Ch. 22 | The Beige Rebellion

Jasmine took a sizable sip of her latte as she scanned the latest notes on the Jilinski case. The ME’s office had ruled it a murder-suicide: Peter Jilinski, the husband, shot his wife and two daughters before turning the gun on himself.

Textbook. On paper.

But Jasmine didn’t buy it.

The neighbors had all spoken glowingly of the family. Not a bad word among them. Still, something about Lago Tierra didn’t sit right with her. The gated community had the sheen of respectability—pristine lawns, manicured lives—but Jasmine had spent enough time around the rich to know: behind their smiles often lived rot.

The case stirred old memories. Lago Tierra reminded her too much of her childhood—of walking hallways she was never meant to be in. A scholarship kid with working-class Indonesian parents, Jasmine had grown up in the Bay Area’s elite prep school circuit. She'd learned how to navigate the social gymnastics early: how to smile without showing teeth, how to shrink herself in rooms of privilege. She even almost married into that world—until her fiancé revealed the racism simmering beneath his curated charm.

That was the last straw. She walked away from a gilded life, joined the police academy in Daly City, and eventually found her way to Las Vegas.

The move made sense. More affordable. More real.

And more cases like this one.

She’d been paired with Greg, another California transplant, for the last few months. He was old-school, stiff at times, but she liked him. Underneath the gruff exterior, he respected her instincts. Most days, anyway.

“So what do you think?” Greg asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.

Jasmine tapped her pen against the desk. “I’m trying to wrap my head around the Jilinski case. Everyone says they were the perfect family—no red flags. But something doesn’t add up. Janice had all the hallmarks of a ‘beige mom.’”

“A what now?” Greg squinted.

“It’s a social media thing,” Jasmine explained. “It’s the minimalist, neutral aesthetic—beige walls, beige toys, beige kids’ clothes. Picture-perfect on Instagram, emotionally hollow in real life.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “That’s… grim.”

“Fitting, right?” Jasmine smirked. “I just feel like something was being performed. And I don’t trust performances.”

She flipped through a stack of financial documents.

“Look at this—Peter’s full salary wasn’t going into his main account. Only a portion. The rest? MIA.”

Greg leaned in. “He was skimming off the top?”

“Looks like it. His HR rep gave me the breakdown.” Jasmine slid the documents over. “It could mean he was planning something. Maybe a divorce?”

“Then why kill his whole family?” Greg asked. “If he wanted out, he could’ve pulled a financial fade. Quietly lower his net worth, play the long game. That’s what accountants do.”

Jasmine frowned. “Exactly. Which means this wasn’t just about money. Or maybe… it wasn’t him at all.”

Greg nodded slowly, the theory clearly unsettling him. “What about the Griers?”

Jasmine was about to respond when he cut her off.

“We don’t even know if that case is connected. They left of their own accord.”

“Supposedly,” Jasmine muttered.

Before they could go further, a uniformed officer appeared at their desks, face pale.

“My sergeant wants you both at the scene,” he said. “Two more Lago Tierra residents. Found dead on the property.”

Greg and Jasmine exchanged a look. Not a word needed.

Three sets of victims. Same neighborhood.

Jasmine grabbed her keys. “I’m driving.”

As they stepped outside, she felt her brain start to buzz. This wasn’t random. Not anymore.

Something dark was brewing in Lago Tierra.

And now, finally, the cracks were starting to show.