Chapter 11 Things That Shouldn't Exist

Chapter 11 Things That Shouldn't Exist
IRIS POV

I slam my fist on the hospital reception desk so hard the nurse jumps.

"What do you mean she's gone?"

"I'm sorry, Detective." The nurse looks terrified. "The witness—Mrs. Patterson—she checked herself out twenty minutes ago. Against medical advice."

Twenty minutes. We were twenty minutes too late.

Marcus is already on his phone, calling every officer in the city. Ronan stands behind me, perfectly quiet. Too quiet.

I spin around. "Did you know this would happen?"

"How could I possibly know?" His face shows nothing. No surprise. No disappointment. Nothing.

That's the problem.

"Everyone to the station," I order. "We need to find Mrs. Patterson before—"

My phone buzzes. Unknown number.

I answer it. "Hello?"

Heavy breathing. Then a woman's voice, shaking with terror: "Detective Hale?"

"Mrs. Patterson? Where are you? Are you safe?"

"He told me to run." She's crying. "He said if I gave that statement, more people would die. Innocent people. He said I had to choose—tell the truth and blood would be on my hands, or stay quiet and save lives."

My stomach drops. "Where are you right now?"

"I'm home. But Detective—" Her voice breaks. "He knows where I live. He knows everything about me. About my daughter. He said—he said if I talk, she's next."

The line goes dead.

I'm running before I can think. Marcus and Ronan follow me to the car. We're speeding toward Mrs. Patterson's address, sirens wailing, and all I can think is: we're too late, we're too late, we're too late.

We're not too late.

Mrs. Patterson is alive, sitting on her couch with her daughter, both of them shaking. Her house is untouched. No signs of break-in. No threats.

Just a note on her kitchen table, written in perfect handwriting:

She made the right choice. You should too.

No signature. But I know who wrote it.

I take the note, bag it as evidence, and tell Mrs. Patterson she'll have police protection. Then I drag Ronan and Marcus back to the station because I can't look at Ronan's calm face for one more second without screaming.

It's three in the morning when I finally get to my office. Alone. Marcus went home to sleep. Ronan said he needed to "clear his head" and left.

I should sleep too. But instead, I spread crime scene photos across my desk for the hundredth time. Searching for something—anything—I missed.

That's when I see it.

Photo number forty-three. Background of the hedge fund manager's office. Bottom right corner. Partially hidden behind a filing cabinet.

A stuffed bear.

Brown fur. Missing left eye. Ribbon around its neck with tiny flowers.

My heart stops.

I know that bear.

My hands shake as I grab my phone, scrolling through old photos. There—a picture from when I was nine years old. Me, smiling for once, holding that exact bear. The one my mother gave me three days before she died.

The one I packed away in a storage unit twelve years ago because seeing it hurt too much.

I zoom in on the crime scene photo. Same missing eye. Same flower ribbon. Even the same coffee stain on its left foot from when I spilled hot chocolate on it when I was ten.

It's impossible.

That bear is in a locked storage unit across town. I haven't opened that unit in over a decade. No one has the key except me.

Unless—

I'm out of my chair and running. Down the stairs. To my car. Driving way too fast through empty streets.

The storage facility is closed, but I have a key to the gate. My unit is number 217. Second floor. End of the hall.

The lock is broken.

The door swings open.

Inside, boxes are stacked exactly how I left them. Everything looks normal. Untouched.

Except the box labeled "Childhood" in my mother's handwriting.

It's open.

I dig through it with shaking hands. School papers. Old drawings. A photo album. My mother's locket.

No bear.

Someone took it. Someone who knew exactly where to find it. Someone who's been watching me long enough to know what that bear means.

I pull out my phone to call Marcus, but it buzzes first.

New email. No sender name. Subject line: "Do you see now?"

I open it.

It's a video file.

I press play.

The footage is grainy, like from a security camera. It shows this storage unit. Shows me walking in two weeks ago to grab my mother's locket for—

Wait.

I never came here two weeks ago.

But in the video, there I am. Unlocking the unit. Walking inside. Taking out the bear. Locking up and leaving.

Except I don't remember any of this.

The video keeps playing. Shows "me" driving to the hedge fund manager's office building. Walking inside with the bear. Placing it in his office.

Three days before he was murdered.

I watch myself—except it's not me, it can't be me—plant evidence at a murder scene.

The video ends.

A new message appears: "You've been helping me all along. You just don't remember."

My phone rings. Unknown number again.

I answer it, my voice barely working. "Who is this?"

"You know who this is." Ronan's voice is soft. Gentle. "I need you to stay calm, Iris."

"Where are you?"

"In your apartment. I let myself in with the spare key you gave me last week. Remember? You said I was the only person you trusted."

I don't remember giving him a key.

"Look in your top desk drawer," Ronan says. "The one you keep locked."

"I'm not at my desk, I'm—"

"I know where you are. I'm watching you on the storage facility cameras right now. But trust me—go back to your office. Check the drawer. Then you'll understand."

The line goes dead.

I'm shaking so hard I can barely drive. The station is empty when I get there. Just me and the night security guard.

I unlock my desk drawer.

Inside is a small wooden box I've never seen before.

I open it.

Inside are seventeen photographs. Crime scene photos. But not from our files—these are personal. Taken from different angles. Closer. More intimate.

Each photo shows a victim with their "R" carved into them.

And in each photo, reflected in windows or mirrors in the background, I can see someone taking the picture.

Me.

Beneath the photos is a journal. My handwriting. Pages and pages describing each murder in detail. How I chose the victims. How I followed them. How Ronan and I worked together to make sure justice was served.

Except I never wrote this.

I never did any of this.

The last page has today's date and one sentence: "Tonight, I helped Ronan send Mrs. Patterson away. Together, we saved her daughter from knowing her father was a monster. Tomorrow, we choose the next one."

My phone buzzes.

Text from Ronan: "Check your coat pocket. The one you're wearing right now."

My hand moves to my pocket. There's something inside.

I pull it out.

It's a knife.

Small. Sharp. Clean.

Except when I angle it toward the light, I see the faintest trace of something dark dried in the handle's grooves.

Blood.

Another text: "You're already one of us, Iris. You have been for weeks. You just keep forgetting. But don't worry—tonight, you'll remember everything. I'm coming to help you. Stay right where you are."

Footsteps echo in the hallway.

Slow. Steady. Coming toward my office.

I grab my gun, hands shaking so hard I almost drop it.

The footsteps stop outside my door.

The handle turns.

The door opens.

Ronan stands there, smiling that gentle smile I've come to trust.

"Hello, Iris," he says softly. "Ready to stop pretending you don't remember?"

He steps inside and closes the door behind him.

And I realize with absolute horror that I'm not sure if I should point the gun at him—or at myself.