Chapter 72

Chapter 72
Ben

"Thank you, Ben," she whispered, her voice muffled against my shirt. "Thank you for being here. I couldn't have done this without you."

"Of course," I murmured, my own throat tight. "He's my best friend, Gracie. We'll get through this. Together."

We walked out of the hospital, into the harsh light of a new day. A day where David Corbin, the city's hero detective, was no more. He was just a patient now, locked away in a silent ward, his mind lost to the darkness he tried so hard to fight. And I, his closest friend, had helped put him there, believing I was doing the right thing. It felt like a defeat, a bitter, soul-crushing defeat.

Gracie

A few months. That’s all it took for the dust to settle, for the world to turn, for the city to start forgetting. It always does. People move on. They have to. And that was always part of the plan.

Life had shifted, quietly, like a gentle breeze after a hurricane. Newport City is different now. You could feel it in the air, a subtle ease of the tension that used to cling to everything. The news still talked about David sometimes, but it was softer now, sympathetic. The brave detective who broke under the weight of a corrupt city. A tragic hero. That was the story the public believed, the story I made sure they got. It was a good one, a clean one, and it kept the real truth buried deep. The Killer had vanished after David went insane. The world believed the monster was gone.

And for me? It was like finally exhaling after holding my breath for years. The mission was complete. Every single one of them—the abusers, the pedophiles, the men who protected them, the ones who let evil thrive—they were gone. Out of the picture. The rot had been cut out, surgically, precisely. And the system, forced to acknowledge its own failings because of David’s highly public breakdown, was actually trying to clean itself up. There wasn't so much crime anymore, not the kind that preyed on the voiceless. People were being held accountable. Things were changing. It was exactly what I wanted.

I was living again. Truly living. Not just existing in that cold, calculated space. My apartment felt different now, lighter. It wasn't just a base of operations, a place to hide. It was home. I still woke up early, still had my routines, but they were no longer dictated by the chilling demands of a hunt. They were simply… mine.

My job as a school counselor felt more meaningful than ever. Before, it was a good cover, a way to stay close to potential victims, to understand the patterns of abuse. Now, it was a place where I could genuinely help. I could spot the subtle signs, the quiet fear in a child’s eyes, the way they flinched. And I could direct them, silently, to the right resources, to people who would listen, now that the worst of the corruption had been purged. I could protect them, without needing to become the Killer again. That part of my life, that necessary evil, was done.

And the women's shelter. I still volunteer there a few evenings a week. It was humbling, heartbreaking work. Listening to their stories, seeing the raw pain of betrayal and violence. Before, it fueled my rage, reminded me why I hunted. Now, it grounded me. It reminded me of what I fought for, what David's sacrifice had bought. It was a quieter kind of justice, a healing kind. Helping them rebuild, helping them find their voice. It felt… clean.

Ben and I still saw each other, of course. He was my connection to the old world, to David. And to the narrative. He was still reeling from everything. Losing David, his best friend, had hit him hard. He was more somber now, more watchful. But he was also fiercely protective of me, the 'grieving partner.' It was a role I played well, easily. It didn't take much effort anymore. The tears that came, when I thought of David, were not entirely fake. There was a strange kind of sorrow for him, for what I had done to him, even though I knew it was necessary.

We visited David at the facility, St. Jude's, a few times a month. It was always difficult. He was in a quiet ward, heavily sedated most of the time. His eyes, once so sharp, were often vacant. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was usually a jumble of words about shadows and truths that only he could see. He hummed that tune sometimes, the same one he hummed in the warehouse. It was chilling to hear, a constant reminder of the price he paid.

Ben would sit by his bed, holding his hand, talking to him about mundane things, the weather, a new case at the precinct (a far less complex one, now that the real cancer was gone). I would sit beside Ben, my hand resting gently on David’s arm, my face carefully composed into an expression of quiet grief. The nurses and doctors always commended my strength, my dedication. It was all part of the act, the final curtain call.

But as I sat there, watching David, lost in his own mind, a strange sense of relief washed over me. Not joy, never joy in his suffering. But relief. He was safe now. From the monsters, from the truth, from himself. He couldn't expose me. He couldn't undo what I had achieved. And he couldn't be hurt again, not by the vile men he was trying to catch, and not by the twisted demands of a society that turned a blind eye. His mind was his prison, but it was also his sanctuary.

When we left the facility, walking out into the sunlight, I felt a lightness I hadn't known was possible. The weight of the Killer, the weight of the mission, was finally off my shoulders. I had done what needed to be done. I had seen it through. The world believed the Killer had vanished. And in a way, she had. She was just Gracie Reed now. Helping. Healing. Living. A quiet woman, with a past no one would ever suspect, enjoying the peace she had so brutally earned for her city. The truth was finally mine.