CHAPTER 77
That familiar storm brewing behind his eyes.
“Booking worked all night after the raid,” he says, already falling in step beside me like we didn’t just have one of the most awkward hallway collisions of all time.
“Good,” I reply, trying to sound normal. Trying not to think about how his voice vibrates through my ribs like a tuning fork made of tension.
He flips open the folder, all business now.
Like he needs to focus or risk doing something dangerous.
(Join the club.)
“Emergency bond hearing for the mayor was at six a.m.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “And?”
“Denied.”
A spark of pride lights in my chest.
Small win. I’ll take it.
But before I can savor the rare taste of institutional justice, Roger hits me with the real news:
“And... did you hear? The Houseguest was found dead in the Hudson.”
He holds up a newspaper.
And right there on the front page is my rideshare driver.
The world tilts as my stomach turns to ice.
The Houseguest.
One of New York’s most infamous serial killers, at large for nearly two decades.
He didn’t just kill women, he lived with them first.
Ate meals with them.
Watched TV in their living rooms.
Showered. Slept in their beds.
A houseguest.
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My lungs lock. The air in my body turns into glass.
Roger sinks onto one of the cracked leather couches in the corner of our war room, already pulling out his phone.
I just stand there.
Frozen.
Phone slipping into my hand like muscle memory.
I scan the headline.
Vision blurring.
Pulse roaring.
Body discovered in the Hudson.
Confirmed to be “The Houseguest,” now identified as Caleb Thatcher.
Known for raping, torturing, and killing over two dozen women. Police sources suggest vigilante revenge. Possibly a father or brother of one of the victims. Someone who couldn’t wait any longer for justice.
My hands are numb.
My throat is closing but I keep reading.
The details are worse than I remembered?—
His methods. His trophies. The fear he carved into every woman he hunted.
The article ends with a quote from the police commissioner:
“Women across the state will sleep easier tonight, knowing this monster was finally brought to justice.”
I stare at the screen fighting to breathe, because I did that.
Not with a badge or a courtroom.
Not with a confession or a guilty plea.
I ended it.
With a blade and blood.
And the terrifying part that should scare me more than anything else?
I don’t regret it.
Not even a little.
Who's got you smiling like that?" I ask, voice low, casual as Paty snaps her burner phone shut like it's about to explode. "A boyfriend?"
She’s been passing texts with me—stalker me—for the last thirty minutes.
She freezes. Just a breath. but it’s enough to tighten something in my chest.
“What? No. Not a boyfriend…” she says quickly, fiddling with the corner of a case file like it holds the answers to world peace.
My brow lifts. I cock my head, teasing—but my eyes are locked on her, drinking in every microexpression she can’t hide fast enough.
"Someone you’ve been seeing?" I press, voice still easy but threading the needle closer to where it’ll hurt if I pull too hard.
She hesitates.
Just long enough to stab a fucking knife through me.
Maybe it’s the memory of the almost-kiss hanging between us.
Maybe it’s the thought of her texting someone else, laughing at her screen the way she just did with me.
Either way, she lies.
"Yeah," she says, voice strained. "Kind of. It’s… complicated?"
Christ, that’s a fucking understatement.
I lean back in my chair, stretch my legs out, arms crossing like I’m relaxed—like I’m not one wrong answer from punching through the drywall.
"Is it serious?" I ask, letting the question hang like smoke.
She shifts in her chair, still pretending to organize files that don’t need organizing.
"You exclusive? Or dating around?"
Her heart’s racing—I see it in the flutter at her neck, in the way her hand trembles before she tucks it under the table.
"Why?" she asks, trying to laugh it off like I haven’t already stripped her bare.
I shrug, flash a crooked, careless smile.
Because I want to know if I have a snowball’s chance in hell with you.
"Just curious about my partner’s availability," I say. "For late-night surveillance. You know—the standard."
“Oh,nowwe’re partners?” Her lips twitch like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or strangle me with the nearest phone cord.
I can’t deny it—I like it.
I want her tangled up. Just like I am.
She draws a breath, gathers whatever scraps of courage she has left, and says quietly,
"There is one guy. But… I could never date him."
Every muscle in my body locks.
I school my face into neutrality. Inside, something fucking ruptures.
"Why not?"
She doesn’t look at me. Just stares at the table, voice small but certain.
"Because we work together."
The words hit harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.
For a second, everything inside me goes sharp and cold.
And like the idiot I am, my mind flashes to Graham.
The smug bastard who's asked her out twice—both times in front of me. She didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no either.
Was it because I was there?
Because deep down, he's the kind of man she thinks she should want?
Polished. Shiny on the outside, rotting underneath.
Not the man who’s been stalking her.
Not the man who kissed her like he needed her to breathe.
No—someone easy. Safe. Someone who wouldn’t even know what to do with her if he had her.