CHAPTER 1: "First Glance, Second Thoughts"
The walls of the Phoenix Private Investigation Agency were paper-thin—Camila Wilson could hear the low hum of the coffee machine, the click of high heels two rooms down, and the very specific sound of Mateo Johnson's annoying voice.
Great. He was in early.
She adjusted her blazer in the hallway mirror, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. This was her first day back from suspension. The last case? Well, she didn't talk about it. Not yet. Not even to herself.
She pushed the glass door open.
"Wilson," Mateo said without even turning around, seated on the edge of her desk, flipping through a file that definitely wasn't his.
"Johnson," she replied with the sweetest fake smile she could muster. "I see your habit of touching things that don't belong to you hasn't died yet."
He turned around slowly, eyes glinting with mischief. "Relax, I was just checking to see if you remembered how to spell your name."
"I remember enough to spell moron. M-A-T—"
He smirked. "Touché."
Camila rolled her eyes dramatically as she took her file back from his hands. God, he was insufferable. That perfect jawline, his messy black hair, those annoyingly gorgeous blue eyes—why did her enemy have to look like he walked out of a magazine?
"Alright, lovebirds," came the voice of Chief Raines from the hallway. "We've got a case."
Both Camila and Mateo turned simultaneously.
"We're not—" Camila began.
"He's not even my—" Mateo added.
Raines ignored them. "Missing girl. Twenty-three. Brooklyn Heights. Disappeared last night. Her roommate's the one who reported it. You two are on it. Now."
"Of course," Mateo said, hopping off the desk. "Just like old times."
Camila shot him a look. "I'm not here to babysit you, Johnson."
"Perfect," he replied, grabbing the keys from the hook. "Because I'm not here to deal with your caffeine-fueled meltdowns either."
---
Brooklyn Heights – 10:37 AM
The apartment was neat, eerily so. No signs of struggle. The roommate, a pale girl with trembling hands, recounted the story in a shaky voice. Last time she saw Emily—the missing girl—she was getting ready for her evening jog. Never came back.
"Anything unusual in the past few weeks?" Mateo asked.
"She'd been... paranoid lately," the roommate whispered. "She said someone was following her."
Camila's brows furrowed. "Did she say who?"
"No. But she did leave this."
She handed them a folded piece of paper. Mateo opened it carefully.
A name was scrawled across it in shaky handwriting: "Blackbird."
Camila and Mateo exchanged a look. Neither of them spoke it, but they were thinking the same thing:
This wasn't a regular missing-person case.
---
Later That Night – Agency Office
Camila sat cross-legged on her desk, examining the evidence photos while Mateo leaned against the window, arms crossed. The city lights painted the room in orange and blue hues.
"This doesn't sit right," she murmured. "Whoever this Blackbird is… they scared her. This isn't just a stalker."
Mateo glanced at her. "You're thinking it too?"
Camila nodded slowly. "Trafficking. Or organized crime."
"Possibly both," he muttered.
A beat of silence stretched between them. Camila felt his gaze linger a second too long.
"What?" she snapped.
"Nothing," he said with a cocky grin. "Just amazed how cute you look when your brain actually works."
She picked up a file and threw it at his chest.
"Eyes on the case, Johnson."
"Right," he replied with a wink. "Not on your cupid lips."
Camila's face flushed crimson. "You're such a jerk."
He grinned wider. "But a helpful one."
Before she could retort, the door to the office creaked open. An envelope slid underneath it. Camila rushed over and picked it up. No return address. No markings. Just her name in block letters: CAMILA.
She opened it slowly. Inside was a single Polaroid photo.
It was of her.
Standing outside her apartment.
Last night.
Her hands trembled. Mateo grabbed the photo from her, eyes narrowing.
"Someone's watching you," he muttered. "This just got personal."
And then—her phone buzzed.
Unknown number: You're next
TO BE CONTINUED…