Chapter 2: The Girl Who Wouldn’t Break

People weren’t heartless, but the college sent out a warning: anyone who testified would be blocked from graduating, and anyone who posted about it online would be expelled. The message was clear—keep your mouth shut if you want a future. I remember thinking, is this what justice looks like?

So much for justice. It didn’t stand a chance against a steady paycheck. Everyone kept their heads down and pretended nothing had happened. I felt sick about it, but what could I do?

A few days later, Lucas’s parents showed up at the campus in a panic, claiming their son was missing. Border patrol had no record of him leaving the country. The only thing left to believe was that he’d ended up as fish food. I shivered at the thought.

When it came to suspects, the police zeroed in on Mariah’s mom, Linda Lane. She was the obvious choice—motive, opportunity, and raw grief that showed in every line of her face. You could see it in the way she moved, heavy and hollow.

I asked Detective Clay if he was going to arrest Linda. He shook his head. “Only if we get solid evidence will the DA issue a warrant. She’s a victim herself. Revenge for her daughter is illegal. But I get it. I’ll talk to her first.”

But Detective Clay didn’t know Linda, so I offered to take him to her diner. I’d eaten there plenty—best burgers in town for the price, and Linda never skimped on the fries. The place always smelled like coffee and fried onions.

We walked in. Linda was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, wielding two heavy knives, chopping ribs with a force that made the counter shake. The place smelled like grease and onions, familiar and comforting. I could hear the sizzle of meat on the grill.

Detective Clay cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. “Have you seen Lucas recently?”

Linda slammed the knife down, grinned, and said, “Sure! That bastard’s lying in the freezer!” Her voice was so matter-of-fact, it took a second to realize she was joking—or maybe not. I blinked, uncertain if I should laugh or back away.

Detective Clay rushed to the freezer, flinging open the door. All he found was stacks of chicken, beef, pork, and some organ meat—no sign of Lucas. Linda watched, amused, then shoved him aside, grabbed a pig intestine, and hacked away at it like it had personally insulted her.

“I don’t get you cops,” she spat. “My daughter died with her eyes open, and instead of finding out the truth, you’re worried about the life of a monster. Is this what serving the people means?” Her words hung in the air, sharp as broken glass.

Detective Clay’s cheeks reddened, but his case was about Lucas, not Mariah. There wasn’t much he could say. He looked uncomfortable, almost apologetic, shifting from foot to foot.

When Linda learned Lucas had been chopped up and fed to the fish, she went quiet, her eyes distant. Then, out of nowhere, she burst out laughing, the sound jagged and wild, like a glass breaking in a silent room.

Detective Clay asked what was so funny. Linda wiped her eyes, still chuckling. “You think I killed Lucas? What a joke—I wish I’d had the chance.”

Turns out, based on the digestion, the killer dumped the body over Thanksgiving break. But Linda had been out of town then, taking her daughter’s body home for burial. Her grief was fresh and raw. She had an airtight alibi. I almost felt guilty for suspecting her.

Detective Clay checked her story—she was telling the truth. Every detail lined up, down to the gas receipts and funeral home records. There was nothing to poke holes in.

I pointed out that dumping the body and committing the murder could’ve been done by different people. Linda could’ve had help. It was a long shot, but worth mentioning.

He shook his head. “I thought of that, but forensics didn’t find any of Lucas’s blood or hair at Linda’s home or diner. She might really be innocent.”

Detective Clay was nothing if not thorough. Still, that only made Lucas’s parents angrier. Their rage seemed to grow with every dead end.

They started calling the station every day, demanding Detective Clay arrest Linda on the spot, or at least drag her in for questioning. Their voices were shrill, desperate, and full of entitlement. I could almost hear the walls vibrate from their screeching.

Maybe Lucas’s parents were used to getting their way, but Detective Clay wasn’t about to roll over. Every time they pushed, he shot back, “If Lucas was innocent, why would Linda want revenge? Are you hiding something?”

Are you hiding something?

After a few rounds of this, Lucas’s parents started leaning on Detective Clay’s bosses, and suddenly the deadline to close the case was moved up. Pressure was mounting, and you could feel it in every tense conversation—the way voices lowered, tempers flared, and people glanced over their shoulders.

But Detective Clay stood his ground. He still believed Linda wasn’t the killer, so he shifted his focus to how the body was disposed of. Maybe that would lead to the real murderer. Maybe. I tried to hope.

I pulled up the pond’s security footage and sat down with Detective Clay, eyes glued to the grainy screen. We watched hours of tape, fast-forwarding through tourists tossing bread, kids laughing, and the occasional jogger. But at night and early morning, the pond was deserted. That meant the murderer probably blended in with the daytime crowd. I rubbed my eyes, feeling the fatigue set in.

But that raised another problem. Lucas weighed almost 130 pounds. Even if you cut off the head, it would still be a big package—hard to sneak onto campus without someone noticing. The killer must’ve come back several times. Each trip, they brought only a small amount to avoid suspicion. Piece by piece, like they were feeding the pond a secret.

I checked the school’s entry logs. Every visitor had to register with their real name and reserve entry through Facebook Messenger. But there were no recent visitors who entered repeatedly. The logs were clean. Too clean, if you asked me.

Could the killer be a staff member? Someone with access, who wouldn’t raise eyebrows? I shared my theory with Detective Clay, and he nodded. He’d been thinking the same thing. That gave me a weird sense of relief.

“The killer is probably a staff member and had a close connection to Mariah—maybe her boyfriend, or someone who admired her. Someone who kept a low profile.”

“Why?” I asked, curiosity prickling at me.

“Simple. If he was her boyfriend, he would’ve testified for her in court. But he didn’t, probably because he felt too unworthy—like he wasn’t good enough for her.” His words hung in the air, heavy and sad.

After saying this, Detective Clay gave me a long, appraising look. “You were Mariah’s classmate, right?” His gaze lingered a little too long, and I felt sweat bead on my neck.

I laughed, trying to keep it light. “Yeah, I liked her, but not enough to kill for her. I’m just a small-town guy with no connections. I’ve long since accepted a life of being single.” I shrugged, but his eyes stayed on me a beat longer than I liked. My skin prickled.

Detective Clay didn’t push, but the way he watched me made my skin itch, like ants crawling under my shirt. I could tell he was running through possibilities in his head, ticking off boxes.

Just then, his phone buzzed. It was the forensic tech—they’d found something new in Lucas’s remains. I held my breath, waiting.

“The remains were frozen solid, even cracked. That couldn’t have been done with a regular freezer. We think the killer used refrigerants or dry ice.”

He said it almost offhand, but it stuck with me. The words echoed in my mind. I turned it over, piecing together what it could mean. After a minute, I leaned in and told Detective Clay quietly, “I think I know who the killer is.” My heart hammered against my ribs.

Detective Clay’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Tell me—I’ll buy you dinner!” I almost laughed at the desperation in his voice.

I shook my head, grinning. “Dinner? I want a piece of the action!”

Detective Clay chuckled. “Man, I only make fifty grand a year—barely more than you. How could I give you a piece of anything?” I rolled my eyes. He had a point.

I laughed. “You can’t, but Lucas’s parents can.” I couldn’t help but imagine the look on their faces if they knew.