Crimson Petals

The rain had finally stopped by the time Isabelle left the apartment, the wet streets now reflecting the fading light of early morning. Paris, even at this hour, had its own rhythm—a steady hum that never seemed to stop, even as the city slept. She could feel the weariness settling in her bones, the kind that comes from too many questions and too few answers. Her mind kept returning to the bloodied handkerchief, the glass sculpture shattered on the floor, and the lingering smell of dust and old secrets in the air. She hadn’t been able to shake the image of that bloodstained shard, pressed against the delicate glass like a silent confession. Whoever had been here—whatever had happened—this was no ordinary case.

She barely remembered the ride back to the precinct. Chief Moretti had given her a sympathetic look before heading out for his own meetings, and Lucie, the forensic technician, had promised to follow up on everything immediately. Isabelle was already considering the possibilities when her phone buzzed.

It was a text from Lucie.

“Results in. Need to see you. URGENT.”

Isabelle didn’t need to be told twice. She was already heading toward the lab before the message had even finished processing in her mind.

By the time she arrived, the sun was barely up, casting a dull, gray light over the forensic lab. The air inside was chilled, the sterile smell of chemicals mingling with the faint scent of paper and metal. Lucie was sitting at one of the workstations, her sharp eyes glued to the results on her screen. Isabelle could see the tension in her posture—Lucie wasn’t one for dramatics, so when she was tense, it meant something serious was at hand.

"Detective," Lucie said, her voice calm but with an undercurrent of urgency. "You need to see this."

Isabelle moved closer, glancing at the screen where Lucie had pulled up a series of blood samples and test results. "What did you find?"

Lucie took a deep breath. "The blood from the apartment… it's not all from Isabelle Leroux."

Isabelle’s stomach clenched. "What do you mean?"

Lucie’s fingers flew across the keyboard, calling up a new document. She turned the screen toward Isabelle, revealing the forensic report: a match had been found to a second, unidentified person. The blood, though it appeared fresh, had been mixed with another type of DNA, one that didn’t belong to the artist.

“The samples we gathered from the sculpture,” Lucie continued, tapping on the screen, “are from two people. Isabelle Leroux is one, but there's a second individual. Someone else was definitely in that apartment. Someone who was hurt.” She hesitated, looking Isabelle in the eye. “But there’s no sign of a struggle, no obvious wounds on the artist. Whoever this second person is… they left without a trace. Their blood’s the only evidence.”

Isabelle felt the air around her grow heavier, like a storm building in the distance. “What does this mean?”

Lucie frowned, shaking her head. “It means the situation’s far more complicated than we thought. This is not just a missing person case anymore. There was a violent altercation of some sort. And whoever the second person is, they are hiding something. We’ll need more tests to identify them, but it’s already clear—this person is crucial to understanding what happened.”

Isabelle took a deep breath, her mind already racing through the possibilities. If someone else had been involved, someone injured, it raised the stakes. Whoever had been in that apartment with Isabelle Leroux was hiding, and their silence had just made this case more dangerous.

“Anything else?” Isabelle asked, her voice tight.

Lucie hesitated, then nodded. "There’s something else, but it doesn’t make sense. I found something in the drain."

Isabelle furrowed her brow. "What do you mean? In the apartment?"

"Yes," Lucie confirmed, turning to a small bag on her desk. She handed Isabelle a small plastic evidence bag, inside which was a handful of red flower petals, their edges still damp from the rain. "I found these near the drain in the bathroom. They’re fresh, definitely not from the apartment. No rosebushes or plants in sight."

Isabelle's fingers curled around the bag, her mind flicking through the possibilities. Rose petals. Red, vibrant, and unmistakable. A symbol of something—love, death, beauty, decay. They didn’t belong here. Isabelle had walked through the apartment thoroughly. There had been no flowers, no signs of the artist’s affinity for them. So why were they there? And who had brought them into the apartment?

"Whoever left these knew the place intimately," Isabelle murmured to herself.

Lucie nodded. "Exactly. It’s another clue that doesn’t fit. This isn’t random."

Isabelle turned the bag over in her hands, her thoughts swirling with questions. The petals were a new piece of the puzzle, but they only added more layers of confusion. She glanced back at Lucie. "Check the security footage. See if anyone went in or out around the time of her disappearance. I want to know if there’s anyone with access to the apartment, someone who might have had a reason to leave these behind."

Lucie was already pulling up the footage, but Isabelle’s mind was elsewhere, piecing things together. The blood, the petals, the silence in the apartment—it was all leading to something dark, something deliberate. Someone had wanted Isabelle Leroux gone, and they weren’t done yet. But who were they?

Lucie finally spoke again, her voice softer this time. “Detective, you might want to see this.”

Isabelle turned toward her. The forensic tech had pulled up a grainy security video, one from the building’s hallway. It showed Isabelle’s apartment door—open, the way the neighbor had described it. But what caught Isabelle’s attention was the figure that appeared in the frame. A man, tall, with a dark jacket, standing outside the door for just a moment. He seemed to hesitate, glancing over his shoulder before he stepped into the apartment.

Isabelle leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "Who is he?"

Lucie shook her head. "We’re working on identifying him. The footage is too grainy to make out any details. But whoever he is, he’s important."

Isabelle’s eyes lingered on the screen, her mind churning. The man had entered the apartment with purpose, like he knew what he was doing. It wasn’t just a random break-in. No, he was someone with knowledge of the place—and of Isabelle Leroux.

"Get everything you can from this video," Isabelle said, her voice low with determination. “We need to know who he is.”

Before Lucie could respond, Isabelle’s phone buzzed again. She glanced at the screen—Moretti’s name flashing across it. She answered immediately.

"Detective Laurent," he said, his voice grim. "We’ve found something in the artist’s apartment. You need to get back here.”

Isabelle felt a sense of foreboding settle in her chest. “What is it?”

“You’re not going to believe this,” Moretti said, his voice tense. “There’s a hidden camera behind one of the paintings. It’s still recording.”

Isabelle felt a chill crawl up her spine. “A hidden camera?”

“Yes, and it looks like it’s been there for a while. Whoever’s behind this was watching her.” Moretti’s voice dropped lower, filled with unease. “This just got a lot darker.”

Isabelle hung up without another word, turning to Lucie. “We need to go back. Now.”

The pieces were falling into place, but the more Isabelle uncovered, the deeper the darkness seemed to go. This wasn’t just a disappearance. It was a calculated, carefully orchestrated crime. And whoever was behind it wasn’t finished yet.

As Isabelle and Lucie headed out of the lab, the weight of the case pressing down on them, Isabelle couldn’t shake the feeling that they were only just beginning to understand the nightmare that had taken root in the quiet corners of Paris.

To be continued...

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