Page 2 of Fatal Fame
The coffee table was overturned, couch cushions scattered like debris. Rebecca’s reading glasses—always slipping off her head—lay crushed on the rug. One of Jacob’s sneakers sat by the fireplace, laces tangled.
Walter swallowed. His feet carried him forward despite the voice in his head telling him to stop.
He flicked on the overhead light.
And his world collapsed.
Rebecca was lying near the kitchen doorway, the green sweater she’d worn to the potluck two nights ago soaked dark across the chest. Her hair fanned across the floor, matted with blood. Her arms were twisted up, the skin crosshatched with gashes—defensive wounds. She’d fought. God help her, she had fought hard.
Her eyes stared glassy at the ceiling, wide in terror, frozen in that final moment.
“Becca,” Walter croaked.
Then his gaze tracked the smear of red across the hardwood, handprints dragging toward the far wall. Jacob was there, slumped as though someone had thrown him. His math book lay open beside him, pages freckled with droplets. Blood had seeped across the ink until the equations blurred into a grotesque watercolor.
His face was tilted toward the ceiling, almost peaceful in stillness, except for the ruin above his temple. Blood and something thicker had splattered in a halo against the wall behind him. His throat… Walter’s mind refused at first to make sense of the dark, ragged line slashed deep across it.
He dropped to his knees, a raw animal sound tearing from his chest.
“No,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “No, no, no.”
He forced shaking hands to his pocket, pulled out his phone, smeared now with blood from the floor. It took three tries before he managed to hit 9-1-1.
“911, what is your emergency?”
Walter’s throat worked. “My daughter,” he stammered. “My… my grandson. They’re… oh, Jesus—” His breath broke intosobs, the words strangling out between them. “They’re dead. Someone’s killed them. There’s blood everywhere.”
He could hear the dispatcher’s calm voice trying to ground him, asking for the address, for details, but the words didn’t stick. His gaze was locked on Rebecca’s ruined arms, Jacob’s open book, the obscene sprawl of crimson across the ordinary room.
The dispatcher promised units were on the way. Sirens would come. People would fill the house with questions and tape and evidence bags. But none of it would matter.
Walter Hale had walked into his daughter’s home expecting to find her late for school. Instead, he had stepped into hell.
And hell, he knew, had no solutions.
1
Now
The Cold Trail headquarters buzzed with the kind of manic energy that came from chasing deadlines and fame in equal measure. Pierce Landry pushed through the glass doors of the West Hollywood office space at 11:47 AM, three hours late and wearing yesterday's vintage band T-shirt like a badge of honor. The scent of cold brew and ambition hung thick in the recycled air.
"Well, well," Camila Ortiz called out from behind her MacBook, not bothering to look up from the true crime forum she was scrolling through. "Look who decided to grace us with his presence."
Pierce ignored the barb, tossing his leather messenger bag onto the reclaimed wood conference table that dominated the center of the open workspace. The office screamed millennial startup—exposed brick walls covered with crime scene photos, cork boards bristling with red string connecting suspects and timelines, Edison bulb fixtures cast warm light over expensiveequipment. Three 4K monitors displayed waveforms, social media analytics, and a map of the United States dotted with unsolved cases.
"Traffic was murder on Sunset," Pierce said, running a hand through his carefully disheveled brown hair. At twenty-six, he'd cultivated the look of someone who'd stumbled into success—beard trimmed just shy of hipster, vintage Levi's that cost more than most people's rent, and the kind of confidence that came from having two million podcast subscribers hanging on your every word.
Marcus Greer, the executive producer, glanced up from his phone where he'd been monitoring download numbers. "Murder, ha. Very funny." His tone suggested it wasn't. "We've got the network breathing down our necks for Season 3 content, and you're making traffic jokes."
Theo Vance didn't look up from his bank of audio equipment, noise-canceling headphones clamped over his ears as he fine-tuned something that would probably win them another podcast award. The tech wizard of the group, Theo preferred the company of mixing boards to people, which made him perfect for managing Cold Trail's technical needs and terrible for everything else.
Sienna Locke sat cross-legged on a vintage leather couch, tablet in her lap, furiously typing responses to comments on their latest Instagram post. Social media management for a true crime podcast meant walking a tightrope between engaging fans and not appearing to exploit tragedy. Sienna had turned that balance into an art form, growing their following from thousands to millions with carefully curated content that made murder feel approachable.
"Okay, team meeting," Pierce announced, settling into his usual spot at the head of the table. The wall behind him displayed framed articles fromRolling Stone, The NewYorker,andVanity Fair—all featuring Cold Trail and Pierce's photogenic face. "I know we've been spinning our wheels looking for the next case, but I think I found it."
"Please tell me it's not another missing college girl," Marcus said, setting down his phone. "The network wants something with more... depth."
"More Emmy potential," Camila added, finally closing her laptop. Her dark eyes held the sharp intelligence that had made her Pierce's first hire, along with an ambition that sometimes made Pierce wonder if she was planning to push him down a flight of stairs and take over the show.
