Beneath the Skin

The body was too clean.

That was the first thing Dr. Evelyn Shaw noticed when she pulled back the sheet in the morgue. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the stainless steel table and the corpse laid out upon it. The Y-incision from the autopsy was precise, the edges stitched together with the kind of neat, even sutures that spoke of professional training. But the skin around it-the expanse of the chest, the curve of the abdomen-was gone. Not torn, not hacked away, but removed with chilling precision, as if the killer had treated it like an art project.

Evelyn's gloved fingers hovered over the exposed muscle, the raw, glistening red of the cadaver's torso. No hesitation marks, no jagged tears. Just smooth, deliberate strokes.

Like a sculptor, she thought. Or a surgeon.

The air in the morgue was cold, but a bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck anyway.

"Jesus," muttered Detective Hale from the doorway, his voice muffled by the mint-green mask he'd yanked from the box by the entrance. He was a broad-shouldered man with a permanent five o'clock shadow and a habit of chewing gum when he was anxious. Right now, he was working through a piece like it had personally offended him. "Who does that to a person?"

Evelyn didn't answer. She was too busy counting.

Fourteen cuts total. Each one measured to the millimeter. Each one exact.

She leaned in, adjusting the magnifying lamp. The edges of the excised skin were unnervingly straight, the work of someone who knew exactly how deep to go. No nicks in the underlying tissue, no accidental slips. This wasn't frenzy. This was practice.

"Time of death?" Hale asked, stepping closer. The scent of spearmint and coffee followed him.

"Between midnight and three a.m.," Evelyn said. "Lividity suggests he was on his back when he died. No defensive wounds. No signs of struggle."

"So he was unconscious?"

"Or he knew his killer."

Hale exhaled through his nose. "Great. A friendly flaying."

Evelyn ignored him, her attention snagging on something near the victim's left rib. A faint mark, almost hidden beneath the layers of peeled-back tissue. She reached for a pair of forceps, nudging the muscle aside.

A symbol.

Carved into the bone.

Her breath caught.

It was small, no larger than a quarter-a crude, jagged circle with a line through it. Like an inverted cross with a noose.

No. Not a noose.

A serpent.

Her pulse kicked up, a drumbeat in her throat. She knew that symbol. She'd seen it before.

"What is it?" Hale asked, leaning in.

Evelyn straightened, forcing her voice steady. "Nothing. A scratch, probably post-mortem."

Hale frowned but didn't press. Instead, he nodded toward the victim's face-what was left of it. "Any ID?"

"John Doe for now. Dental records will take time." She gestured to the man's hands. "No fingerprints."

"Because the bastard took those too." Hale rubbed his jaw. "Any chance this is some kind of gang thing? Cartel?"

Evelyn shook her head. "Cartels are messy. This is... meticulous."

Too meticulous.

She turned back to the body, her gaze tracing the patterns of the cuts. There was something almost ritualistic about them. Not random. Not chaotic. Planned.

And then she saw it.

Tucked beneath the sternum, hidden in the hollow where the ribs met, was a small, folded square of paper. Bloodless. Deliberately placed.

Her gloves creaked as she reached for it.

"What the hell is that?" Hale asked.

Evelyn didn't answer. She unfolded the paper carefully, her fingers trembling just enough to annoy her. The words were written in neat, looping script-the kind of handwriting you'd see in a love letter.

"You see the surface. I see what's beneath."

The room tilted.

Because Evelyn knew this wasn't just a murder.

It was an invitation.

And the worst part?

She knew exactly who it was for.

-----

Scene Break

The rain had started by the time Evelyn left the morgue, a cold, relentless drizzle that seeped into her coat and made the pavement shine like oil. She stood under the awning, staring at her phone, the note from the body now locked in an evidence locker-and burned into her memory.

*You see the surface. I see what's beneath.

She knew that phrase.

She'd heard it before.

Her thumb hovered over the contact she hadn't dialed in years. Daniel.

But she couldn't. Not yet. Not until she was sure.

Instead, she pulled up another number. The call connected on the second ring.

"Dr. Shaw." The voice on the other end was smooth, amused. "I was wondering when you'd call."

Evelyn's grip tightened on the phone. "You've seen the news."

"The flayed man? Oh, yes. Quite the headline." A pause. "You think it's him, don't you?"

She closed her eyes. "I think it's a message."

"For you?"

Yes.

But she didn't say it. Instead, she asked, "Do you still have the files?"

Another pause, longer this time. Then: "Come by the office. We'll talk."

The line went dead.

Evelyn pocketed her phone, her breath fogging in the cold air.

Somewhere out there, a killer was waiting.

And he wasn't done yet.