Obsessed

Chapter 2

The air was thick with smoke and the coppery scent of blood. Mark's ears rang as if a grenade had gone off too close. He ducked low, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The desert air was suffocating, gritty with dust, and the sky above Afghanistan was pitch black but lit sporadically by gunfire and explosions. They were supposed to be in and out. Bag and tag. Retrieve the target, no resistance.

But it had gone sideways.

"Marshall, behind you!"

The shout came too late.

An explosion rocked the narrow alley, and Mark was thrown into a wall of jagged stone. Heat ripped through his right shoulder and chest as shrapnel pierced his body. He couldn’t breathe. The sound of screaming surrounded him. He looked over to see his squad—his brothers—down. Lifeless. Blood pooled in the sand.

Mark tried to crawl. He reached out for someone—anyone—but there was only dust and silence.

Then darkness.

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Mark jolted upright in his bed, soaked in sweat, chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. The echo of screams lingered in his ears, fading into the dim, early morning quiet of his apartment.

He sat still for a moment, eyes adjusting to the room lit only by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the window blinds. He moved slowly, his body aching with memory. He rolled his right shoulder, hearing the faint, familiar creak of the titanium plate embedded there.

The bathroom was cold. He opened the medicine cabinet, retrieving a small amber bottle of pills. He downed two without water, then closed the mirrored door and stared at his reflection.

Mark Marshalls. 33. Blue eyes that had seen too much. His dark brown hair was wavy halfway past his ear, messy from sleep. His beard is full, dark, and slightly unkempt, giving him a rugged and brooding appearance, clung to his strong jaw. His face was weathered, a faint scar running from his right temple down toward his cheekbone. A deeper one marked the base of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his t-shirt.

Haunted eyes stared back at him. Eyes that didn’t quite recognize the man in the mirror.

He splashed cold water on his face, bracing himself against the sink.

The phone on his nightstand buzzed. He walked back, wiping his face with a towel and grabbing the phone.

Jackson: "We got another one. Found her body in the reservoir. You might wanna get down here."

Mark didn’t hesitate. "I’m on my way."

The black thermal shirt clung to his frame as he dressed, pulling it down over old scars and fresh regrets. Dark blue jeans followed, worn but clean. He stepped into his combat boots, lacing them with precision. The holster clipped to his hip, and his sidearm rested there comfortably, like a forgotten limb. Last, he slung his badge around his neck, the gold and silver glinting in the morning light as it rested against his chest.

He slid behind the wheel of his black GMC Sierra, the engine growling to life like a beast stirred from slumber. The drive was quiet. No music. Just the hum of tires on pavement and the growing tension in his chest.

September in Michigan meant early mornings were cool and foggy. The sun hadn’t fully risen when he pulled up to the reservoir. The area had already been taped off, the flashing red and blue of cruisers casting eerie shadows across the water. A few uniformed officers stood near the bank, their expressions grim.

Detective Chris Jackson stood near the sheet-covered body. Tall, African-American, mid-forties, and always well-dressed. He wore a charcoal-gray coat over a button-up shirt and slacks. His face was lined, not from age, but from years of witnessing horror no one should ever get used to.

"Morning," Jackson greeted, not looking up.

"If you can call it that," Mark muttered. He stopped beside his partner, eyes fixed on the still form beneath the sheet.

"Same as the others," Jackson said. "Beaten, raped, cleaned. No prints. No DNA. Not a single goddamn clue."

Mark crossed his arms. "Victim ID?"

"We're thinking it's Kayla Martin. Went missing last week. Blonde. Blue eyes. Right age. We won’t know for sure until forensics confirms it."

Mark slowly knelt beside the body. The ground was damp, the smell of stagnant water and morning dew heavy in the air. He pulled the sheet back gently.

Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Bruises marred her face and body, purple and yellow splotches painting her like a tragic work of art. Her lips were parted slightly, and her hair, though wet and tangled, still shone a golden hue under the morning light.

He exhaled slowly, then covered her again.

"He’s getting bolder," Mark said, standing. "The others weren’t left out in the open like this."

"It’s a message," Jackson said. "He’s taunting us now."

Mark's jaw tightened. The last victim had been found in the woods, carefully buried. The one before that, in an abandoned warehouse. But this—this was a blatant display. Like the killer wanted them to see her. Wanted them to know he was always one step ahead.

Mark turned away from the body and looked out over the water, the morning fog curling over the surface like fingers reaching for the shore.

"What the hell are we missing?" he whispered.

Jackson sighed beside him. "Something big. Or something small we keep overlooking."

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The drive back to the Detroit Police Precinct was quiet. Mark and Jackson rode in separate cars, but the silence stretched even when they parked beside each other and entered through the side entrance reserved for detectives.

Inside, the precinct buzzed with controlled chaos. Phones rang off the hook, officers typed rapidly, and coffee cups steamed on cluttered desks. The building smelled like burnt coffee, printer toner, and old linoleum. Mark made his way toward his desk, nodding briefly at the uniformed officers and detectives who acknowledged him with tired eyes.

Before he could sit down, a voice called out from across the bullpen.

"Marshalls! The Commissioner wants to see you."

Mark turned to see a young officer pointing toward the glass-walled office on the second floor. Mark sighed, shoved his hands in his pockets, and headed upstairs.

Commissioner Dale Reynolds was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, with thick gray hair and sharp steel-blue eyes. He sat behind a wide oak desk littered with case files and reports. As Mark entered, the Commissioner motioned for him to close the door.

"Sit."

Mark complied but didn’t relax.

Reynolds leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. "You haven’t been seeing the therapist."

"I don’t need a therapist," Mark replied flatly.

Reynolds arched an eyebrow. "You were the sole survivor of a black ops mission gone to hell, and you've spent the last five years chasing a ghost who's been butchering women across the state. I think you need a goddamn therapist."

Mark clenched his jaw but said nothing.

Reynolds didn’t miss the tension. "Listen, I’m not here to argue. I’m here to tell you that we’re bringing in a criminal psychologist to assist with the case. She’s got a hell of a reputation for getting into the heads of the worst humanity has to offer."

Mark frowned. "So what, she's supposed to magically solve this for us?"

"No," Reynolds said calmly. "But she might be the only one who can help us understand what this bastard wants. And I want you to talk to her."

"I don’t need a shrink," Mark said again, more forcefully.

"It’s not negotiable," Reynolds said, leaning forward. "You talk to her, cooperate, and maybe she can give us a lead before another girl winds up face down in a river."

Mark pressed his lips together, growling under his breath. "Fine."

Reynolds smirked. "I hear she’s cute, if that makes a difference."

Mark shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching with reluctant amusement. He stood and left the office without another word.