The Devil in the Spotlight

I’m on the set of Second Act, the celebrity dating show, and the host asks me which of the male contestants has caught my eye.

I let my gaze drift over the three of them—the award-winning actor, the legendary rock star, the fresh-faced pop idol—and offer a serene smile.

“One of the men on this stage is a serial killer. Three years ago, you dismembered my sister.”

The studio lights feel like interrogations lamps.

“You left her in pieces, made sure there was nothing left for us to bury, and turned her into a cautionary tale for the tabloids to mock.”

I lean into the microphone, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carries through the silent studio.

“Now, it’s my turn to find you.”

1

I’m the youngest deception specialist the department has ever had. After a guest lecture I gave on micro-expressions went viral, my public profile exploded. I was the “human lie detector,” the cop who could read your soul.

That’s when the producers of Second Act came calling.

They offered me a spot alongside A-listers: Ethan Frost, the acting titan; Marcus Croft, the rock icon; and Liam Scott, the current heartthrob of the moment.

My captain encouraged me to take it. “This is a huge opportunity, Hayes. Community outreach, public education… the department needs this win.”

I feigned reluctance, but my eyes were already fixed on the wall of my apartment. It’s covered in a constellation of their faces, each photo pinned and connected by a web of red thread. Years of obsessive research, every lead, every rumor, every possible connection mapped out in excruciating detail. It’s a spiderweb, and I’m just waiting for the last strand to be spun.

A cold smile touches my lips. The man who killed my sister, Sophie, is in that room.

He’s one of those gods. One of those untouchable celebrities.

2

Three years ago, my world ended.

Sophie was paying her way through Juilliard by playing the harp at private events. One night, a party of celebrities booked the penthouse lounge. She was called in to perform. She never came home.

We found her three days later. A homeless man was scavenging behind a restaurant and found a discarded refrigerator. Inside were several black trash bags, heavy with what he thought was discarded meat from the kitchen. A lucky break, he must have thought. Then he opened the first bag.

Countless pieces of my sister spilled onto the grimy asphalt.

The toxicology report came back clean. No drugs, no sedatives. There were ligature marks on her wrists and ankles. She was awake for all of it. She was conscious as he took her apart, piece by piece. When the medical examiner gently told me that the remains were too fragmented to reconstruct, I collapsed right there in the morgue, a raw, helpless wail tearing from my throat.

That was the day I officially made detective. My first case was my own flesh and blood.

The story caused a media firestorm, of course. All the celebrities who attended the party were questioned, but it led nowhere. The exclusive club, citing the privacy of its high-profile clientele, had no security cameras in the penthouse. Their PR machines went into overdrive, expertly spinning a new narrative: Sophie wasn’t just a musician; she was an obsessed fan, a stalker who had gotten too close.

It was laughable. My sister was at the top of her class, brilliant and driven. But because she had a favorite actor, she was posthumously branded a "crazy fangirl" who "had it coming."

This season on Second Act, every major suspect from that night is on the cast list. How could I possibly say no?

The first day of filming is at a remote lodge upstate. I arrive early, choosing a quiet corner of the grand living room to observe. With my minimal makeup and severe posture, I’m sure I stick out.

The live-stream comments are already rolling in:

[Can she really tell if you're lying just by looking at you? Seriously?]
[Probably just a gimmick. She looks way too young to be a real detective. All for show.]

One of the other contestants, a self-proclaimed tech millionaire, is loudly bemoaning his single status to anyone who will listen.

I can’t help but chuckle. “Sir, I think showing up to a dating show while you’re actively cheating on two different women is a bit much, don’t you?”

His face freezes. “What are you talking about? I’m completely single, that’s why I’m here!” he barks, his voice a little too loud.

The producers gave me one instruction: be myself.

“You intentionally raised your volume when you said ‘completely single,’ your eyes darted down and to the left, and you started to bring your hand to your nose before catching yourself—all classic tells of deception,” I state calmly. “Your collar carries a heavy rose perfume, you have a phone in each of your front pockets, and I saw you texting on both. Your expression was annoyed when you replied on one, and you were smiling at the other. My guess? You’re in the messy middle of a divorce and juggling an affair.”

He’s not the only one staring. The entire crew is silent. The live chat explodes.

[NO WAY. She just met him three minutes ago. That's insane.]

I deliver the final blow. “And you can still see the pale band on your ring finger where your wedding band was until very recently. The skin hasn’t even tanned over yet.”

After a frantic background check, the producers confirm he is, in fact, married. He’s promptly kicked off the show.

I finish my work and mentally count down. Three, two, one…

Right on cue, a man sits down across from me.

“Detective Hayes. You live up to the reputation. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice smooth as velvet. “Would you do me the honor of being my partner for this first challenge?”

He extends a hand, a warm, genuine smile playing on his lips. His face is a masterpiece, the kind of symmetrical perfection that cameras adore. Every lens in the room swivels to capture him.

Ethan Frost. Three-time Golden Globe winner. A prodigy who started acting as a child and became a living legend. His filmography is impeccable, his public persona flawless. He funds charities, builds schools in impoverished regions, and has a foundation dedicated to helping fans who have fallen on hard times.

I arrange my features into a look of appropriate, flattered surprise.

This is exactly what I wanted. My little display of skill was all for him.

Ethan Frost was the star my sister, Sophie, loved more than any other.

3

I blink, manufacturing a micro-expression of confusion. “Mr. Frost, I thought you were here as a special guest commentator for the first episode. Did the rules change?”

He gives a soft, charming laugh. “The producers verified your claims, and our tech millionaire is no longer with us. They were in a bind, and I happened to be available to fill the spot. It’s a pleasure to be working with you.”

When we shake, his hand is warm, his scent clean and subtle, like sunlight and cedar.

I study him, my professional mask firmly in place.

Could this man, this paragon of virtue, really be the monster who butchered a young woman on a rainy night?

My takedown of the first contestant makes me an instant celebrity and a pariah among the other men. They give me a wide berth, terrified I might expose their own secrets. Only Ethan remains by my side, the perfect gentleman.

The viewers are eating it up. The live chat is a frenzy.

[A walking lie detector. These celebrities better watch their backs.]
[Oh no… my fave said he has a phobia of women. Is that true? ASK HER.]

I play my part. “Aren't you afraid of me, Mr. Frost?”

Our eyes meet. His smile doesn’t waver. “Everyone has secrets, Detective. But if they aren’t fatal, why be afraid? Or are you telling me you don’t have any secrets of your own?”

The comment section sings his praises:

[So honest and open. He's the gold standard. Even if everyone else gets cancelled, he never will.]
[Seriously. Talent, integrity, charisma… is there a more perfect man in Hollywood?]

I’ve watched his original police interview a hundred times. He passed the most advanced polygraph test without a single flicker. When they showed him the crime scene photos of Sophie—the blurred, unrecognizable masses of flesh—his emotional response was textbook. I’ve magnified the footage, analyzed it frame by frame.

“His pupils don’t dilate at all,” I told my captain back then. “He’s not feeling horror. He’s feeling nothing.”

“Hayes, I get it, I do,” my colleague had said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “But you can’t let your grief turn into a witch hunt. Our job requires objectivity.”

But my gut screamed that he was lying.

And I will watch him. I will find the proof. If he is the one, he will not escape my sight.

4

The first episode’s ratings go through the roof.

My presence has given the show a completely unexpected edge, and the network is quick to capitalize on it. The second episode’s date activity is set in an escape room. The theme: a murder mystery.

We’re in a dilapidated mansion, spattered with fake blood. The lights flicker ominously. Ethan picks up the first clue card.

“It says here this scenario is based on a real cold case from thirteen years ago,” he reads. “This mansion is a recreation of the original crime scene…”

I don’t even need to look at the card. “The Blackwood Manor Murders.”

Everyone turns to me.

“Thirteen years ago, a family of three was slaughtered in their beds in a suburban mansion just like this one,” I explain. “The killer was never found. I assume that’s the case this is based on.”

Ethan laughs, a low, appreciative sound. “Detective, you do remember this is supposed to be a dating show, right?”

I understand my role perfectly. I take a step forward, placing myself in front of him with an air of righteous duty. “The police are here to protect and serve. You have nothing to fear, Mr. Frost.”

Ethan sighs, shaking his head with a look of fond exasperation. The live audience goes wild.

[Everyone else is playing games and flirting, and these two are solving a cold case. I am SO here for this.]
[I’ve never seen him talk this much to a woman on one of these shows. Ever.]

We head to the master bedroom on the second floor. A male mannequin, maybe thirty years old, lies on the bed. The prop is disturbingly realistic. While the other contestants shriek and giggle nervously, I scan the room.

“The killer only wanted to kill, not to steal. The victim is still wearing his gold wedding ring,” I observe. “This suggests a specific psychological profile. He’s capable of murder, but views theft as beneath him. He likely has a stable job, or at least a strong sense of his own social standing.”

Ethan raises an eyebrow. “You don’t just read the living, Detective? You read the dead, too?”

“My undergraduate minor was in criminal psychology. What’s your take, Mr. Frost?”

“Well, I’d hate to show off in front of an expert,” he says, his tone playful, but his eyes are sharp. He walks over to the balcony, where the female mannequin lies.

“The time of death was around 3 a.m. The family was asleep. The killer took care of the child first, then came upstairs. After killing the husband, he could have easily killed the wife right there in the bed. But he didn’t. He dragged her out here.”

“Maybe she was trying to escape,” I suggest.

“To escape, you’d run for the stairs, for the ground floor. Not onto a balcony cluttered with a washing machine and old furniture.” He points to a single, weather-beaten streetlamp just outside the balcony railing. “He dragged her out here for this.”

He closes his eyes, his voice taking on a magnetic, narrative quality. “He used the light. Just enough to see her face. To watch her expression as she died. This killer… he hates women. The husband and child were obstacles. The main event, the real delicacy, is always saved for last.”

His words send a shockwave through me.

The detail about the streetlamp… no one on the original case file ever noted that. It could be a whole new line of inquiry.

Noticing my grim expression, Ethan leans in closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “I just shot a thriller. Did some research for the role. I’m just spitballing here, Detective. You’re not taking me seriously, are you?”

His gaze is a challenge. I feel my breath catch.

When you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.

Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream from one of the female contestants shatters the tension. We rush over to find her pointing at a large prop wardrobe. “Don’t come any closer!” she shrieks.

The wardrobe door is slightly ajar. Stuffed inside, folded into an unnatural position, is a female body.

It’s not a mannequin.

The body is headless. Her feet are bound with duct tape. The cut at the neck is brutally precise.

My head snaps toward Ethan.

His pupils are dilated, his lips slightly parted. The fleeting expression on his face isn’t shock or fear.

It is pure, unadulterated… exhilaration.

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