Chapter 76
The morning began with sirens.
Elena was still half-asleep when they sliced through the early light, wailing somewhere down the street. She sat up in bed, heart pounding, the sound dragging her back from a shallow, uneasy dream.
Beside her, Adrian groaned and reached for her waist. “Go back to sleep,” he murmured.
“I can’t.”
He pressed his face into her shoulder. “You’re shaking.”
She hadn’t realized she was. “Something’s wrong,” she whispered.
“Something’s always wrong in this city,” he muttered, pulling her back down against his chest. “Don’t let it ruin the morning.”
But Elena couldn’t stop listening. Sirens, closer now — echoing, multiplying. She could feel them vibrate through the windowpanes.
Then her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She reached for it, hands trembling. A text from Marisa.
Turn on the news. Now.
Elena froze.
Adrian stirred. “Who is it?”
“Marisa.”
He made a noise that could’ve been annoyance or exhaustion. “Tell her it’s too early for gossip.”
But Elena was already unlocking her phone.
The notification at the top of her screen made her blood run cold.
BREAKING: Another Woman Found Dead in Midtown Hotel.
She tapped the link. A familiar reporter’s face appeared, voice grim beneath the scrolling headline.
“Police confirm the victim, a 29-year-old woman identified as Cassandra Lowe, was discovered early this morning in a midtown hotel room. Investigators say the circumstances of her death match the previous string of homicides attributed to the so-called ‘Midnight Killer.’”
Elena’s hand flew to her mouth.
Cassandra Lowe.
She’d seen that name before — on an RSVP list, she thought, one of Adrian’s networking events last month.
Her pulse raced. No. It can’t be.
Adrian sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What is it?”
She turned the phone toward him. “Another murder.”
He stared for a moment, then sighed heavily. “Christ. The city’s falling apart.”
Elena watched his face carefully. Too carefully.
No flicker of recognition. No shock that felt personal.
Still, her stomach twisted.
She read the next line aloud before she could stop herself.
“Police sources indicate the victim’s phone contained a recent contact — a number registered to Adrian Shaw.”
Her voice faltered on his name.
The silence that followed felt like a drop off a cliff.
Adrian’s expression didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he laughed. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t amused. It was thin, sharp, like the crack of glass.
“Of course it did,” he said.
Elena stared at him. “What?”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I knew this would happen eventually. They’ve been trying to tie me to this thing since the first headline. They won’t stop until they’ve got my name splashed across every paper.”
“You knew her?”
“No.” He looked at her finally, eyes dark and steady. “But I guarantee whoever she was, she got my number the same way dozens of people have — from business cards, from events, from friends. You know how many people have my number, Elena? Hundreds.”
Her voice shook. “But she died last night.”
“So?”
“So—” She swallowed. “You were with me last night.”
He turned to face her fully, his expression unreadable. “Exactly.”
Something about his calmness chilled her more than panic would have.
“You’re not worried?” she asked quietly.
“I’m furious,” he said. “Not worried.”
He stood and began pacing, the muscles in his back tensing with each turn. “They’re framing me. That detective—Hale—he’s been after me for months. He’ll twist anything into proof.”
Elena’s heart hammered. “Adrian, this isn’t a coincidence. That woman—”
“—was a stranger,” he cut in. “And if you start believing otherwise, then you’re exactly where they want you. They’re using fear to control you. Don’t let them.”
His voice was sharp now, too sharp. The air between them felt electric.
Elena whispered, “You sound scared.”
He froze. Slowly, he turned toward her. “I’m not scared. I’m angry.”
She didn’t answer.
He came closer, kneeling in front of her. “You know me,” he said softly, eyes locked on hers. “You’ve seen me at my best and my worst. Tell me, honestly — does any part of you truly believe I could do this?”
Her lips parted. “I don’t know anymore.”
Something flickered across his face. A tremor of hurt — or something darker, harder to name.
He rose slowly. “Then I guess they’ve already won.”
Later that day, Elena sat alone at a café, her untouched coffee cooling beside her. The city buzzed outside — sirens, chatter, the hum of traffic — but she felt sealed off, encased in fog.
The article had updated twice already. The victim’s timeline matched Adrian’s movements frighteningly close: the same parties, overlapping circles, even the same charity gala two weeks ago.
And the number on her phone wasn’t just in her contacts. It was logged under recent calls.
Three days before the murder.
She read it again, over and over, as if repetition could change reality.
Her phone buzzed. Hale.
She answered before she could lose her nerve.
“Elena,” his voice came, firm and low. “You’ve seen the news?”
“Yes.”
“You know what this means.”
Her throat tightened. “It means she called him.”
“It means they knew each other,” Hale said. “And if that’s true, then he lied to you.”
Elena looked down at the tiny swirl of steam escaping her cup. “Maybe it was business. Maybe she was a client.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know what I believe.”
There was a pause on the line. Then Hale said softly, “You need to get somewhere safe.”
She closed her eyes. “He didn’t do it.”
“Elena—”
“He couldn’t have. He was with me all night.”
Another pause. Then Hale’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Then he’s changing patterns. He’s making sure you’re his alibi.”
Her breath caught. “No.”
“Elena, please. Don’t ignore this.”
She ended the call before he could say more.
When she returned to the apartment, Adrian was in the kitchen, scrolling through his phone. His expression was unreadable, his jaw tense.
He looked up as she entered. “You disappeared.”
“I needed air.”
“Air?” His tone was sharp. “You could’ve texted.”
“I didn’t think I had to.”
He stared at her a long moment, then forced a smile. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s been a bad day.”
She nodded faintly.
He crossed the room and took her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “We’ll get through this,” he said softly. “You and me. Like always.”
“Adrian, the police—”
“—don’t matter,” he interrupted. “They’re vultures. The second they smell fear, they feed.”
“I’m not afraid,” she lied.
“Yes, you are.” He leaned closer, eyes narrowing slightly. “But not of them.”
Her pulse stuttered.
“You’re afraid of me,” he whispered.
“No.”
“Then why can’t you look at me when you say it?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I’m not afraid of you.”
For a moment, he studied her — as if weighing whether to believe her. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Good. Because I need you to trust me, Elena. More than ever.”
She managed a nod.
He kissed her forehead, lingering too long. “I love you,” he murmured. “No matter what anyone says.”
“I love you too,” she whispered automatically.
But her mind was spinning.
Cassandra Lowe. His number. Three days before she died.
And that look — the flicker of something dangerous when she’d said she didn’t believe him.
She smiled when he looked at her again, because she had to.
Because now, she wasn’t sure what scared her more — the idea that he was the killer, or the possibility that he wasn’t… and that she’d already stopped loving him anyway.
That night, when he fell asleep beside her, Elena lay awake staring at the ceiling, her mind looping one phrase from the article again and again.
The victim’s phone contained a recent call to Adrian Shaw.
She thought of the way he’d smiled when she’d asked about it. The way his anger had flared and vanished too easily.
And in the dark, something inside her shifted.
For the first time, she didn’t tell herself he can’t be the killer.
For the first time, she whispered, What if he is?
And worse — what if I’m next?