Handwritten. Shaky, precise, like someone carved it with the tip of a blade.
You weren’t the first monster to want her.
You were just the loudest.
I watched you, Damien.
I let you touch her first.
I wanted to see if she could survive someone like you.
Now I want to see what she becomes with me.
There’s a Polaroid taped to the inside of the lid.
My hand shakes as I peel it free.
Raven.
Unconscious.
On a mattress I don’t recognise.
But the moths?—
they’re there.
Pinned to the wall above her like stars.
In the corner, barely visible?—
a wrist.
Pale. Thin. Tattooed.
A number.
I’ve seen it before.
In the records I erased.
In the folder I destroyed six years ago.
Because I knew what it meant.
Because I killed the man who wore it.
Or thought I did.
I stand slowly, and for the first time in my life I feel something cold slide under my ribs.
Not fear.
Recognition.
The second stalker isn’t just a ghost from her past.
He’s a ghost from mine.
