CHAPTER 48
But the eye slips, rolls slightly, and I almost drop Dexter from how violently I recoil. My stomach lurches and I cough, nearly retching. The baster has a smear of blood inside, but no eye.
I gag and Dexter complains but we try again.
The baster wobbles in my grip.
I reposition, squeeze and release.
This time, it slurps inside.
There’s a nauseating pop as it fills the clear tube like the world’s worst science fair project.
And… it’s in there.
Looking at me.
Veiny. Glazed. Judgmental.
I hold it out like it’s radioactive. I can’t put it down. Can’t bring it inside. Can’t think with it… staring at me.
I set Dexter down gently—he gives me a look likeAre you sure that’s wise, Mother?
I move to the body.
I don’t want to touch him. Every cell in me screamsdon’t, but I can’t leave this eyeball tube like a grisly driveway ornament. I need it hidden.
I crouch. Reach out. With my thumb and forefinger—just the tips—I pinch the edge of his shirt sleeve. Not even fabric. Just thread.
It lifts slowly. Heavy with death. My other hand trembles as I slide the baster beneath the arm like a weird, murderous thermometer.
Then I let go.
His hand flops, then settles.
It scares the piddle out of me and I jump back. “Holy guacamole.”
My hand slaps to my chest, like I can hold my heart in place by force.
My breath comes in fluttery bursts.
Dexter lets out a single bark likeMa’am, control yourself.
I step back and immediately slip on the blood. My foot skids—I do a not-so-graceful hop to stay upright.
“Okay,” I whisper, hand still pressed to my sternum. “Okay. That’s done.”
But it’s not.
Because I still have a body to deal with.
My Second Body.
There’s a knife on the driveway.My knife.
It catches the light like it wants to be noticed. Like it’s proud.
I walk over and pick it up with blood-wet fingers. The grip sticky. The blade warm.
I stare down at what I did.
Another slit throat. Multiple stab wounds. A full-on frenzy.
I have an M.O.
A pattern.
I’m one body away from joining the exclusive club of official serial killers.
One more.
Three murders with a cooling-off period and a recurring signature, and you get your own Wikipedia page.
My stomach turns.
No—revolts.
I barely make it to the bushes before I hurl everything into the hydrangeas. Coffee, panic, two regrettable spoonfuls of peanut butter… all of it.
Dexter lets out a low growl at my side, like he’s trying to be supportive but would really prefer I not vomit directly onhispee bush.
I wipe my mouth on my sleeve like a feral child and stagger toward the door, willing my legs to hold me up.
The air feels different.
Still. Too still.
I pause, frowning as I scan the street. I haven’t seen a car in ten minutes. No jogger. No dog walker. Not even that guy who speedwalks with ankle weights and sass.
Dexter stiffens. One short bark—then silence.
He squints toward the side of the house. Whines.
I glance too, but there’s nothing there. Just the overgrown hedge and a dark smear of shadow pooling near the fence line.
“Probably… a opossum,” I mutter. But the hairs on my neck don’t buy it.
I move toward the door again, faster now. Blood-slick footsteps. Every sound feels loud, like the night is holding its breath.
Dexter growls—low and warning—but I’m already reaching for the knob.
That’s when I hear something.
Not a car. Not a branch. Footsteps.
Close. Fast.
Too fast.
A figure barrels toward me out of the dark, and I barely have time to raise the knife before hands—large, strong—close around me. One clamps over my mouth, the other grabs my wrist, pinning it back before the blade can land.
My back slams into the door.
Hard.
I thrash, kick, scream against the palm covering my face, but it doesn’t budge.
I can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can’t see?—
Not again.
Then a voice—low, commanding, terrifyingly close to my ear—whispers:
“Shhhhh... it’s me.”
The second I get my hands on her, it’s like the earth rights itself.
Like gravity snaps back into place, and I can finally stand again. My gloved hand clamps over her mouth—not out of cruelty, but necessity. She’s vibrating with panic, and I need her still. Need her to know it’s me. That she’s not alone anymore.
My other hand seizes her wrist, pressing it hard into the doorframe—too hard, maybe, but I’ve been chasing her shadow across this city, and now I have her. I couldn’t let go of her even if I wanted to.
Also, I don’t want her to slice me up like her friend back here.
Her body molds against mine, and I press her into the wood like I can imprint her there. Like I can carve her shape into this house and make it remember she belongs here.
She’s shaking. Terrified. And it’s beautiful.
Because it means she’s still alive.
And I got to her.
My thigh slots between hers to keep her still. Keep her mine.
I lower my voice, soft as silk, whispering against the crown of her hair. “Shhhh… it’s okay. I’ve got you.”
I feel her exhale. I see her mind working it out.
The breath she lets out isn’t relief.
It’s surrender.
Her eyes meet mine—what little she can see through the mask—and I watch recognition dawn.
Yes, Sunshine. It’s me.
The man in your phone.
The shadow outside your window.
The monster who learned how to love only you.
She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t fight. Instead, she drops the knife. Just lets it fall like it was never hers. Like she knew, all along, I’d be the one to carry the weight of it.
Her knees go next.
I catch her like it’s instinct.
One arm behind her back, one under her legs.
She folds into me like she was made to. Like every jagged edge of this world led us here.
And then she breaks.
God.
The sound.
It hits somewhere deep in my chest—a place I didn’t know could still feel things.