The rain hammered against the windowpanes of the old Victorian house on Elm Street, a relentless drumbeat that seemed to echo the pounding in Detective Harlan Graves’ skull. Harlan sat at his cluttered desk in the dimly lit study, surrounded by stacks of yellowed files and faded photographs. His eyes, bloodshot from sleepless nights, scanned the latest report on the Jane Doe found in the river two weeks ago. The body was unidentified, but the wounds—deep gashes across the throat and chest—suggested a personal attack, driven by rage or intimate knowledge.
Harlan rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the fog that had settled in his mind since the discovery. At 45, he was a seasoned investigator in the quiet town of Riverton, where murders were as rare as sunny days in November. But this one gnawed at him. The victim’s approximate age—mid-30s—matched someone from his past, though he couldn’t place why. Fragments of memories flickered like faulty film reels: laughter in a park, a shared cigarette under streetlights, blood on his hands that he dismissed as a dream.
He poured another scotch, the amber liquid burning a path down his throat. His wife, Clara, had left months ago, tired of his obsessions with old cases. ‘You’re chasing ghosts, Harlan,’ she’d said. Maybe she was right. But this ghost felt real. The coroner’s report mentioned a peculiar tattoo on the victim’s forearm—a coiled serpent eating its tail, an ouroboros. Harlan’s stomach twisted. He’d seen that before. Where?
The next morning, Harlan drove to the station, the wipers battling the downpour. Chief Mallory, a grizzled veteran with a mustache like steel wool, greeted him with coffee and skepticism. ‘Graves, we got nothing on this floater. No prints, no DNA match. Let it go.’
‘I can’t,’ Harlan replied, his voice tight. ‘That tattoo… it’s familiar.’
Mallory raised an eyebrow. ‘From your glory days? You were knee-deep in that cult case back in ’05. Ouroboros was their symbol.’
Harlan froze. The Cult of Eternal Return—a group he’d infiltrated undercover, posing as a recruit named ‘Silas.’ They’d believed in rebirth through sacrifice. The case ended with a raid, arrests, but their leader, Marcus Kane, escaped. Harlan had suppressed those memories; the therapy sessions after forced him to bury the trauma deep.
That afternoon, he pored over old case files in the archives. Photos of the cult members stared back: hooded figures, ritual knives, altars stained with what looked like blood. One photo showed a young woman with the ouroboros tattoo laughing beside Silas—Harlan in disguise. Her name: Lena Voss. Harlan’s breath caught. Lena. The park, the cigarettes. They’d grown close during the op. Too close. She’d confided secrets, made him question the mission. Then the raid. Chaos. Gunfire. Harlan had pulled her out, but…
No. She died in the crossfire. Official report said so. But the Jane Doe…
He visited the morgue. Dr. Ellis, the coroner, pulled back the sheet. The face was bloated, marred by water, but the tattoo matched. ‘Any dental records?’ Harlan asked.
‘Working on it. But get this—cause of death wasn’t drowning. She was dead before hitting the water. Strangled, then slashed.’
Harlan’s vision blurred. Strangled. Like the cult’s initiation rite. He stumbled out, drove to the old cult compound on the outskirts, now abandoned and overgrown. The gate creaked open, and he wandered the grounds, flashlight cutting through the gloom. Symbols etched into trees, whispers of wind mimicking chants.
Inside the main hall, dust motes danced in his beam. An altar, still there. Beneath it, a loose floorboard. He pried it up. A hidden compartment: a journal, brittle pages filled with Lena’s handwriting. ‘Silas knows the truth. He promised to protect me, but his eyes… they hold the serpent’s hunger.’
Harlan’s hands shook. Entries detailed their affair, her disillusionment with the cult, plans to flee together. Last entry: ‘Tonight, he comes for me. I fear the rebirth he speaks of is my end.’
No. Impossible. Harlan had loved her—or Silas had. The lines blurred. Therapy had fragmented his psyche to cope with the undercover stress. Was Silas still inside him?
Back home, he locked the doors, paced. Flashbacks assaulted him: Lena’s pleas, his hands around her throat—not in protection, but in fury. She’d discovered Silas was a cop. Betrayal. Rage. The knife. Then, panic, dumping the body upstream years ago, before the raid. He’d framed it as cult violence.
He laughed bitterly. No, that was delusion. He needed help.
A knock. Chief Mallory. ‘Harlan, we ID’d her. Lena Voss. Thought she died in ’05, but dental mismatch? Wait, it’s her. And witnesses place you near the river that night.’
Harlan’s world tilted. ‘Lies.’
Mallory drew his gun. ‘Journal found at your house tipped us. You’re under arrest.’
But as cuffs clicked, Harlan’s mind shattered. Full memory flooded: yes, he’d killed her. Buried the guilt under Silas, the hero cop narrative. The Jane Doe washed up after rains unearthed her shallow grave.
In the cell, alone, Harlan wept. The serpent had devoured its tail—his own endless cycle of denial.