciful.

Carter's stomach churned as he crouched beside the body. No matter how many scenes like this he walked into, the grotesque still had a way of digging under his skin. He forced his gaze upward, scanning the room. The house, though small, was meticulously kept. The contrast between its once tidy appearance and the carnage before him was stark.

Forensic scientists moved with quiet efficiency, their cameras clicking and flashing, capturing every angle of the horror.

Others dusted surfaces for fingerprints, meticulously cataloging anything that could point to a lead. One of them, a petite woman with her dark hair tied back, caught Carter's eye and nodded grimly. They had all seen enough to know this wasn't just another random act of violence.

"Detective," one of the uniformed officers called from the hallway. "The 911 call came from a private number. No name, no callback. Sounded male, but it was distorted. Almost like they wanted to make sure we couldn't trace it."

Carter stood, his brow furrowed. "Planned," he murmured to himself. "Whoever called wanted us here, but they didn't want to stick around."

The officer handed Carter a transcript of the call.

"Something has happened," the caller had said, their voice clipped and devoid of emotion. "Foster Avenue, number 237. You'll find it in the kitchen, hurry." And then the line went dead.

No panic. No urgency. Just cold, clinical information.

"James Kamau," Carter muttered, glancing at the body. "Murdered in his own home, and the killer wanted us to know. But why?"

He moved toward the small desk tucked into a corner of the room. Its surface was cluttered with papers and an open laptop. Beside the laptop, a cup of coffee sat cold and untouched. Carter's eyes narrowed as he noticed a faint smear of blood on the edge of the desk. He motioned for one of the forensic team members.

"Get me a print of this," he said, pointing at the smear. "And see if there's anything on the laptop. Emails, messages, anything that could tell us who he was talking to."

The forensic tech nodded, carefully swabbing the blood and bagging the evidence. Another officer approached Carter, holding a plastic evidence bag containing a small, crumpled note.

"Found this in his pocket," the officer said.

Carter took the bag and studied the note inside. The paper was torn, the handwriting jagged and rushed. Two words scrawled in ink:

"You're next."

Carter's jaw tightened. A warning? A taunt? Or a confession? He'd seen killers leave cryptic messages before, but something about this one felt different. Deliberate.

"Detective Carter," the petite forensic scientist called out. "You might want to see this."

He followed her upstairs towards a room with an open window. It was evident someone had entered through it considering the dirt around the floor.

Carter's eyes narrowed as he examined the prints. "Look for anything that might give us a lead, something, anything that will point us towards the killer."

As she nodded and got to work, Carter turned and went downstairs, back to the body. His mind raced with questions. Who had wanted James dead? Why had they called it in, only to vanish without a trace? And what had James done to deserve such a brutal end—if he had deserved it at all? What was James' role in all these?

First Micha and now James, this was a targeted murder, everything confirmed it.

Carter straightened, his gaze hardening. "This wasn't random," he said aloud, more to himself than anyone else. "Someone wanted us to see this. Someone wanted us to know."

He looked back at the body, his resolve firm. "And I'm going to find out why."

**************************************************************************

The moon shone brightly as Carter left the house, the chill of the late night biting at his skin. He pulled his coat tighter, glancing back at the scene one last time before ducking into his car. His mind churned with the details, but one name stood out: Kyro.

Kyro had been detained a few hours before on related charges, but whispers suggested he might have ties with James Kamau murder. Carter needed answers, and Kyro might be the only one who could provide them.

The drive to the station was quiet, the city waking up in a haze of headlights and early commuters. Carter's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, his thoughts circling like vultures. By the time he arrived at the station, his jaw was set, and his determination had solidified into a sharp edge.

Inside, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Carter made his way to the interrogation room. Through the one-way mirror, he saw Kyro slouched in his chair, his wrists cuffed to the table. His expression was unreadable, but his body language spoke volumes: despair wrapped in feigned nonchalance.

Carter opened the door and stepped inside, closing it softly behind him. He set a folder down on the table and took a seat across from Kyro. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the air between them heavy with unspoken tension.

"Kyro," Carter said finally, his voice low but firm. "We need to talk about James Kamau."

Kyro's eyes flicked up, a shadow of recognition passing over his face. He leaned back in his chair, the cuffs rattling slightly. "Why?," he said, his tone casual.

Carter's lips pressed into a thin line. "Don't play games with me."

Kyro shrugged, his smirk faltering slightly. "Even if I did, what makes you think it would make a difference? You still don't have leads on Micha's murderer, who is clearly James' murderer."

Carter leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "Because if you don't, you're looking at obstruction charges at best. And at worst? You're going to have a lot more to answer for when we link you to that scene."

Kyro's smirk vanished entirely. His eyes darted to the folder on the table. Carter followed his gaze and opened it, revealing photos from the crime scene. He slid one across the table, a close-up of James' body.

"Look familiar?" Carter asked.

Kyro's jaw tightened, his bravado cracking just enough for Carter to notice. He leaned back, crossing his arms. "What do you want to know?"

Carter sat back, satisfied he had found his opening. "Everything. Start from the beginning."