"Another death? Are you saying this house is a murder house?" Charlie asked cautiously.
The price was tempting, but not tempting enough to bet his life on. More importantly, something about the place triggered his professional instincts. It felt like a case—unfinished, buried, and quietly festering.
Dr. Harmon immediately stepped in to smooth things over. "You can't really call it a murder house. We don't know much about the earlier owners. You're police—don't you trust your colleagues' investigations? There's no death report on record. At most, there were a few missing-person cases filed. We're selling purely for personal reasons."
He paused, then added quickly, "I'm a psychiatrist, and my wife recently suffered a miscarriage. We're both under a lot of stress. It has nothing to do with the house. Oh—and my daughter is home too. You can ask her how she feels."
In the end, they never met the doctor's daughter.
A door upstairs remained firmly closed. Through it came a faint, irritated voice saying she had a headache and didn't want to see anyone. No one pushed the matter. They were there to view a property, not interrogate a family.
"Goodbye, Doctor."
"Goodbye, Detectives."
The farewell was polite, professional, and distant.
As they walked away from the property, Natasha suddenly slowed and pointed toward the corner of the street. "Someone's watching us."
They all turned at once.
An elderly woman stood half-hidden behind a low fence, staring at them openly. She looked old—sharp cheekbones, deep eye bags—but her appearance was meticulously maintained. Her hair was styled, her makeup carefully applied. She wore a floral dress, chestnut-colored heels, and carried a refined handbag that didn't match the neighborhood at all.
After everything they'd been through, fear barely registered anymore.
Charlie walked over calmly. "Ma'am, is something wrong?"
The woman's eyes flashed with hostility. "If you move into that house, you'll die. All of you will die. Stay away from that place!"
The words were sharp, almost rehearsed.
Charlie and Samantha immediately showed their badges. "LAPD. What do you mean by that? How do you know this? What do you know about the house?"
The woman stiffened. Panic flickered across her face.
"I—I don't know anything! I was just joking! Just trying to scare you!"
She clearly hadn't realized who she was talking to. Without another word, she hurried back into her house and slammed the door shut.
Charlie and Samantha exchanged a look but didn't pursue it. They were still outsiders here, and pushing too hard too soon wouldn't help.
"Let's go," Charlie said. "We'll look at the other listings."
By evening, Charlie and Samantha returned to their rented apartment to "rest."
There was an unmistakable closeness between them now—long-delayed, finally allowed to breathe. Back in Tucson, tragedy had pressed in from all sides. It hadn't felt right to think about anything personal. Los Angeles was different. Anonymous. Quiet. No one watching.
Bella and Natasha, understanding perfectly well what "rest" meant, gave them space and headed out instead.
As they passed a dimly lit grove nearby, Natasha suddenly stopped.
"I want to spar."
Bella raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You want me to go all out? With that body of yours?"
"Stop talking. Come on. If you can't handle it, say so."
"Hey—loosen your legs! You're cutting off my air!"
Natasha didn't waste words. She moved.
Her hand pressed against Bella's throat as she vaulted up with smooth precision, using Bella's body like a springboard. One leg hooked over Bella's shoulder, then the other followed, clamping tight around her neck as Natasha drove her weight down.
Bella reacted on instinct. No technique, no finesse—just power. She grabbed Natasha and slammed her back-first into a tree.
Both of them gasped for air.
"You almost choked me!"
"Again."
"That was Brazilian jiu-jitsu, wasn't it?"
Natasha smirked. "Not bad. You noticed."
The next half hour was brutal.
Brazilian jiu-jitsu was designed for exactly this kind of matchup—smaller, faster fighters dismantling stronger ones. Bella's raw strength and speed became weaknesses as Natasha wrapped, twisted, locked, and squeezed her into every conceivable position.
Bella learned quickly. When Natasha squeezed, Bella squeezed back—harder.
By the time they staggered back toward the apartment, both were sore, bruised, and barely upright, supporting each other just to walk straight.
—
The following days fell into a strange rhythm.
Daytime meant house viewings, paperwork, and investigations. Nights meant either closed doors—or the grove.
Natasha's combat ability improved at an absurd pace, and Bella, dragged along as a live training dummy, picked up techniques she'd never considered before. Raw power alone wasn't enough. Control mattered.
Despite everything, the "murder house" kept pulling Charlie and Samantha back.
It was large, solid, recently renovated, and move-in ready. And at $260,000, it was absurdly cheap. After purchase, they'd still have enough savings left for a proper wedding—and even a honeymoon.
The deaths didn't bother them much. In an old city like Los Angeles, almost every house had a history.
"Tomorrow," Charlie said one night, "I'll check the station archives. See what actually happened with those missing people."
"I'll bring a few colleagues to look at the house again," Samantha added.
They moved carefully. Methodically.
Two days of digging through files later, they found that the tenant before Dr. Harmon had committed suicide. Earlier than that, there was only a record of a fire. On paper, the house was clean.
Too clean.