This is a bad idea. This is a really bad idea!

I thought as I stood in front of the main door of the house that witnessed the agonizing memory that haunted me everywhere.

I wasn't sure what exactly I was doing. I woke up today with a sentimental feeling and something inside told me I had to make this visit. The next thing I knew was that I was in my car driving to Brooklyn. And here I was, standing in front of my old home, not daring to take another step forward.

So many people advised me before that I had to visit the house. They told me that revisiting the scene of the trauma could help me get some kind of closure and move on, or even bring me some peace. I just couldn't...

However, I knew it had helped my grandmother. She cleaned the house after it was no longer considered a crime scene and used to spend long hours there whenever she felt like missing my father.

I remembered her going out for long hours and then coming home with red, puffy eyes. She said that she could feel his presence there. I was still young and thinking of that scared the hell out of me. I thought the house became haunted. Besides, I believed this might have worked with her because she didn't actually see them die in there.

Feeling overwhelmed with the memories, I was about to get back into my car, but something made me stop in my tracks. I looked at the house once again and made it closer to the door. I put the key into the keyhole with shaky hands before I turned it slowly. The door opened, and I felt my heart hammering inside my chest. I swallowed hard and took slow steps inside.

Finding the light switch, I turned it on. The first thing that my eyes fell on was the place where everything happened. My heart pounded even harder, and my breath felt like it was being ripped out of my lungs.

Even though my grandmother made sure that everything was wiped, cleaned, and looked as if nothing had happened here, I could still clearly see the large pool of blood that surrounded the lifeless bodies of my parents, and their blood scattered everywhere.

A nauseating feeling crept through my abdomen when I felt the house was still scented with the smell of blood and death mixed with gunpowder.

I tried so hard to pull myself together and to hold it on, but I couldn't. I felt all my walls and masks coming tumbling down, as I couldn't hold the burning tears in my eyes any longer. A sob escaped my mouth, followed by a few teardrops, but they soon turned into a shower of salty tears that streamed down my cheeks, and my loud sobs echoed through the house.

Everything turned into a blur as I broke down completely. I felt that every tear was releasing some of the sadness, sorrow, and pain that had been trapped inside of me for too long, for I was always too terrified to confront them.

It felt like hours had passed, and I was still crying. I cried until I was no longer able to.

Currently, I was sitting on the floor, motionless. However, I was surprised at the sense of relief that had dared to creep into me.

Taking a deep breath, I started looking around me. And I realized I was no longer only seeing a scene of a trauma or a crime. I was seeing my old home; the one I grew up in and was a witness to a lot of my pleasant childhood memories.

Standing up, I started wandering around the house. Every part reminded me of a sweet memory. I remembered my mom standing in the kitchen, smiling at me while making my favorite cookies. And when my dad used to come home after a long, tiring workday. I would run to him, and he would carry and wrap me in a hug.

I walked upstairs and got into my old bedroom. I could see my mom reading me a bedtime story, and then falling asleep next to me. Then, I went into my father's study room. It was his own little office; he used to spend a lot of time there looking through his cases. I smiled as I remembered all the times I begged him to tell me about his adventures at work and about the bad guys he caught and put away.

I felt so nostalgic. Those memories had a bitter-sweet taste, yet they brought a smile to my face.

I wandered around the office a little and decided to check my dad's desk. I opened the drawers and looked through them; they had many files and reports of cases.

One of them, in particular, caught my attention. The file had nothing inside of it except for a few pictures of victims murdered in different ways. Yet all the crime scenes had something in common—a mark that looked like a symbol. It was either carved on their bodies or painted with blood. I tried looking for anything else related to the case, but I couldn't find any. It looked like a case of serial murders, but the file didn't have any information or details except for those pictures.

Looking at my watch, I was surprised by how late it was. I couldn't believe I had spent the whole day here. I stood up and decided to take the file with me, as the case had piqued my interest.

I went downstairs and walked to the door. I gave the house one last look before I stepped out. With a loud bang, I closed the door behind me. It felt as if I were shutting the door of the past behind me.

Looking at the house one last time, I let out another sigh as I got into my car and started driving away.

After I went home, I started looking through the internet for information about the case. I felt disappointed because all I found were a few articles about the victims and the fear of a new serial killer wandering the streets of New York. I also found out that the mark was a Chinese symbol, meaning strength and power. This meant that the unsub was daring enough to leave a sign of power on his victims.

I did not know why I was so interested in that case, but I really wanted to know more, so I decided to look for more information about it at the bureau.

***

"Where did you get those?" Wyatt asked with a raised eyebrow while looking through the photos.

"I found them between my father's files." I shrugged, telling him the truth.

His eyes widened a little. "You went to the house?"

I nodded, saying nothing.

He sighed and looked at the photos in his hands for a while, then looked back at me.

"There were a lot of agents assigned to this case, including your father, who was really interested in it," he said. "At the beginning, we suspected it was the handiwork of a new serial killer in town, but it was just an assumption because we had no leads at all. We kept investigating and going through every little detail, but it was useless. The murderer didn't leave any piece of evidence behind."

"Did it turn into a cold case?" I asked, hoping for a negative answer. The number of cold, unsolved cases was really disappointing, especially those of a horrifying nature.

"Well, you can say that," he answered vaguely.

I raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"We figured out that we weren't dealing with a serial killer, but a whole crime network."

"The mob?" It made sense. Crime organizations tended to leave a sign of power on their victims, like cutting body parts off or leaving marks and signatures.

He nodded. "The case isn't ours anymore. Organized crime took charge of it, but they haven't made any progress nor found any useful information about the mob to this day."

I nodded in disappointment.

"Why are you so interested in that case, anyway?"

"I don't know. Maybe I was just curious to know more about it." I shrugged, then I stood up and gave him a polite smile. "Thank you for your time, sir."

I was about to walk out of the door, but Wyatt called for me.

"Alex, wait."

I turned to look at him.

"We went through every case your father worked on. We investigated and interrogated dozens of people, but we couldn't find anything that would lead us to the bastards who did it." He swallowed hard, looking at me with sorrowful eyes. "You should really move on, Alex. It has been a long time and I'm sure James and Olivia would have wanted you to move on, too."

I sighed. "I know," I said, giving him a forced smile. "Thank you again, sir."

I rushed out of the office before he could get the chance to add anything else.

Throughout my whole life, I always wondered how I could ever move on from the murder of my own parents, knowing that the people who did it got off scot-free.

And every time, I ended up reaching the same conclusion. All I could do was live with the memory, for I was afraid that moving on would never be an option for me...