The Bride Killa

The drive to Ridgeview felt like a journey into exile. Jane Michaels gripped the wheel of her battered sedan, the highway stretching endlessly before her. The sun was rising now, splashing warm hues over the rolling hills, but its beauty was lost on her. Her mind was too preoccupied with the weight she carried.

Her life in Detroit was over—or at least, the life she had imagined for herself. One high-profile case had gone catastrophically wrong. A decision made in the heat of the moment had left a key witness dead, and with that, her reputation had crumbled. No one cared that she had acted out of instinct, that she had tried to save lives. All that mattered was the headline: Detective Fails, Innocent Dies.

Now she was here, driving into the middle of nowhere, where Ridgeview's precinct awaited her like some kind of purgatory. A "fresh start," her former captain had called it, but it felt more like punishment. A rural town, known for little more than its annual spring festival, seemed a far cry from the gritty streets of Detroit.

Jane pulled over at a gas station just outside the Ridgeview city limits. She sat in the car for a moment, her fingers drumming the steering wheel. The air smelled like rain and damp earth. She adjusted the rearview mirror, catching her reflection. Her red hair, tied in a loose bun, was frizzing from the humidity. Her tired green eyes stared back at her, questioning every decision she'd ever made.

"You can do this," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "You've faced worse. This is just another case. Another team. Prove them wrong."

She exhaled sharply, turned the ignition, and drove the final stretch into town.

The Ridgeview Police Precinct was a modest, boxy building that looked more like a DMV than a place where justice was served. Jane parked her car in the small lot and took a moment to steady herself. She glanced at the file on the passenger seat, the name scrawled in red ink on the top: Bride Killer. It felt more like a tabloid headline than a case file.

As she stepped out of the car, the morning chill nipped at her skin. She adjusted her leather jacket and approached the glass doors. Inside, the precinct was buzzing with quiet activity. Officers sat at their desks, phones rang sporadically, and the faint hum of a coffee machine filled the air.

Jane paused just inside the entrance, taking in her surroundings. It smelled like burnt coffee and old paper—a stark contrast to the sterile, high-tech precincts she was used to in Detroit. But this was her reality now.

"Detective Michaels, I presume?" a gruff voice called out, cutting through her thoughts. Jane turned to see Chief Walter Garrison. He was a barrel-chested man with a salt-and-pepper mustache and an air of authority that demanded attention. He didn't smile, didn't offer a handshake—just a sharp nod.

"Yes, sir," Jane replied, squaring her shoulders.

Garrison looked her up and down, his gaze as sharp as a scalpel. "You're late."

"I—uh—traffic," Jane stammered, though she knew it wasn't entirely true. She had sat in her car for nearly fifteen minutes, psyching herself up.

"Right," Garrison said dryly. "Follow me."

The chief's office was cramped, with walls lined with old case files and faded commendations. Garrison sank into his chair and gestured for Jane to sit across from him.

"You picked a hell of a year to screw up, Michaels," he began, leaning back in his chair. "If you'd done your job right in Detroit, you wouldn't be here. But you didn't, so here you are. Welcome to Ridgeview—home of nothing, except for one of the most twisted killers I've seen in my thirty years on the job."

Jane flinched slightly at his bluntness but kept her expression neutral. "I'm here to help, sir. I intend to prove myself."

Garrison smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Because you're not here to sit around and twiddle your thumbs. You're here because we've got a killer who likes to dress women up as brides and leave them dead with a rose on their chest. We're up to six victims now. All young women, all found in various picturesque spots around town. No fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses. Just bodies in wedding dresses and roses."

Jane's stomach twisted. She had read about the Bride Killer in the papers, but hearing it described in such stark detail made it feel more real. More horrifying.

"I'll catch him," Jane said firmly, though the weight of the task pressed down on her.

Garrison let out a bitter laugh. "I've heard that before. Don't get too comfortable, Michaels. This isn't Detroit. We don't have the resources or the manpower you're used to. But you're on the case now. Don't screw it up."

Jane's introduction to the rest of the team wasn't much warmer. Officer Kyle Harris was the first to greet her—or rather, glare at her as she walked past his desk.

"So you're the big shot from Detroit, huh?" he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Heard a lot about you. Guess we'll see if you're as good as you think you are."

Jane bit back a retort. She wasn't here to make friends. "Nice to meet you too, Officer Harris."

Detective Marcus Hayes was slightly more professional, though not by much. He gave her a curt nod and said, "Welcome to Ridgeview," before turning back to the stack of papers on his desk. His body language screamed I don't have time for you.

The only person who seemed remotely welcoming was Megan Price, the crime scene photographer. She approached Jane with a warm smile and extended a hand.

"Hi, I'm Megan. I work the scenes, take the photos, and sometimes bring donuts when the guys forget," she said with a laugh.

Jane shook her hand, grateful for the kindness. "Thanks. I'll take all the help I can get."

"Don't let them get to you," Megan said in a low voice. "They're just... territorial. You'll prove yourself soon enough."

Jane smiled faintly. "I hope so."

By the time lunch rolled around, Jane was already neck-deep in the case file. The details were grim: the victims, all women in their twenties or thirties, had no clear connection to one another. They came from different backgrounds, different professions, different parts of town. Yet the killer had treated them all the same—like brides on their wedding day.

The photos were the worst part. Each woman was posed so carefully, as if the killer had taken great pride in their work. The wedding dresses were immaculate, their makeup flawless. But their lifeless eyes and pale skin told the true story.

Jane leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. This wasn't just murder—it was art to this person. A grotesque, twisted form of art.

As she flipped through the file, a shadow fell over her desk. She looked up to see Marcus standing there, his expression unreadable.

"Chief wants us to go over the latest crime scene together," he said. "Be ready in ten."

Jane nodded, watching as he walked away. She felt the familiar fire of determination ignite within her. She was here to prove herself, to make up for the mistakes of her past. And she would start by catching the Bride Killer.