SADIE'S WAVE

CW: contains grief, physical violence, gore

He always leaves a painting.

Detective Nora Kade stepped into the small apartment, her boots scuffing the worn hardwood. Her eyes swept the room—peeled wallpaper, a sagging couch, no sign of forced entry. Just death and art, she thought, her mind racing to stitch the impossible together. No shattered locks, no scuffled rugs—just a body and a canvas. Her stomach knotted, a familiar ache she couldn’t shake.

“Kade!” The voice sliced through the stale air, sharp and too familiar. Miles Reddick, 29, only two years older than Nora, handsome as sin—tall, lean, dark hair swept back, hazel eyes glinting with a dare. Too perfect for this grime, he’d been stuck to her side since the first painting appeared. He thought they were partners; Nora didn’t. She worked alone, always had—partners slowed you down, got in the way. “Hey, detective, what do you see?” he asked, smirking, his eyes catching the dim light.

What do I see? she thought, jaw tight. “I don’t know, Miles. This one’s a mess—no forced entry, no prints, just a painting. Three victims, and it’s still weird as hell.” Robert Forester, 63, lay stiff on the bed, strangled in his sleep. No kids, no family, no friends—a ghost of a man. Third victim, third painting.

Nora glared at the canvas propped against the wall. The Midnight Tide, she’d later name it—a dark blue ocean wave, barely visible on black, caught mid-crash. Foam streaked across it, wild and silver, curling into jagged claws that smashed against unseen rocks. “You’re mocking me,” she muttered under her breath. “Three times, and you think I’ll quit. I won’t—I’ll find you.” She glanced at Miles, his gaze locking onto hers, steady and unyielding. She had to solve this before it consumed her, before the past dragged her under completely.

Back at the precinct, Nora leaned against Miles’ cluttered desk, arms crossed tight. The three paintings sprawled across the floor like a twisted gallery: The Shattered Mirror from Jane Kessler, 34, all broken shards and blood-red edges. It looked like the mirror my father broke one night. She fought the memories, but they won the battle; they always did. Her father was a drunk. Only way of explaining it. Her mother had died giving birth to Sadie, her father gave up on her, so it was up to Nora to raise her. And that’s exactly what she did, she helped her with her homework, taught her how to ride her bike. All while Nora’s father drowned himself in whiskey.

 The Caged Sparrow from Ethan Lyle, 60, a frantic bird with trembling feathers. She remembered her mother’s voice, her smile. One night before Sadie was born, Nora’s mother rubbed her stomach with one hand, and held Nora’s small palm with the other.

“Sadie, what do you think, Nora-girl?” her soft gaze met Nora’s, the memory glowed with orange all around, the world seemed so big.

“Sadie,” Nora sighed in satisfaction. A bird flew up to the kitchen window and sat on the open window-seal. It sang to Nora and her eyes grew wider with each tune.

“Sadie-bird!” She exclaimed with excitement.

Her mother laughed, “Yes, Sadie-bird.”

Now The Midnight Tide, reminding her of the lake Sadie drowned in. Ten years ago, that lake. Nora had been 17, standing on the shore, the water lapping at her bare feet. Sadie, 12, had begged to swim, her laughter bright against the summer dusk. Their dad, reeking of whiskey, slouched on a lawn chair, bottle tipping in his hand. “Go on, Nora-girl, watch her,” he’d slurred. Then the scream—Sadie’s hand clawing the surface, slipping from Nora’s grip as the current pulled her under. Nora froze, paralyzed, the cold seeping into her bones, her father’s yells fading into the wind. She’d failed her then, and she vowed never to fail again. Up till’ now, she’s been successful. Best hound dog the Washington Police department had.

“Wait,” Miles said, shaking her out of her haze of memories.

“Look closer,” he said, voice taut, angling a desk lamp over The Shattered Mirror. A glint caught her eye as she looked down—the word “work” was etched into a shard. That didn’t make sense. What is he saying?

She shifted her gaze to The Caged Sparrow. The bird looked as if it was truly trembling, a symbol of fear. What Ethan trembling with such fear before he was killed? Lost in thought she stroked the painting with her fingertips, then she felt it. Scratched into a fallen feather was the word “pastor.” Yes, that one made sense, Eathan was the pastor of the church by North Cove.

“No new evidence there, we’ve already looked.” Miles shrugged one shoulder and ran a hand threw his almost-black hair.

She grabbed The Midnight Tide. Nothing but that wave, still damp, stared back. Her breath quickened, memories. These all resembled memories. But why?

“You okay, Kade?” Miles grabbed her arm, worry creasing his face. She looked up at him, then yanked free, skin buzzing. “He’s screwing with me.” The briny stink of The Midnight Tide hit her—salt, raw, like North Cove. She crouched, sniffing. “Saltwater paint. Jane’s was too—Ethan’s?”

“Yeah, like the dock,” Miles said, nose wrinkling. “Lab’s got samples.”

“Push them,” she snapped, grabbing her jacket. “He’s painting the next one now—I’m not failing again.” Sadie’s eyes flashed—blue, sinking. She couldn’t fail now, she just couldn’t.

“Saltwater’s a lead,” Miles said a few minutes later, shedding the smirk. “Coastal source, maybe a supplier. What’s your play?”

“We hit the coast,” Nora said, voice steel. “North Cove—find where he’s mixing this crap. Before he finishes whatever he’s counting down to.”

Nora walked the North Cove shoreline, flashlight carving the dark, Miles trailing her. The salt air stung her lungs, the waves a low roar. I haven’t been here since Sadie, she thought, her chest tightening. She saw it again—Sadie’s small frame thrashing, her blue eyes wide with panic, the lake swallowing her whole. Nora had waded in too late, fingers brushing Sadie’s wrist before the tide stole her. She’d screamed herself raw, her father useless on the shore. No—she shoved it down, straightening her spine.

Silence clogged the air until Miles’ phone shattered it—sharp, insistent. He answered, voice clipped, then hung up, eyes wide with dread. “This was a trap, Detective.”

“What?”

“He lured us here—fourth victim is in the city. Lucy Hoggers, 50, librarian. Painting’s there.”

Nora’s gut lurched—he’d danced on Sadie’s grave while she chased shadows. “Let’s go.” They sprinted for the black SUV, dusk disguised it as a shadow in the night.

She burst into Lucy Hoggers’ downtown house; the air thick with decay. Blood pooled on the kitchen floor, dark and sticky. Lucy was gone, throat crushed. He’s a serial nut, Nora told herself, but a deeper truth clawed at her soul.

Her eyes darted from the blood to the canvas on the counter—The Broken Locket. A heart-shaped locket, gold and gray, split in two. Inside, two figures—one small, one taller—held hands by a large body of water, faces smeared away.. Her flashlight clattered to the linoleum. Her locket, how…? She’d kept this locket hidden in her jewelry box in her old house, how had he seen it?

“No,” she rasped, barely a whisper. “That’s us.” She pointed at the figures, meeting Miles’ gaze. “He knows what happened that night.”

“Why target you? Why make it personal?”

“Because whoever it is knew her, and maybe they want revenge,” she choked, a sob breaking through clenched teeth. “I don’t know.” Her knees buckled, and she sank, the cold floor biting her palms. Sadie’s blue eyes sank in her mind—pleading, fading. “I don’t know.”

Miles dropped beside her, hand firm on her shoulder. “Look at me. We’ll find him. You’re the best we’ve got, “ he paused, though he looked as if he had more to say, but before he could, Nora pieced the puzzle together.

“I know who our artist is, Miles.”

“ok…?” Miles stood, steadying her as she swayed.

“Home,” she muttered, pulling free. “We have to go to my old house, where my father is waiting.”

Miles nodded, no questions. “I’ll drive.”

The drive was an hour long, just long enough for Nora to piece the rest of the puzzle together.

“Jane was my mother’s coworker, must have been. Ethan was our pastor, and Lucy was the woman who helped me teach my sister how to read.” She was talking way faster than normal.

“Ok, and your father killed them to..?” he led, waiting for her reply.

“I don’t know, maybe call me back to the past?” she said.

The SUV shuddered to a stop outside the weathered house—a sagging relic, ivy strangling its frame, paint peeling like dead skin. Nora’s childhood home loomed, windows dark, curtains drawn since she’d left at 17—after Sadie. The porch groaned under neglect, the air damp with rot, like the lake had followed her. She stepped out, boots crunching gravel, breath shallow.

“This it?” Miles asked, flashlight in hand.

“Yeah,” she said, throat tight. “Where she—” She stopped, pushing the unlocked door. It creaked open, releasing a musty, briny stench. “He’s been here.”

Miles swept his beam across the living room—faded wallpaper, a cracked table, Sadie’s rocking horse tipped over. “Looks empty.”

“Upstairs,” Nora rasped, climbing the creaking stairs, each step a memory—Sadie’s giggles, their fights, that last night. She shoved her childhood bedroom door open. Sadie’s bed sat unmade, her bear slumped, dust thick. She gasped as she looked at the wall, dark blue paint, fresh, spelled out “YOURE LATE.”

“He’s here,” she whispered, voice breaking. She was panicking, she couldn’t fight it, pain stung her lungs and blurred her vision.

Miles pulled her back. “Kade, slow down. We need to think.”

“Okay,” she sighed, forcing calm—until a crash erupted across the hall, glass shattering, wood splintering. Her pulse drowned out the world. She drew her gun, boots thudding toward her old bedroom—where she’d slept before that night stole everything. The air thickened, saltwater heavy, the lake’s churn roaring in her ears. She swung the door open. Her old nightstand was broken, thrown across the room. Her gaze met with his just as she stepped in.

He stood there—tall, gaunt, gray hair wild, paint-stained hands dripping blue. His storm-blue eyes—hers—burned with grief and rage. Beside him, her old bed was smeared with a fresh wave—two figures drowning. He held a brush, poised, and turned slowly, lips curling into a grimace.

“Dad,” she demanded

Her voice cut the air, brittle as glass. He froze, brush dripping, each drop a mournful echo. “You’re late, Nora-girl,” he rasped, voice cracked by whiskey and despair. “Always late.”

“What are you talking about?” she pleaded, gun trembling. North Cove flooded back—Sadie sinking, him stumbling drunk, her rooted to the shore, a kid too scared to move. “Why,” that wasn’t much of a question, “You ran off, but it doesn’t matter, you were never really there in the first place.”

“I didn’t run!” he roared, slamming the brush down, paint splattering like blood. “I drowned with her—every day. You moved on, kept your life going. All while I kept her alive!” He jabbed at the canvas. “These were reminders, to get you to see.”

She saw him then—years alone, hunched over Sadie’s things, painting in a shack somewhere, grief festering into madness. “You killed them, innocent people,” she said, voice fracturing. “For revenge?”

“For her,” he whispered, tears glistening. “To make you feel the pain she brought—the memories.”

“Dad, stop,” she begged, tears stinging. “I feel it—every day.” Sadie’s gaze blurred with his. “We both failed her,” she scowled at him, “some more than others.”

“You froze,” he said, stepping closer. “Let her go, I’m not the one who left her to drown,” he spat

“I was a kid!” she cried, gun shaking. “You gave up on her! What did you do while I raised her? Tell me, where were you?” She was screaming at this point; she was losing control.

“It made you see, remember” he murmured, hollow.

“I never forgot,” she hissed, holstering her gun. “But this isn’t for her—it’s for you. You did this to try to hide from your own failure, but you can’t. You may have failed Sadie, but try to think that maybe you also failed me.”

Miles moved in, feeling her panic; cuffs ready. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Jane Kessler, Ethan Lyle, Robert Forester, and Lucy Hoggers,” his voice calm and in control.

Her father didn’t resist, staring at the painting. “She’s still waiting,” he mumbled as Miles led him out.

Nora lingered, picking up the fallen brush, warm from his hand, and dropped it into the pooling paint. “I’m sorry, Sadie,” she whispered, tears falling. “But I won’t drown with him.” She turned and walked out, leaving the house—and her ghosts—behind.