Shattered Minds by Christopher Cuomo

A killer is leaving clues. A detective is following them. But what if they’re the same man?

A detective haunted by a series of brutal murders unravels a chilling truth—that he is unknowingly the killer, fractured by a forgotten experiment.

In the quiet Midwestern town of Havenbrook, Detective Elias Shaw is tracking a series of gruesome, symbolic murders that seem to be sending him a message. The victims are chosen with precision. The scenes are constructed like rituals. And the deeper Elias digs, the more familiar everything feels.

But Elias isn’t just solving the case — he’s remembering it.

Shattered Minds is a chilling psychological thriller where identity splinters, memory betrays, and the most dangerous secrets are the ones we hide from ourselves. Fans of The Silent Patient and Memento will love this dark, twisting journey through trauma, truth, and transformation.

Amazon Kindle Amazon Hardcover

Excerpt from Shattered Minds © Copyright 2025 Christopher Cuomo

Chapter Three – Elias: Outpatient

Elias stood outside the psychiatric outpatient clinic, its brick facade dull beneath a slate-gray sky. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and something else—coppery and bitter, like blood remembered but not spilled. His right hand twitched in his coat pocket, fingers unconsciously tracing the spiral pattern burned into his lighter.

He hadn’t slept well. Again.

Dr. Caldwell always said dreams were the mind’s way of re-shelving thoughts, like librarians cleaning up after a raucous day of emotional patrons. But Elias knew better. His dreams weren’t disorganized files. They were messages. Warnings. Sometimes even instructions.

He stepped inside. The waiting room was quiet, sterile. Pale blue walls. Mismatched chairs. A single potted plant that looked half-dead. On the far wall hung a motivational poster with a mountain peak and the words: “The Journey Inward Is the Hardest Path.”

Bullshit.

Dr. Caldwell waved him in without a smile. Her office was as minimalist as always: two chairs, one desk, a single framed photo—her and a younger version of herself, both smiling like people who’d never learned how to fake it.

“Rough night?” she asked.

Elias didn’t answer. Instead, he sat, rubbed his temples, and muttered, “I think it’s happening again.”

Her pen stilled on the pad.

“You want to tell me what it is?”

He stared past her, eyes locked on the faint crack in the plaster wall just above her shoulder. It curved ever so slightly, like a spiral stretched out and then forgotten.

“There was another murder,” he said.

She nodded slowly. “I saw the report. The market incident.”

“I was there,” he added.

“You witnessed it?”

“No,” Elias said, voice cracking. “I think I… was it.”

Silence.

Caldwell leaned forward, the tone in her voice shifting from clinical to careful.

“You’ve had these dissociative episodes before. Do you believe you harmed someone?”

“I don’t remember,” he admitted. “But I had blood under my nails. I’ve had… flashes. Not dreams. More like memories. But I don’t think they’re mine.”

Caldwell tapped the pen twice on her notepad. “What kind of memories?”

“Children screaming. A mirrored room. A red journal. And… a voice. It sounds like me, but not.”

He finally looked at her.

“It calls itself Red.”