Chapter Text
Twelve women dead in two years, all targeted on their way home from work, all mothers to daughters and nothing else to link them. The killer left almost nothing behind—no pattern, no clues—just fear. And now, with every traditional lead dried up, they were turning to criminals.
Josie felt a pang of unease as Dorian spoke. Their uncle, their late father’s best friend, he has lost so much yet was always so good to them. "They... no I don't deserve him, Lizzie did" Josie thought to herself.
“We’re down to three,” Dorian began, sliding the files forward. “These aren’t just any criminals. They’re... smart, too smart.”
Josie opened the first file, immediately recognizing the name. Milton Greasley, or MG—he was practically a legend in the FBI. An art thief, a genius, notorious for pulling off some of the most daring heists. She glanced at Lizzie, who seemed less impressed.
“MG and his partner Kaleb Hawkins,” Dorian continued, gesturing to the second file. “Brothers in everything but blood. They made their name stealing priceless art, but the need to show off and prove just how much smarter they were . Smart, but sloppy.”
Josie quickly scanned the pages. She already knew most of this—Burma, a blood diamond, and their eventual capture sneaking back into the U.S. by none other than their father, Alaric. The two had never hurt anyone, though. They avoided using weapons, preferring their wits over violence.
“They’re not killers,” Dorian added, his voice slightly distant, as if weighing the ethics of using them for a case like this. “But their intelligence is unmatched. You could use them.”
Lizzie rolled her eyes. “And the last one?” she asked, sounding bored.
Josie didn’t miss the way Dorian hesitated before picking up the third file. His fingers lingered over it, and for a moment, Josie saw something flicker in his eyes—pain, regret. But Lizzie hadn’t noticed. She never did when it came to subtle things like this.
“The last one... Hope Marshall,” Dorian said quietly, pushing the file toward them.
Josie frowned, flipping it open. The name was unfamiliar, but the details immediately stood out. A genius—5.0 GPA, studied psychology at Harvard and so very beautiful. The rest of the file was frustratingly classified. No known family. Nothing else.
“She’s smart,” Lizzie said flatly, scanning the limited information. “But why her? What’s so special about Hope Marshall?”
Josie looked up at Dorian, who was still standing too stiffly, too quietly.
“Her real name,” he said, voice tight, “was Hope Mikaelson.”
Josie’s breath caught. Mikaelson. She had heard that name before—everyone had. Klaus Mikaelson, the king of the New Orleans underworld. He had controlled the city’s crime with an iron grip, and when he died, there had been chaos. Blood in the streets.
Dorian met her eyes, and Josie could see how much it hurt him to even say her name. “Your father found out about her, apparently Klaus had sent her away when she was born under her mothers name to keep her safe from his enemies. But after your father found out about him, he made a deal with Klaus, he'd protect Hope from his enemies and the law all Klaus had to do was give up his organisation. But before that could go anywhere Klaus died.”
Lizzie’s expression shifted, but still didn’t catch on to the deeper emotion in Dorian’s voice. She leaned back, arms crossed. “So, she’s some mob princess?”
“No,” Dorian said, shaking his head. “She became... something else. After a few years, she disappeared. Then, the next time anyone heard about her, she was an assassin. Killing all over the world.”
Josie felt a chill run down her spine. “Why her?” she asked softly, watching as Dorian’s gaze dropped, the pain in his eyes too obvious now. “Why suggest her, knowing what she’s done?”
Dorian exhaled slowly, struggling for a moment before speaking. “Because she’s brilliant. She understands the mind of a killer like no one else. And right now, you need someone like her.”
Lizzie leaned forward, sensing something else in his hesitation. “And why are you so... emotional about it?” she pressed.
But Dorian didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Instead, he stood, his shoulders heavy, and walked toward the door. “You’ll have to decide if you can trust her,” he said over his shoulder. “But you’re going to need her.”
As he left the room, Josie stared at the door, her mind swirling with questions. There was more to this than Dorian was telling them. She knew it. She just didn’t know what.
And as for Hope Mikaelson—or Marshall, or whatever name she went by now—Josie had the sinking feeling that they were about to open a door they couldn’t close.