Chapter Text
The first rays of dawn caressed the coastline of Mallorca, painting the world in hues of amber & rose gold. The sea shimmered like glass beneath the rising sun, its surface smooth & inviting, masking secrets below. Long shadows danced across the sand, cast by the jagged silhouettes of driftwood & scattered shells. The early light glittered like fallen stardust, bathing the deserted beach in a false sense of calm.
Only the rhythmic hush of the tide broke the stillness, each gentle wave kissing the shore with a sigh, then retreating—soft, unhurried. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries distant & disinterested, echoing faintly across the open sky. The day had begun in perfect tranquillity.
A family wandered the beach’s edge, the scene almost too idyllic to be real. The father, a solid, broad-shouldered man with sleeves rolled to his elbows, strolled at a measured pace. Lines of fatigue & sun-etched wisdom creased his face—a man who'd earned his quiet moments. Beside him, his wife walked barefoot in the sand, her dark ponytail swaying as the breeze tugged gently at her linen shirt. Her smile was soft, touched by the joy of the morning & the delight in watching their daughter skip ahead.
The child darted across the damp sand like a sprite, her giggles carried on the wind. Her footsteps left fleeting impressions that vanished beneath the next curl of foam. She chased the tail of their golden retriever, a gleaming streak of energy bounding toward the rock pools. The dog’s leash dragged behind it like a forgotten ribbon, its nose buried in salty puddles & clumps of seaweed.
& then—suddenly—the dog froze.
A tension rippled through its golden frame. Tail rigid. Ears pricked. Nose twitching furiously. It took a tentative step forward, then halted, a low growl curling in its throat like smoke.
The father blinked, his stride faltering. “Oi, Jack! Stop being daft,” he called, his voice light-hearted, though confusion laced his tone.
But Jack didn’t move. He stood statue-still, eyes locked on something just beyond a dune, posture taut with unease.
The little girl, curiosity alight in her face, scampered around the dog to investigate. Her laughter faded as she came to a halt, the smile slipping from her face like a dropped toy. She stared.
“Mummy… what’s that?”
The mother’s head jerked round. One look at her daughter’s expression & instinct took over—she crossed the sand quickly, hand outstretched, pulling the girl back with urgency. Her gaze followed her daughter’s pointing finger.
& then she saw it.
At first glance, it appeared to be driftwood caught in seaweed—or perhaps clothing washed ashore. But then the light shifted, & it took form. Limbs. A torso. Cascading hair tangled like kelp. A human figure.
A woman.
The father stepped forward, driven by dread more than duty. The sand muffled his approach, but every step pounded like thunder in his chest. The air had turned thick, stifling, charged with something unspoken.
She lay sprawled awkwardly on her side, half-sunken into the shore, as if the sea had grown bored of her & tossed her back. Her skin was pale, waxy, tinged with blue at the lips. Her long hair—flaming red, soaked & snarled—was intertwined with fronds of seaweed, framing her face in a grotesque mimicry of a mermaid’s mane.
She wore a gown. A faded green costume, clinging to her like a second skin, sequins glinting in the early light. It shimmered faintly with each lap of the tide, as if some residual magic clung to it.
The resemblance to Ariel—the Little Mermaid—was uncanny. Or perhaps deliberate.
The mother clamped a hand to her mouth, a muffled sob escaping her as she turned her daughter’s face away. “Don’t look. Sweetheart, don’t look.”
The father stared, transfixed. “Dear God…”
The golden retriever crept forward once more, whining now, its tail low. It nosed the woman’s outstretched hand, nuzzling gently, trying to coax movement. But the hand remained limp, fingers pale & unyielding beneath the dog’s touch.
There was no breath. No flutter of lashes. No warmth in her sun-dappled skin.
She was gone.
A silence settled, dense & unnatural. Even the gulls above had ceased their crying. The sea, moments ago so serene, now seemed to hiss with malice as it dragged back over the stones.
The father turned slowly. “Call the police,” he said, but the words felt foreign, as though spoken by someone else.
His wife nodded, reaching for her phone with trembling fingers. She kept the girl tucked close to her side, but the child kept glancing back, her eyes wide & glassy, her young mind trying to understand what her heart already sensed.
As they turned to leave, the dog suddenly erupted into barking—loud, urgent, distressed. The father muttered something under his breath, urging them on.
They moved quickly, sand flung in small arcs beneath their feet as they made for the car park. Their footsteps grew distant, swallowed by the wind.
& then—once again—the beach fell still.
But it was no longer the stillness of peace.
It was the stillness of something broken.
The waves whispered secrets only the dead could hear, their rhythm relentless. The woman’s red hair drifted in the tide like sea grass, her silence a haunting echo of a story cut short.
Somewhere, far away, a new day had begun.
But on that stretch of sand, it ended with a body dressed like a fairytale—Ariel, washed ashore.
Once upon a crime.
***
The waning afternoon sun slanted through the dusty blinds of the Palma Police bullpen, casting long, drowsy strips of light across the floor like golden prison bars. Outside, the city beat on at its usual, measured pace—vendors calling out across cobbled lanes, scooters weaving past shopfronts, & the distant clink of cutlery from cafés coming alive for early evening trade.
But inside the station, time moved slower.
Max Winter sat hunched over his desk, shoulders slightly slumped, the collar of his shirt creased from a long day already spent chasing leads that went nowhere. His fingers idly traced circles around the rim of his half-drunk coffee, the once-steaming contents now cold & bitter. The air in the bullpen was stale—ink, leather, & the metallic scent of old radiators that never quite worked properly. The walls, plastered with noticeboards & curling photographs, carried the weight of years; it was the sort of place where the ghosts of cold cases whispered from filing cabinets.
His desk was a study in organised chaos—papers layered like geological strata, post-it notes stuck at haphazard angles, & an evidence bag left half-zipped from the morning’s review. Despite the calm exterior, Max’s mind was not at rest. He was thinking—always thinking—threading together fragments of a puzzle that refused to reveal its picture.
Across from him, Detective Miranda Blake sat immersed in her own world. Her chair squeaked slightly every time she shifted. She was focused, brows drawn in thought, pen dancing between her fingers before she tapped it thoughtfully against her cheek. Her hair—an auburn halo in the soft light—was tied back, though several curls had escaped, tumbling across her brow in quiet defiance.
She exhaled slowly, eyes scanning yet another dead-end report. “There’s something off about the timeline on the Marina break-in,” she murmured absently, not really speaking to Max, more to herself.
Max didn’t answer. He was somewhere else—trapped in a loop of petty thefts & vandalism that didn’t sit right. Small crimes, scattered across the map like breadcrumbs. They were meant to be inconsequential, the kind of cases pushed aside for something bigger. But Max had learned the hard way that even the smallest breadcrumb could lead to a body.
Still, he didn’t expect the phone call.
The shrill ring sliced through the stillness like a blade, jolting them both from their haze. Max reached for the receiver, the motion swift & instinctive. “Winter,” he said, voice clipped, professional—but already laced with tension, as though some primal part of him had braced for this.
The voice on the other end was breathless. Urgent.
“There’s been a discovery. Down on Platja de Muro. A body. Dressed like… like The Little Mermaid.”
Silence fell between receiver & ear, heavy & absolute.
Max’s eyes narrowed. His grip on the phone tightened until the plastic creaked. “Say that again?”
“A woman. She’s been found on the beach. Green sequinned gown. Red wig. Dead.”
There was no sarcasm in the caller’s tone. No levity. Only disbelief masked with dread.
Max didn’t wait. He was already moving before the line disconnected.
His chair screeched backwards across the floor as he stood, sending a ripple of movement through the bullpen. He snatched his jacket from the back of the chair with a swift, jerking motion, heart thudding in his chest like it had just remembered how to beat properly.
Miranda’s head snapped up. “Max?”
He didn’t stop moving. “We’ve got a body,” he said briskly, pulling his arms through the sleeves. “Female. Beach. Dressed as a bloody Disney princess.”
Miranda blinked. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.” He was already halfway to the door. “Come on. I’ll explain on the way.”
She didn’t argue. She never did when Max wore that look—hard jaw, tight eyes, the kind of expression that only came out when something was deeply wrong. She was up in seconds, her shoulder bag already over her arm. “Let’s go.”
The station around them carried on in the same rhythm—phones ringing, keys clacking, officers chatting about mundane updates—but it all blurred into background noise as Max & Miranda crossed the bullpen. Their footsteps echoed across the tiled floor, purposeful & fast. A few heads turned. Most knew better than to interrupt.
The corridor outside the bullpen was bathed in cold fluorescent light, flickering just slightly. The hum of the overheads was constant, but neither of them noticed. Max’s mind was racing.
A woman in costume. Found dead on the beach. That wasn’t an accident. That was a message. A warning. Or a performance.
The lift arrived with a mechanical ding that felt far too casual given the urgency in his veins. They stepped inside in silence, the doors sliding shut like a vault. Miranda glanced sideways at him.
“Anything else?” she asked quietly.
Max shook his head once, jaw tight. “No. But it’s going to be bad. I can feel it.”
Miranda didn’t press. She simply nodded, her face composed but grave. Her instincts were sharp, too. & right now, they were telling her the same thing his were: this wasn’t going to be a straightforward crime scene.
The elevator doors slid open at the ground floor. The sharp scent of car exhaust & sun-warmed pavement greeted them as they stepped out into the bustle of the city. Palma’s streets were alive with colour—terracotta buildings gleaming in the sunset, tourists chatting over drinks, the scent of grilled seafood in the air. But Max & Miranda walked straight through it, insulated by the cloud now hanging over them.
They climbed into the unmarked police car. The engine purred to life beneath them, low & steady. Miranda fastened her seatbelt with a click. “What beach did they say?”
“Platja de Muro.”
Miranda frowned. “Tourist hotspot.”
“Not anymore.”
As Max pulled out onto the road, the sun dipped lower, casting the city in deep amber light. Shadows stretched across the tarmac like fingers. The radio crackled, static humming quietly, but neither reached for it. Their thoughts were already at the shoreline—already seeing what waited in the sand.
Max tightened his grip on the wheel, knuckles whitening. There were cases that started with confusion, & then there were cases that started with a statement. This one—this twisted, theatrical discovery—was the latter. & whatever story it was trying to tell, Max was certain of one thing. This was only the beginning.
***
At the Beach
The journey to the beach passed in silence, save for the low hum of the engine & the occasional screech of tyres skimming around a bend. Max gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, his knuckles white, thoughts tumbling over each other like waves in a storm. Every scenario, every possibility, danced at the edge of his mind—none of them good.
Miranda sat beside him, motionless, her eyes fixed on the blur of landscape flying past the window. Her brows were drawn together in focused thought, lips pressed into a tight line. Her silence wasn’t born of indifference but of calculation. She was already working the case in her head.
Palma’s streets, usually vibrant & loud even in the early hours, had faded into a surreal hush. There was something about the call they’d received—something in the officer’s voice—that had already told them this scene would be different.
By the time they reached the beach, the sun had risen fully, casting a stark, clinical light over the shoreline. It was the kind of brightness that should’ve felt comforting—warming. But instead, it painted every object in harsh contrast, dragging every detail into cruel focus.
Blue & yellow police tape fluttered in the morning breeze like the tattered remnants of a child’s birthday party gone horribly wrong. Officers milled about with furrowed brows & clipped voices, their posture betraying a discomfort they didn’t dare voice. This wasn’t the usual aftermath of a night gone wrong or a robbery turned tragic. This was different. This was staged.
Max slammed the car door behind him & strode forward, gravel crunching beneath his boots. Miranda followed without a word, slipping beneath the tape with the ease of someone far too familiar with scenes like this. Yet even she felt the breath catch in her throat as her eyes locked onto the figure half-submerged in the sand.
The woman lay still, unnervingly composed. A crimson wig—or perhaps real hair, sodden & tangled—framed a porcelain-pale face. Her lips were parted slightly, frozen in a kind of broken serenity. She wore a green, shimmering gown, faded from salt & sun but unmistakably styled after The Little Mermaid. Seaweed laced through her hair like ribbons, & delicate barnacles clung to the hem of her costume.
“Bloody hell…” Max muttered, his voice rough with disbelief.
Miranda crouched low beside the body, her gloved fingers just above the sand. The positioning was too precise. The arms gently folded over the abdomen. The head tilted just so. This wasn’t how the sea left its dead.
Nearby, Roberto knelt with professional detachment, but the strain around his mouth betrayed him. His gloved hands moved with methodical precision as he dusted sand from the woman’s neck & arms.
He looked up as Max approached. “Max. You need to see this.”
His voice lacked its usual steadiness. There was something brittle under the surface, a tremor carefully masked.
“She’s been in the water a while. No signs of trauma—no wounds, no bruises that suggest a fight. It looks like drowning. But…” he hesitated, glancing down again, “the placement. The costume. It’s like someone... designed this.”
Miranda’s jaw tightened as she stood. “It’s too perfect. No one just drowns wearing a handmade mermaid gown.”
Max crouched beside the woman, observing her closely. Even in death, she was striking—ethereal almost. Like a painting from a dark fairytale. Her skin, pale & smooth, glistened with the sheen of saltwater. Her hands were dainty, fingers curled slightly inward, not clenched in panic or pain.
“Who is she?” Miranda asked, her voice low but steady, edged with tension.
“No idea,” Roberto replied grimly. “No ID, no belongings. She doesn’t look local. & the dress? Definitely bespoke. The stitching’s too precise for anything off the rack.”
Max ran a hand through his hair, squinting against the sunlight. “Whoever did this wanted her to be found. They went to lengths. It’s not random.”
Roberto rose, brushing sand from his trousers. “There’s no bruising around the wrists or ankles. No ligature marks. But…” He turned her head gently. “There. Faint bruising. Around the neck.”
Miranda leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Strangulation?”
“Maybe. It’s subtle—like someone held her down, not necessarily with force, but enough. Could also be consistent with her being drugged first.”
“We’ll need a tox screen,” Max muttered. He straightened, his eyes scanning the beach beyond the tape, where a few curious onlookers had gathered, hushed whispers drifting through the breeze.
Miranda moved a few steps down the shoreline & froze. “Max.” Her voice cut through the noise like a scalpel. “I found something.”
He stepped over quickly as she bent down, gloved fingers lifting a delicate, glinting object from the sand.
“A necklace,” she said, holding it up to the light. It sparkled faintly—a small silver chain with a seashell pendant, now tarnished & crusted with salt but still beautiful. “It was near her hand. Could’ve been hers. Or it was left deliberately.”
Max took it carefully, slipping it into an evidence bag. “That’s not a coincidence.”
The breeze picked up, tousling Miranda’s hair as she stood beside him, the air thick with the scent of salt & something far less natural—decay masked by sea breeze.
“We need missing persons reports,” she said. “Start local, then widen the net. Someone’s missing this girl. Someone knew her.”
Max nodded, jaw tight. “& someone wanted to send a message.”
Roberto, now standing at the woman’s feet, gave a soft whistle. “Whoever this was… they weren’t just trying to hide a body. They were trying to tell us something.”
Max’s gaze lingered on the body. The eerie stillness. The theatricality. It wasn’t just murder.
It was artifice.
He exhaled slowly. “A twisted fairytale,” he said under his breath, unaware just how close he was to the truth.
Behind them, the press had begun to arrive—microphones poking past the tape, questions shouted into the wind. Inés strode down the sand, eyes hard, already barking orders to keep things quiet until they had more answers.
As Miranda scanned the beach once more, something inside her stirred. This wasn’t just a murder.
It was a performance.
& the curtain had only just risen.
***
The television flickered in the dimly lit room, its bluish glow casting ghostly reflections across peeling wallpaper & dust-laden furniture. The static hum of the old set mixed with the muffled sound of late-night crickets chirping outside an open window, where a frayed curtain whispered in the breeze like a shroud.
On the screen, the breaking news segment was still playing—"BREAKING: BODY FOUND ON BEACH IN BIZARRE CIRCUMSTANCES"—the headline scrolling across the bottom in harsh red, like a wound that refused to close. Footage of Max Winter & Miranda Blake played on a loop, speaking to reporters near the police cordon, their faces tight with unease.
The camera lingered on the body bag being wheeled away from the scene, & even through the television, it carried a shiver of finality.
Across the room, hunched over a cluttered desk, a figure watched in silence.
They sat utterly still—only the gentle scratch of pencil against paper broke the hush, the delicate sound oddly soothing amidst the chilling imagery on-screen. A long, pale hand moved methodically over the page, sketching with a kind of reverence, as though committing a holy rite to paper. Each stroke deliberate. Careful. Worshipful.
The page revealed the beginnings of a new design.
A delicate puff-sleeved dress. A high white collar. A bodice laced in rich royal blue with golden accents. Crimson trim around the edges. A short cape. Yellow skirts that ballooned with theatrical grace.
Snow White.
The killer’s head tilted slightly, like a child admiring their own artwork. There was something disturbingly gentle in the way they traced the hem of the skirt, filling in the fabric with soft shading as if the woman who would wear it were already alive in their mind—posed, perfect, ready.
The room smelled faintly of old wood, stale perfume, & the acrid tang of burnt-out candles. On a side table lay spools of silk ribbon, neatly stacked beside sewing needles, swatches of fabric, & a cracked porcelain doll with painted red lips.
“Soon,” the figure murmured under their breath, voice barely more than a whisper—a caress meant for the shadows. The tone was neither masculine nor feminine, but something disconcertingly in-between, like a mask one could put on or take off depending on the performance.
The news anchor’s voice droned on in the background, growing fainter, replaced by eerie strains of orchestral music leaking from an unseen speaker—something whimsical, almost childlike, but slowed to a sinister crawl.
The sketch was nearly complete now. The killer leaned back, their face cloaked in shadow, save for the glint of wide, unblinking eyes that reflected the flickering light of the television screen. A small, satisfied smile crept across their lips.
Their fingers, still dusted with graphite, reached for a small, velvet-covered box. Inside, nestled among black lace, was a red, glossy apple-shaped locket. They turned it over in their palm slowly, then closed the lid with a soft click.
Behind them, on the wall above the desk, hung a collection of hand-drawn designs, each one pinned with surgical precision—Ariel, Belle, Cinderella… each costume more elaborate than the last. Underneath, a photo was tacked for each—young women in candid moments, unaware they were being watched. Some were smiling. Some were crying. All were now gone.
& now, in the centre of the wall, a new space waited—bare, expectant. Waiting for Snow White.
The killer picked up their sketch, holding it at arm’s length, admiring the clean lines & intricate detail. They turned back toward the glowing television screen, just in time to see Max frown at the camera & utter the words:
“This isn’t over.”
A beat of silence.
Then, the killer chuckled—low, melodic, childlike.
“Oh, Max,” they whispered. “It hasn’t even begun.”
& as the screen faded to black, only the soft scritch-scratch of pencil on paper remained, echoing through the silence like a lullaby turned sour.
***
The low hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above them, relentless & unflinching, bathing the small conference room in a sterile, unforgiving glow. It did little to soften the edges of the horror strewn across the table between them—photographs, torn evidence bags, scribbled notes, & autopsy reports. The tang of strong, over-brewed coffee hung thick in the air, laced with the sharper scent of old ink & musty paper. Somewhere in the background, the muffled sounds of Palma's evening rhythm carried in through the half-open window—snippets of chatter, distant sirens, the low roar of engines—but in this room, time felt suspended.
Max Winter sat forward, elbows on the table, his hands clasped in a restless knot as his dark eyes swept across the photograph in front of him: Michelle Hayes. Blonde, mid-thirties, vivacious once—now reduced to a grotesque tableau on the sand, her body draped in a disturbingly accurate rendition of Ariel from The Little Mermaid. Sequins shimmered like scales, catching the forensic floodlights in the shot. Her lips, painted a deep coral red, were parted in a silent, eternal scream.
“This is no Halloween outfit,” Max muttered, voice low, rough-edged with disbelief & something colder—disgust, maybe. He reached for the case file again, fingers grazing the now-lukewarm mug by his side, the ring it left on the table already faintly smeared by someone’s elbow. He tapped the page containing the costume notes. “Look at the stitchwork. Hand-sewn. Whoever made this had time. Talent. Obsession.”
Miranda Blake stood with her back half-turned, arms folded tightly over her chest as she stared out of the slatted blinds, watching people stroll the streets below as though the world weren’t unraveling around them. From the safety of their phones & shopfronts, the citizens of Palma walked in blissful ignorance—utterly unaware that a killer was crafting death with thread & fairy tales.
She turned, her hazel eyes sharp & glinting with that barely-contained tension that Max knew too well. “No, this isn’t random,” she said, walking slowly to the table. “It’s staged. Every detail deliberately chosen. He wanted her found that way.” She paused by the photograph of Michelle's hand, curled unnaturally in the sand. “He posed her.”
Max leaned back in his chair, staring hard at the evidence wall. Pins. Threads. Maps. Victim profiles. It was all there—but somehow just out of reach, like a story missing its ending. “He’s making a point. This... this is personal. There’s something behind the theatrics. A message.” His eyes flicked to Miranda. “Question is: who’s it for?”
Before she could answer, Max’s phone shrilled, cutting through the silence like a knife through silk. He snapped it up.
“Winter,” he said, curt.
A pause.
The voice on the other end was brisk, clinical. But the words sent a chill down his spine.
“Detective, there’s been another incident. Female victim. Same circumstances. This one’s dressed as... Snow White.”
Max’s grip tightened instinctively. The conference room’s air grew heavier, thicker, as if even the walls had started listening.
“Where?” he asked, his voice low, flat, urgent.
“Private villa. Northern outskirts. Owner found her in the greenhouse. We’ve secured the scene. Sir… it’s identical.”
Max looked up, his jaw clenched. Miranda was already moving, reaching for her coat, reading his expression like a cue.
“We’re en route,” he snapped, hanging up without another word.
“They’ve struck again,” he said grimly. “Snow White.”
Miranda’s brow creased, her pace quickening. “Another princess. Two bodies, two characters. He’s building something—like chapters in a twisted book.”
Max nodded once, tightly. “& he’s just turned the page.”
They stormed out of the room, their footsteps echoing with a new urgency, thudding like the pulse in Max’s ears. The station corridor blurred around them as they moved—officers glancing up as they passed, the fluorescent lighting now more like interrogation lamps. Max threw open the car door as the engine roared to life beneath him, tyres screeching slightly as they pulled out into the night.
Miranda sat rigid beside him, staring ahead with laser focus. “What kind of monster turns fairy tales into murder scenes?”
Max’s eyes were fixed on the road, his grip tight on the wheel. “Someone who wants to be heard. Someone who thinks their pain is a story worth telling—no matter how many people they have to kill to get an audience.”
The streets raced by in a blur of amber & shadow. Palma, in all its twilight charm, was a maze of secrets tonight. & somewhere out there, someone was weaving nightmares from silk & thread.
They drove in silence for a moment, the weight of the new crime pulling at their thoughts like undertow. Another woman. Another costume. Another life twisted into a page from a children’s story.
The Little Mermaid.
Snow White.
The pattern had begun & if they didn’t find the killer soon, the next chapter would be written in blood. Miranda finally broke the silence.
“Max, what if he doesn’t stop at fairytales? What if the story ends with someone we know?” Max’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, his stomach sinking with a dread he hadn’t yet dared to name. Then he said quietly
“Then we find him before the last act.”