Written by: Jacob A. SanSoucie
The dead woman watched me from every wall of her apartment.
Not literally dead in the photographs, of course. These were taken when Elena Blackwood had been very much alive – smiling at charity galas, accepting literary awards, posed candidly on balconies of expensive hotels. But dead she certainly was now, sprawled across her antique writing desk with a letter opener buried in her neck and her blood soaking the pages of an unfinished manuscript.
"You look like hell, Vance," Detective Merritt said, appearing at my shoulder like a particularly judgmental ghost.
"Thanks for noticing," I replied, not taking my eyes off the photographs. Something about them nagged at me. "I was having dinner when you called."
"Dinner? At three in the morning?"
"Some of us keep unconventional hours." I finally turned to face her. Merritt was crisp and professional as always, her dark hair pulled back severely, not a wrinkle on her charcoal pantsuit despite being called to a murder scene in the middle of the night. "Who found her?"
"Cleaning lady. Comes twice a week, has her own key. Arrived at her usual time and found..." she gestured toward the desk where the forensics team was carefully documenting everything. "That."
"Time of death?"
"ME puts it between nine and midnight. Rigor's just setting in."
I moved closer to the body, careful not to touch anything. Elena Blackwood had been beautiful in life – I'd seen her once at a book signing, had watched her charm an entire room with her enigmatic smile and razor-sharp wit. Now that smile was frozen in a grimace, her elegant hands curled like talons against the mahogany desktop.
"The manuscript she was working on?" I asked, nodding toward the blood-soaked pages.
"Her next thriller, apparently. Her agent says it was due to the publisher next month." Merritt handed me a pair of latex gloves. "You can look, but don't move anything."
I snapped on the gloves and carefully examined the pages without disturbing them. The blood had made much of the text illegible, but I could make out the title page: "REFLECTIONS" by Elena Blackwood.
"Famous writer stabbed while working on her latest novel. Very dramatic," I murmured. "Any signs of forced entry?"
"None. Security system was armed but not triggered. Building's doorman says no visitors after she returned from dinner around eight."
I straightened up, surveying the apartment. It was exactly what you'd expect from a bestselling author – expensive but tasteful furniture, walls lined with bookshelves, a view of the park that probably cost more than I'd make in ten years as a consultant to the police department. And those photographs. So many photographs.
"She liked to document her success," Merritt said, following my gaze.
"Wouldn't you? Small-town girl makes it big in the city, becomes the queen of psychological thrillers. Five bestsellers in seven years."
"You know her work?" Merritt raised an eyebrow.
"I read. Contrary to what you might think, I do have hobbies besides drinking and making your job harder."
That earned me a hint of a smile. "I thought your hobby was being divorced."
"That's not a hobby, that's a lifestyle choice." I moved toward the bookshelves, examining the spines of Blackwood's novels. Each one prominently displayed, multiple editions including foreign translations. "Her books always feature someone hiding in plain sight. The killer who's actually the detective's partner, the witness who's secretly orchestrating everything."
"Life imitating art?" Merritt mused.
"Or art imitating life." I pulled out my phone and scrolled through a few news articles about Blackwood. "She was notoriously private about her past. Refused to discuss her childhood or family in interviews. Said her books were her legacy, not her biography."
"Everyone's entitled to privacy."
"True. But secrets have a way of catching up to you." I moved back to the photographs, studying them more carefully now. "Have you noticed that in every single one of these, she's alone?"
Merritt joined me, frowning slightly. "So?"
"Bestselling author, socialite, presumably wealthy. No photos with friends? Family? Lovers?"
"Some people prefer to keep their relationships private."
"Or some people don't have any real relationships to document." I tapped one photograph – Elena at a book launch, smiling brilliantly into the camera while keeping a subtle but unmistakable distance from the publishing executives flanking her. "Look at her body language. She's always holding something back."
Merritt checked her watch. "As fascinating as this amateur psychology is, do you have any actual insights into who might have killed her?"
I was about to reply when something caught my eye – a small safe, partially hidden behind a row of books, its door slightly ajar.
"Was this open when you arrived?" I asked.
Merritt shook her head. "Forensics opened it. Found the combination in her desk planner."
"Not very security-conscious for someone with so many secrets," I muttered, peering inside. The safe contained what you'd expect – some jewelry, legal documents, a modest stack of cash. And a small, leather-bound journal.
"May I?" I asked, already reaching for it.
"Carefully," Merritt warned.
The journal was old, the leather cracked and worn. Inside, the handwriting was tight and precise, each page dated. It wasn't a diary in the traditional sense – more like observations, snippets of conversations, character studies. The entries spanned years.
October 15, 2018: D. mentioned his wife's drinking again. Always excuses. Stores this away, uses it later in arguments. Classic manipulator. Possible character study for next book?
February 3, 2019: M. has no idea her husband is stealing from the company. The blindness of trust. Everyone wearing masks, even to themselves.
"She was studying them," I said, flipping through the pages. "Using real people as templates for her characters."
"Writers do that," Merritt said dismissively.
"Yes, but these aren't just observations. They're secrets. Things people wouldn't want revealed." I showed her an entry from last year:
September 8, 2022: Senator K's charity is a front. Money laundering, probably worse. He thinks no one notices the patterns. Writers notice everything.
Merritt's expression darkened. "That could be a motive. If she was threatening to expose someone—"
"Or using their secrets as inspiration for her books." I closed the journal carefully. "We need to compare her novels to these entries, see if there are characters based on real people whose secrets she exposed through fiction."
"That'll take time we don't have. The press will be all over this by morning."
I glanced back at the body, my mind churning through possibilities. "Did you check her laptop? Phone?"
"Forensics has them. Password protected, but they'll crack them."
Something still wasn't adding up. I moved to the writing desk, careful to stay out of the forensics team's way. The letter opener was ornate, silver with an intricate design on the handle. "This looks expensive," I commented.
"It is. Sterling silver, custom made. Her publisher gave it to her when her third book hit number one."
"So the killer didn't bring a weapon. Crime of opportunity, or—"
"Or she knew her killer," Merritt finished. "Comfortable enough to let them get close."
I stepped back, trying to see the whole picture. Successful author, isolated despite her public persona, collecting other people's secrets... killed with her own letter opener while working on her next novel.
"Let me see her calendar," I said suddenly. "You said she had a planner?"
Merritt handed me a leather-bound organizer. I flipped to the current date, scanning the elegant handwriting. Appointments, deadlines, notes to self. And there, penciled in for this evening: "J. – 9:30 PM."
"J.," I murmured. "No last name, no location."
"Could be anyone," Merritt said. "Initial only, probably wanted to keep it private."
"Or she knew exactly who it was and didn't need to write more." I closed the planner. "We need to check her phone records, see who she was in contact with today."
While Merritt went to check with forensics, I wandered into Elena's bedroom. The same immaculate taste, the same careful arrangement of possessions. A book on the nightstand – not one of hers, but a dog-eared copy of "The Great Gatsby." Appropriate, I thought, another story about someone reinventing themselves.
The bathroom was standard luxury – marble countertops, expensive toiletries, a shower large enough for a dinner party. But it was the medicine cabinet that gave me pause. Prescription bottles, several of them, all for anxiety and insomnia. The invisible cost of success, perhaps. Or the price of keeping too many secrets.
I returned to the main room as Merritt hung up her phone, her expression grim.
"They've gone through her recent calls and texts. Nothing unusual, except for an incoming call at 8:45 PM from a burner phone. Call lasted less than a minute."
"Arranging the meeting," I said. "J. was already on the way."
"Or confirming that she was alone."
I nodded, my eyes drawn back to the photographs – Elena Blackwood, always elegant, always alone, always with that same smile that never quite reached her eyes.
"I need to see her ID," I said suddenly.
Merritt frowned. "Her ID? Why?"
"Humor me."
With a sigh, she retrieved Elena's purse from where it sat on a side table. Inside was the expected assortment of expensive necessities, including a sleek wallet containing credit cards, cash, and a driver's license.
ELENA BLACKWOOD, it read. DOB: 05/17/1983. The photo was recent, showing the same confident smile as all the others.
"What exactly are we looking for?" Merritt asked.
"I'm not sure yet," I admitted, studying the license. It looked perfectly legitimate. "But something about this whole setup feels constructed. Like we're looking at the set for a play rather than someone's real life."
"You think her identity is fake?"
"I think Elena Blackwood was very careful about what she revealed to the world." I handed the wallet back. "Let's go through her desk. Not just the manuscript – everything."
The desk drawers contained the usual assortment of writing supplies, files, notebooks. In the bottom drawer, a stack of mail – mostly business correspondence, bills, invitations to literary events.
And then I found it, tucked into a folder marked "Personal" – a yellowed newspaper clipping from twenty years ago. The headline read: "Local Teen Missing, Foul Play Suspected."
The article detailed the disappearance of seventeen-year-old Julia Everton from a small town in Oregon. Last seen leaving school, Julia was described as "quiet, intelligent, an aspiring writer." The grainy photograph showed a solemn girl with dark eyes that seemed to hold the weight of the world.
"I need to make a call," I said, already pulling out my phone.
Ten minutes later, Merritt and I stood in silence, the pieces finally falling into place.
"Julia Everton was never found," I explained. "The case went cold. But here's the interesting part – three months after her disappearance, her stepfather was arrested for abusing her mother. During the investigation, they found evidence suggesting he'd been abusing Julia as well."
"So she ran away," Merritt said. "Became Elena Blackwood."
"Reinvented herself completely. New name, new history, new life. Used her talent to become famous, hiding in the spotlight where no one would think to look for a missing girl from Oregon."
"But someone found out," Merritt concluded. "Someone connected Elena Blackwood to Julia Everton."
"And threatened to expose her," I nodded. "That would destroy everything she'd built."
We both turned to look at the body, seeing it with new understanding. Not just a successful author, but a survivor who had clawed her way out of a nightmare and constructed an impenetrable facade.
"J," Merritt said softly. "The appointment in her calendar."
"Julia," I confirmed. "Her past coming to meet her present."
The forensics team was finishing up, carefully placing Elena's – no, Julia's – manuscript into evidence bags. I watched them work, still troubled by something I couldn't quite place.
"Check the security footage from the building," I said. "We need to see who came up to her apartment around 9:30."
"Already requested it," Merritt assured me. "Should have it within the hour."
I moved back to the writing desk, studying the crime scene one last time. The letter opener in her neck. The manuscript soaked in blood. The angle of entry...
"Wait," I said, a chill running down my spine. "Can I see the preliminary report from the ME?"
Merritt pulled it up on her tablet. I scanned it quickly, focusing on the wound description and hand positioning.
"What is it?" she asked, noticing my expression.
"The angle of the wound," I said quietly. "It's consistent with self-infliction. And look at her right hand – there's a small cut on the palm, where someone would get cut if they were gripping a letter opener with enough force to stab themselves."
Merritt's eyes widened. "You think she killed herself? Staged her own murder?"
"One last plot twist," I said, moving to the blood-soaked manuscript. Carefully lifting one of the less-saturated pages, I read a passage that made my blood run cold:
"Julia knew they would find her eventually. Twenty years of running, of reinvention, of perfect disguise – but the truth always surfaces. Better to end the story on her own terms. They would find her body, investigate her murder, perhaps even solve it eventually. But they would never truly know Julia. Only Elena would remain, immortalized in mystery."
"It's not a novel," I said, letting the page fall back into place. "It's a confession. A suicide note disguised as fiction."
"But why?" Merritt asked. "She was successful, wealthy, admired—"
"Someone found her. That 'J.' in her calendar wasn't Julia – it was whoever had discovered her real identity. Someone connected to her past, maybe from her hometown, who recognized the famous author as the missing girl."
I pointed to the burner phone call. "They contacted her, threatened to expose her. Rather than lose everything she'd built, rather than face the past she'd spent twenty years running from..."
"She chose to die as Elena Blackwood rather than live again as Julia Everton," Merritt finished, her voice hollow.
We stood in silence, surrounded by photographs of a woman who had never truly existed, in an apartment filled with the carefully constructed evidence of a life that was itself an elaborate work of fiction.
The final chapter of Elena Blackwood—written in her own blood, by her own hand.
In her last novel, she had become both author and character, victim and perpetrator, crafting one final mystery that blurred the line between fact and fiction. A perfect murder with no murderer. A crime scene as meticulously arranged as every other aspect of her fabricated existence.
"The ultimate plot twist," I murmured, gazing at her still form. "Even in death, she maintained control of the narrative."
Outside, dawn was breaking over the city – the beginning of a day that Elena Blackwood had ensured she would never see. But in the public's imagination, in the inevitable true crime documentaries and speculative articles, she would live forever – exactly as she had planned.
The perfect final chapter for a woman who had spent her entire adult life turning reality into fiction, and fiction into the only reality she could bear to inhabit.