Chapter 1: Death Notice

It was just past midnight when I scrolled past a funeral post on my Facebook feed.

The caption was simple: "Rest in peace."

And the black-and-white photo at the center of the funeral home—it was me.

Below, the post was dated three days in the future.

A chill crawled up my spine. For a moment, I just stared, my breath caught in my throat. I pinched my arm, checked the date on my phone, even tried to laugh it off—but the fear wouldn’t go. The photo they used—God, I hated that one, but what the hell was it doing here? I could practically smell that strange mix of lilies and stale carpet that always hangs in funeral homes back in Georgia, the air thick and too cold from overworked AC. Who would post something like this? Some twisted prank, maybe? But the timestamp said three days out. My fingers hovered over the screen, mind racing with a hundred possibilities—none of them good.

1.

I blinked hard and refreshed the page, but the post had vanished.

A breaking news alert popped up at the top of my screen:

"Breaking: Woman found dead at Maple Heights Apartments, Savannah. The victim was stabbed more than ten times and died at the scene."

Maple Heights—that's my apartment complex. Something this serious happened?

I hurriedly clicked in to read the details:

"Victim: Female, 26 years old. Body discovered at 9:00 a.m. on October 20. The person who reported it was the victim's boyfriend, who said he couldn't open the lock when he returned late at night. The next day, after finding a locksmith to open the door, he discovered the victim collapsed on the floor.

Police determined the time of death to be approximately 2:00 a.m. on October 20.

It is suspected that this case is strongly connected to the recent serial murders in the city and was likely committed by the same perpetrator."

The more I read, the more unsettled I felt, because the time of the crime described in the news was actually ten minutes from now.

The current time was clearly 1:50 a.m. on October 20.

How could the news report something that hasn't happened yet?

My hands shook so hard I almost dropped my phone. Every hair on my arms stood up. Was someone playing with me? This was the sort of thing that happened in horror movies, not Savannah apartments where the wildest thing was a neighbor’s dog running loose.

Suddenly, my eyes widened as I stared at the photo on the right side of the article and gasped.

The picture was taken by the police at the crime scene. The hardwood floor was soaked in shocking amounts of blood, the crimson stains seeping into the sofa fabric and turning a dark brown.

Although the image was pixelated, the familiar painting hanging on the wall in the background was unmistakable:

This was my home.

Fake...right?

I forced a stiff smile and glanced at the clock—nine minutes until the supposed crime.

At that moment, footsteps sounded outside the door.

Accompanied by a crisp click, a key was inserted into the lock.

My pulse roared in my ears. Savannah was supposed to be sleepy and safe at this hour. I reached for my pepper spray on the nightstand, barely daring to breathe.