The Mirror Knew My Name

I’ve been a detective for twelve years. I’ve seen staged robberies, fake suicides,

clean getaways. But this one was wrong. The address didn’t show up on any map.

No building permit. No owner. Yet the door was open. Inside,

everything was spotless. No blood. No fingerprints. Except one thing. A chair in the center

of the room. Facing a mirror. On the mirror, written in dust, was my name.

First and last. I checked my badge number. It was scratched into the floor beneath

the chair. That’s when my radio turned on by itself. Dispatch said, “Detective… we found

the victim.” I asked where. They paused. Then said, “He’s standing in