The heater in my office offered some refuge from the biting New York City winter outside, and still, my blood ran ice-cold. I pushed my chair back and stood, grabbing the photos on my desk. My eyes went over every single morbid detail as if I had to etch it all into my memory. As though I didn’t have four other similar photos already burned into my brain.

“This happened yesterday?” I asked Andrew, my assistant.

“Mhmm,” he said. I glanced up at him, seeing him looking as uncomfortable as I felt. His arms were crossed tight across his chest, covering the Nike logo on his black sweater, like he was creating a protective barrier around himself. He knew what this meant. He understood the nightmare that was riding into town on a skeleton horse. My eyes went back to the photo.

They were taken in the victim’s bedroom. An unmade queen-sized bed sat in the center of the room, which was sparsely furnished with a few different IKEA pieces and some hand-me-down dressers. The white-and-black-striped comforter was soaked through in dark red. The man was lying face-up, wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs, his arms out and his legs together, as if someone had been above him, straddling him. His eyes were shut, his face a pale blue. From his forehead sprouted the hilt of a knife. The signature. I already knew it was an eight-inch serrated blade, sharp enough to cut through bone as if it were warm butter. The hilt was made out of ivory, white and carved with thick spirals running down the entire length.

A horn.

I dropped the photos on the table and peeled my eyes away from them. For a moment, I thought I would be sick. The waffle and coffee I had hours earlier rolled around in my stomach. I walked to the window, pulled open the latch, and lifted it up. Immediately, the sound of the New York streets erupted into the room as though an orchestra had suddenly started playing outside. Honks and shouts and laughs all blended together. Buses coming to a stop from surrounding streets, sirens fading into the distance. I looked outside, seeing people walking and going on with their lives, wearing their thick coats and heavy scarves. There was still some dirty snow piled up on a few corners, but for the most part, it had all melted away. A lady walked with her golden retriever, both wearing matching sweaters.

I took a breath. Somewhere out there, past the crazy sweater lady and the crying baby and the honking cabs, somewhere, the serial killer who had terrified the gay community years ago was coming back, out from whatever hole he had crawled into. Someone who had completely ripped my life in half and set it on fire. He was coming back out of a hole I had previously thought was his grave, but I was now realizing we had all been much too optimistic.

“Could this be a copycat?” Andrew asked. His voice was shaky.

“Maybe,” I said, knowing the chances were slim. “But that crime scene is exactly like the old ones. Down to the brand of underwear he puts on the victim and the pose they’re left in. The sheets look the same, too. It’s all the same, and we know how obsessed this monster was—is. Shit. I can’t believe he’s back.” Sleep tonight would be difficult to find. I wasn’t normally shaken by things. It was one of the main reasons I’d gone into my line of work. I was a detective because I could look past the gruesome and see the answers when others couldn’t. The figurative writing on the wall was literal for me, and the script was done in blood. It was why I opened up my own investigation agency ten years ago: Stonewall Investigations. We were an agency that worked primarily with the LGBTQ community since, statistically speaking, they were less likely to report problems to law enforcement over fear of discrimination. Of course, we took on cases from anyone who walked in through the door, but I was happy to offer a place specifically for those most scared to come and find help.

And I’d seen plenty of shit in those ten years. Most of our cases weren’t as dark as murder, but some were, and those all stuck with me. But this set of murders hit much closer to home than any of the rest. My husband was taken by this monster. My Jose. He was killed in cold blood and left behind like the man in the photo. It still gnawed at my insides with a dull set of teeth, even though years separated me from the incident. Sure, time numbed some of the pain, but it never erased it fully. No, you needed more than time to erase all that. Some people turned to drugs, others alcohol, some looked to sex. I avoided all three and kept my head buried in work, distracting myself from the constant shadow left behind by the man I loved.

Except, what the fuck could I do now when work brought me right back to the same shit that had fucked me up so deeply? I felt the stress and the pain and the sorrow start to bubble up like a disgusting sewer concoction, roiling in my gut, threatening to climb up my esophagus and paint the floor. I closed my eyes and breathed, following the airflow as though it were a painting I could trace with my fingers. I stayed focused on the path of oxygen as the cold air from outside went in through my nose, falling down past my throat and filling up my heavy lungs, then followed it on the path out. I repeated this for a few more moments until the claw of anxiety eased its grip from around my heart.

“The police officer I talked to said they’re working on finding any traces of DNA.”

I shook my head. “They won’t find anything.” We all knew that. If this wasn’t a copycat and was indeed the original Unicorn, then there was no way he’d left anything behind.

“I’ll keep you posted on the results.” Good on Andrew for batting away my negativity. He helped balance me out when things were spiraling out of control. It made him an excellent assistant and an even better friend. “The media is going to go on a feeding frenzy when the news gets out. Imagine: ‘Officers buried the wrong guy; the Unicorn is back.’” Andrew shook his head, dropping it into his open hands and running his fingers up through his messy light brown head of hair.

He was right. In a few hours, news was going to break and the headlines would all be sensational. America loved a good serial killing, as terrible as that sounded. It kept people entertained while they sat safely behind screens, disconnected by distance or by knowing they weren’t a target since they weren’t gay. It was like watching a scary movie playing out in real time. They could send thoughts and prayers to the victims and their families and go on with their lives until the next update hit their Twitter feeds. Cable news would see their viewing numbers skyrocket and they’d start salivating, like a drug addict staring at a newfound stash of pill bottles. They’d reach with shaky hands toward a bottle, pop it open, and down it, grabbing the next one and the next one.

“Fuck,” I hissed, letting it all out in one simple word.

“I’ve already set up a meeting between you and the police chief for three today.”

“You’re a rock star,” I said, sitting back down at my desk. “Seriously.”

“Zane.” I looked up. Andrew’s eyebrows were drawn up, his lips tight. “We’ll get him, okay? This guy can’t hide forever.”

For a split second, I saw Jose standing in front of me. Not because Andrew looked anything like him, but because he would also know exactly what to say to keep me calm, to keep me focused. Growing up, I never had a grounding force. Foster families weren’t always the most supportive structures in a kid’s life. Some of them were; others took more of a toll on me than anything else. But then Jose came along, and I suddenly understood what it meant to have been looked out for. He would always be there at the end of the day, our naked bodies lying side by side, all our insecurities and fears laid bare, only so the other could help take them away. I always knew Jose could fight off my fears like a handsome knight taking on a fairy-tale dragon. And it wasn’t like I couldn’t handle myself. I had learned how from a young age. But having him around was different—he allowed me to let go of some of the burdens I was holding way too tightly. Jose was a man who had watched over me like a guardian angel.

A man who was now my guardian angel.

My attention went back down to my desk. I stuffed the photos into the black folder and closed it.

“Few more things on your agenda today, boss.”

“Please tell me they’re good things.”

“Well, in fifteen you have naked Pilates in the park, and then in an hour you have lunch with the self-proclaimed queen of Hoboken.”

I looked up and chuckled. Actually laughed. The sound came out as if I had just learned how to speak a foreign language. “Naked Pilates, huh? Are there space heaters?”

“No, it’s a new thing. Tibetan, I think. Started trending after Ellen mentioned it on her show. Don’t worry, your penis is supposed to disappear back into your body. Makes everyone feel comfortable.”

“Ah, got it,” I said, laughing again. “And the queen of Hoboken? What does she want?”

“Just for you to sit there and say she’s pretty and that she deserves all the good things in the world while she eats a box of Jersey calzones.”

“Sounds like an easy day, then.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, that’s for sure.” Andrew smiled. He looked at his watch. “Really, though, your twelve o’clock, Lorenzo De Luca, is downstairs.” He smirked and cocked his head at me. “Sorry. That one isn’t a joke.”

“Thanks,” I said, chuckling, knowing what Andrew meant when he apologized. My next appointment wasn’t one I was very excited about, but only because I knew I wouldn’t vibe well with the man. He was a popular attorney, had a ton of commercials, and would make his rounds on news networks whenever he was working on a particularly noteworthy case. He was always extremely charismatic, and the camera clearly loved him, but it was also obvious he lived a completely different life than mine. A kind of life I wouldn’t enjoy. I grew up bouncing from home to home, carrying a single suitcase for the entirety of my belongings. The foster system chewed me and my siblings up and spat us out like used gum stuck to the street, ready to keep getting stepped on. I didn’t have a drive for fancy suits and perfectly done hair. Colgate smiles were annoying, and unlimited black credit cards never impressed me.

I just knew I wouldn’t gel with the guy, but I also knew I would try my damned hardest to solve whatever case he was bringing.

“Let’s do this,” I said, not knowing exactly just what I was getting into.