“I didn’t tell you,” she continues, voice tight. “Because you were an ass.”
A low breath escapes me, equal parts guilt and regret. “Yeah,” I admit. “I was. You didn’t deserve that, Carson. I’m sorry.”
She looks over at me, blinking like she wasn’t expecting the apology. But she recovers quickly.
“No, I didn’t,” she says bluntly. “But that’s not the point.”
Her fingers knot together in her lap, white at the knuckles. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. Strained.
“I’m on this path because of something that happened when I was a kid. Something that shaped everything that came after. Something I never really escaped from.” She hesitates. “Have you ever heard of The Butcher?”
My fingers go still on the wheel, tightening instinctively. That name slices through the air like a blade to the gut.
I was eleven when that sadistic son of a bitch carved his way through this city—seventeen years ago now, but it still feels fresh every time I think about it. My father kept the news on from morning until night, the volume turned up just loud enough that you couldn’t escape it, even from the back of the house. And back then, every damn station was obsessed with The Butcher case, tracking every scrap of the investigation like it was the only thing worth talking about.
I heard things an eleven-year-old should never hear. Saw images that seared into my brain long before I was old enough to understand them.
It was always women. A string of them, one after another, each one found torn apart in ways that made even seasoned cops lose sleep. Slashed open like meat on a butcher’s block—precise, deliberate, and horrifyingly clean. It wasn’t rage, not in the messy, sloppy way most killers show it.
This was cold. Calculated. Like he was savoring every fucking second of it.
And the worst part? He never slipped. No prints. No DNA. Not a hair out of place. Just bodies and nightmares, left behind like some kind of calling card only he understood.
Then one day—nothing. No more bodies. No more clues. No more news. He was gone.
But the last one… the final victim…
My stomach drops.
My gaze snaps to Raelynn, and she’s already watching me. She sees the shift in my face—the recognition. The connection. She knows I’ve figured it out.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says softly, voice brittle but steady. “And you’re right.”
A pause. Just long enough to sting.
“My mom was Elena Carson,” she says. “The last victim of The Butcher.”
I feel the breath leave my lungs from her confirmation. “Jesus,” I mutter. “Raelynn… I’m so sorry.”
She nods, but there’s no emotion in it—just grim acceptance.
“I was six when she died,” she says, voice distant now. “Nine, when I lost my dad. Car accident. At least, that’s what the report said. But the truth is—he gave up. Couldn’t live with me anymore. I was a walking reminder of everything he’d lost.”
I stay silent, letting her speak, letting her bleed this out.
“The night she died… The Butcher didn’t finish the job. The officers patrolling that night stumbled on the scene. They fired shots at him, but he got away, but not before he’d done enoughdamage to my mom. She bled out in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.” She swallows hard. “My dad dragged me into the room that night, not realizing the damage. I saw her. In the OR. What was left of her, I should say.”
I don’t breathe.
“I overheard the officers talking,” she continues. “About The Butcher. About what he did to her. I didn’t understand it all then. But it stuck. Every word. Every detail. And when I was old enough to put the pieces together… I couldn’t let it go.”
She turns her head and meets my eyes. There’s no hesitation, no flinch—just raw, steady honesty.
“That’s why I’m here,” she says, her voice soft but unwavering. “That’s why I chose this path. It’s not just about justice. I’m chasing closure—even if I never find it. I just… I don’t want anyone else to go through what I did.”
There’s nothing I can say that wouldn’t feel small compared to that. So I don’t try. I just keep driving, my hands tightening around the wheel as her words settle in my chest like lead.
And all I can do is wonder how the hell someone with that much pain still manages to walk around like the weight of it hasn’t crushed her.
