The first thing Brian noticed was the waiting room. Not the body. Not the blood. Not even the fact that the door to Suite 402 was unlocked in a building where most doors were either locked, buzzed, or guarded by a receptionist who enjoyed her job a little too much.
No—what bothered him was the waiting room. It was neat; not "doctor office neat," but staged neat. The magazines on the table were aligned like they'd been squared by a ruler. The throw blanket on the couch was folded into an exact rectangle. A scented candle sat unlit on the side shelf, label facing forward.
It looked like someone had tried to make the room look calm; and failed.
Harley stood just inside the threshold, eyes scanning without rushing. Isaiah was beside her, silent as ever. Lucas and Alex hovered behind, letting the space speak before they touched anything. Brian stepped forward anyway and glanced down the short hall.
The therapist's office door was half open. Inside, Dr. Maren Caldwell lay on the carpet beside her desk, one arm twisted under her; barefoot. Her shoes sat neatly under the chair like she'd taken them off on purpose. Her face was turned toward the window; eyes were open.
The air in the room wasn't stale yet, but it had that faint metallic edge that came before people started saying the obvious thing out loud. Brian exhaled. "Okay."
Lucas stepped past him, gloved hands already on, eyes going sharp in that way they did when he stopped being a person and became a method. "No sign of forced entry," he said, almost to himself.
Alex pointed to the wall calendar near reception. "She had appointments today."
Harley's gaze moved to the clipboard on the reception desk. Four names. Four times. All marked attended. And at the bottom, one slot written in block letters:
LAST APPOINTMENT — 6:00 PM
No name. No initials. Just those words.
Isaiah noticed her staring. "What is it?"
Harley pointed with her chin. "That."
Brian leaned over. "An extra session?"
Lucas frowned. "Or someone she didn't want recorded."
Harley didn't answer. She walked into the office slowly, careful not to disturb the carpet fibers. She crouched near the body without touching, studying Dr. Caldwell's posture. No defensive wounds visible. No obvious impact injury. But the skin tone wasn't right. A faint discoloration around the lips.
Isaiah crouched on the other side, eyes on her face. "Poison?" he murmured.
Harley shook her head once. "Maybe. But not swallowed."
Brian glanced around. "Then what, injection?"
Alex took a careful step closer to the desk and pointed. "There's a glass."
On the corner of the desk sat a short tumbler half full of water. A faint ring of condensation beneath it. Lucas leaned in, "Fresh."
Harley's eyes shifted to the trash bin beside the desk, empty; no used tissues, no wrappers, no cups. Too clean again.
Isaiah stood. He wasn't looking at the body now. He was looking at the office itself. Therapy offices were designed to make people feel safe. This one had soft lighting, warm colors, and a bookshelf filled with titles about trauma, recovery, and boundaries.
But the chair arrangement was wrong. The client chair; normally angled toward the therapist—had been moved just slightly. Now it faced more toward the door. As if the person sitting there had wanted to watch the exit.
Harley noticed Isaiah noticing it. "You see it," she said quietly.
Isaiah didn't deny it. "Someone was afraid."
Brian rubbed the back of his neck. "Or dangerous."
Lucas straightened. "We have a short list. Four confirmed patients today."
Alex lifted the clipboard carefully with gloved hands. "Five," he corrected. They all looked at him. Alex tapped the bottom line.
Last Appointment — 6:00 PM.
Harley's voice was calm. "Whoever that was didn't want their name written down."
Brian frowned. "You think the killer was a patient?"
Harley glanced at Dr. Caldwell's face again, then at the chair angled toward the door, then at the perfectly aligned magazines in the waiting room. "I think Dr. Caldwell knew the person coming at six."
Isaiah's eyes sharpened. "And she prepared for it."
__
By the time they left the office, it was raining again: light, steady, the kind that turned Grayhaven's streets into wet mirrors. They had four names from Dr. Caldwell's schedule:
Time Patient Name
2:00 PM Tessa Lang
3:30 PM Eli Navarro
4:45 PM Victor Haines
5:30 PM Sonia Park
6:00 PM [Unmarked]
Captain Black called it in as they walked. "Media's already sniffing," he warned. "Caldwell was court-adjacent. She testified in two domestic cases last year."
Brian muttered, "Great."
Isaiah's voice stayed level. "We'll handle it."
Harley didn't speak. She was reading the intake forms Alex had printed off on the way out. Each patient file had emergency contact info, insurance, and a short handwritten note from Dr. Caldwell. Brief and professional.
But on one of them, the handwriting shifted. It was rushed with heavier pressure. Like the pen had been dug into the paper. Harley stopped walking. Isaiah stopped with her. "What?"
She held out the paper. Dr. Caldwell's note under Victor Haines read: Escalating fixation. Monitor boundaries.
Below it, another line—added later: If anything happens, check the 6 PM.
Brian turned back. "What?"
Harley looked up from the page, rain dotting her lashes. "She left us a message."
Lucas frowned. "A dying message?"
Harley's gaze stayed steady. "A warning."
Isaiah's eyes narrowed. "The 6 PM appointment was the real threat."
Harley nodded once. "And whoever it was..." She folded the paper carefully. "...was never supposed to exist on record."
__
They were halfway back to the station when Alex's phone buzzed. He checked the screen, then went pale. "Uh... guys."
Brian turned. "What?"
Alex held up his phone. It was an automated notification from the building's security system—sent to tenants when maintenance accessed restricted floors.
ALERT: Suite 402 access logged at 2:14 AM.
Lucas froze. Brian's voice dropped. "No."
Isaiah went still while Harley didn't move at all. She stared at the screen as if it had just spoken. 2:14 AM.
Again. Not a time but a signature. And now it was sitting inside a therapist's dead office.
Waiting.