The Mirror Knows
They always remember the survivor. Never the ones who didn’t make it.
The city didn’t sleep. Not in Noir. Not when the rain sounded like teeth tapping on windows and sirens blended into the air like background music.
Detective Salem Cole stood in the middle of the high-rise apartment, motionless. Her badge hung heavy from her neck, like it knew this wasn’t just another crime scene.
It was cold. Not in temperature the kind of cold that crept under your skin. Like a warning. Like something buried was starting to rot.
The body lay on the king-sized bed, head tilted toward the mirror. Nude. Pale. Mouth sewn shut with what looked like fishing wire. And scrawled across the mirror in smeared red lipstick were six words:
“She knows what you did.”
Salem didn’t flinch.
Behind her, Officer Reed shifted uncomfortably. Rookie. His first big case. His mouth opened, but Salem cut him off before he could speak.
“Don’t say anything unless it’s useful.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes scanned the room. White carpet. Expensive sheets. No signs of forced entry. No struggle. The woman mid-thirties, clean nails, perfume still lingering in the air had let the killer in. Or knew them.
Salem stepped closer, boots muffled by the carpet. The victim’s arms were crossed over her chest, fingers curled like they were holding something before she died.
Tasha Bloom the hotshot reporter who always showed up uninvited—hovered outside the yellow tape, phone camera already rolling.
“Detective Cole,” she called. “Care to comment on the writing on the mirror? People online think it’s a message for you.”
Salem didn’t even look her way.
That’s the thing about this city everyone’s looking for a headline. But she wasn’t here for headlines. She was here because something in that message didn’t sit right. Something old. Familiar.
She turned to Officer Reed. “Who found her?”
“Building security. Got a noise complaint from the unit below. Called it in when no one answered. Door was unlocked when they arrived.”
No forced entry.
Salem nodded. She crouched down, studying the woman’s neck. No bruises. No signs of a struggle. The stitching on the lips was precise, deliberate.
Performance.
She stood back up. “I want the full background on her. Fast. I want to know who she was, who she knew, what she ate, who she texted. Everything.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Salem’s phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She pulled it out. Unknown number. She answered, already irritated.
“Cole.”
No one spoke.
Just… static.
Then, a whisper:
“Do you remember her?”
Click.
She stared at the phone for a long second. Her jaw tightened. A decade on the force and nothing shook her easy. But this wasn’t just about the victim.
This was about her.
Later that night, back in her apartment, Salem poured whiskey into a chipped glass and sat on the floor, legs stretched out, gun resting beside her thigh. The TV was off. Lights dimmed. Just her, the silence, and her thoughts.
She pulled out an old photo album from a locked box beneath her bed. Pages cracked as she turned them. Images from another life. A different girl.
She found it—page twelve.
The photo showed five kids. All foster care. One of them, a girl with sharp eyes and a crooked smile, had her arms slung around a younger Salem.
On the back of the photo, scribbled in pink ink:
“She knows what you did.”
Same words. Same phrasing.
Her hands went cold.
That girl her name was Camille.
Salem hadn’t seen her in over twenty years. She’d vanished the night the house caught fire. Everyone assumed she was dead. Case closed.
But now?
Now someone was dragging that nightmare back into daylight.
Next morning, Captain Stroud called her in before sunrise. His office smelled like old coffee and tired lies. He tossed a file on the desk between them.
“Her name was Lyra Dean,” he said. “PR executive. Used to live in Midtown. Worked with politicians, influencers, the works. She had ties to the foster reform board.”
Salem’s brows lifted. “What kind of ties?”
“Donor. Spoke publicly a few times. She was an advocate for” he paused, “rehabilitating trauma survivors.’”
Salem blinked. “So someone’s killing people who tried to fix broken kids?”
Stroud sighed. “Media’s already spinning it. Someone leaked your name. That lipstick message. They're saying it’s personal.”
“It is.”
He frowned. “You saying you knew her?”
“No. But I knew the words.”
She stood.
Stroud stopped her. “Cole. One more thing.”
She turned.
“You solve this, your promotion’s locked. But mess this up? With your name out there like this…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Salem walked out of the precinct, the city’s morning light turning everything into sharp reflections. But inside her, it was still dark.
The lipstick message was no threat.
It was a clue.
Someone from that house was alive. Someone who remembered. Someone who wanted her to remember too.
And if the past was coming for her…
She planned to meet it halfway.
Gun loaded. Memory sharp. Walls up.
Because maybe she didn’t know what she did.
But she was damn sure about to find out.