Late in the afternoon in a small city called AshenBrook, people were avoiding each other, going about their daily routines because they knew it was better to avoid trouble. But Detective Blackwood's day was about to get creepy and weird very quickly. He was just returning from the Little Craft Dinner with his 12-year-old daughter Rhiannon, who was too smart for her own good but still loved everyone. Despite the fact that they did something wrong, that was only his sweet little girl.82Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡndUcrRABC8
He got a phone call just as they were about to get home that sent shivers running down his spine, especially because he had no idea what was happening. A ringing phone shattered the silence of the night, breaking the silence of the detective, Marcus Blackwood. The news of a murder sent a cold shiver down his spine as he heard the news. The only clue was a single blood-red rose left behind at the scene.
"I'll be there in a few minutes. I just have to drop my daughter off back at home with my wife. Make them not touch anything, please. He said this as he hung up the phone and buckled Rhiannon.
"Sorry, Rhiannon, I have to go to work. They need me tonight, but I will be home sometime in the morning, he said as he drove to his house.
He drove for about an hour to the west side of the city, where his small house stood. Marigold and his wife met them outside, and she could tell that he was called into work. She just nodded her head and took Rhiannon back into the house. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood as Detective Marcus Blackwood stepped into the dimly lit room. His gaze fixed on the vibrant red rose lying on the floor, its petals stained with the blood of the victim.
Detective Marcus Blackwood's heart sank as he stood before the crime scene, the acrid scent of death clinging to the air. In the dim light of the room, the victim lay sprawled on the floor, a pool of blood surrounding her like a macabre halo. But it wasn't the lifeless body that caught Blackwood's eye—it was the blood-red rose placed delicately on her chest.
The petals were vibrant against the pale skin of the victim, a stark contrast to the horror of the scene. Blackwood knelt beside the body, his gloved hand reaching out to touch the flower. The petals were soft beneath his fingers, yet stained with the blood of the fallen woman.
As Blackwood studied the rose, his mind raced with questions. Who was the killer? And what did the blood-red rose left behind signify? But one thing was certain—this was no ordinary murder. This was the work of a killer with a twisted mind and a chilling signature.
With a heavy heart, Blackwood rose to his feet, his mind already spinning with the possibilities. The hunt was on, and as he stared down at the blood-red rose, he knew that this was only the beginning. As Detective Marcus Blackwood examined the crime scene, his mind raced with questions. Who was the killer? And what did the blood-red rose left behind signify? The flickering light of the streetlamp cast eerie shadows across the room as Detective Marcus Blackwood bent down to examine the blood-red rose, its delicate petals a stark contrast to the brutality of the murder. With a sense of foreboding, Detective Marcus Blackwood reached out to pick up the blood-red rose, its thorns pricking his skin as he uncovered the first clue in a mystery that would consume his every waking moment.
The room itself seemed to hold its breath as if even the walls were afraid to whisper. A single light flickered overhead, casting long, eerie shadows across the scene. Blackwood's gaze swept over the room, taking in every detail.
The victim, a young woman in her mid-twenties, lay on her back, her eyes wide open and staring blankly at the ceiling. Her blonde hair was matted with blood, and her clothes were torn and disheveled. It was clear that she had fought for her life. Blackwood's eyes narrowed as he took in the wound on her neck—a deep gash that oozed blood onto the floor below. It was a brutal kill, the work of someone with no regard for human life.
But it was the blood-red rose that held Blackwood's attention. It lay on the victim's chest, its petals still vibrant despite the violence that surrounded it. It was a stark contrast to the horror of the scene—a symbol of beauty in the face of death. As Blackwood reached out to touch the rose, a chill ran down his spine. He could feel the weight of it in his hand, the softness of the petals, and the sharpness of the thorns. It was a message—a warning—from the killer.
With a heavy heart, Blackwood rose to his feet. The hunt was on, and he knew that he would not rest until he had caught the monster responsible for this senseless act of violence.
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