“Hey, baby,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She doesn’t answer—not with words. She steps forward and wraps her arms around my neck, and I pull her in like I might suddenly lose her if I don’t. I close the door behind us with my hip and tuck the deadbolt in before anything else. Her face buries into my neck; coconut shampoo and the warm, clean smell of her skin fills my nose. For a flash, there’s nothing but the small, steady life of her against my chest, and it’s a temptation I don’t try to fight.
When she finally leans back, her eyes glint up at me, wide, searching. I catch her chin gently between my fingers, tilt her face up, and kiss her. It’s slow, deliberate, lingering. Her lips are soft, pliant, a balm I didn’t realize I’d been desperate for all night.
“Hi,” she breathes, and the single syllable thrums through me.
For a single, stupid heartbeat, I want to forget everything else—to melt into her, to let the apartment swallow the world and keep us safe in the small space between our bodies. I could stand there forever, let the heat of her press me flat, and pretend the alley and the words on that smeared scrap of paper were someone else’s problem. But I didn’t come here only for that. The other reason—the one that’s been gnawing at me since I left the alley—is pulling at the edges of my focus like a hand you can’t ignore.
I drag my thumb along her cheek, the motion gentle because she’s fragile with this news already. “Rae,” I say, and the word has the kind of gravity that makes her shoulders stiffen. “We need to talk.”
She blinks, brows knitting hard and fast. “About what?” Her voice is small, taut. There’s a thread of iron under the fear, the way she always answers when she thinks she needs to be brave.
I run a hand through her damp hair, exhaling slowly, like dragging the words out of me will hurt less if I pace myself. “There was another murder tonight. Two victims.” My voice is level, but the words have weight; I can feel her arm clamp around mine like a second skin, fingers digging in hard enough to leave an imprint. “Something was left behind that… doesn’t sit right with me. I’ll explain it, but first, I need to ask you something.”
She goes rigid, the inhale stealing the breath from her lungs. For a second, I fear she’ll crumble. Instead, she swallows like she’s buckling herself and nods once. “Okay,” she whispers, the single word already hollowed out with too many possible meanings.
“Do you know Liam Carter and Bailey Gilbert?”
Her face changes before she answers—a micro-expression I’ve learned to read: recognition, then recoil. “I… yeah. I dated Liam my freshman year,” she says, voice uneven, thin around the edges. “And I know of Bailey, but we weren’t close. I’m not close with either of them, to be honest. Why?” She drags the word out, already bracing. I can tell by the way her eyes search mine that she doesn’t need me to answer, that she’s already connecting the dots. “Oh my god.” Her breath falters, her hand flying up to her mouth. “They were killed, weren’t they?”
“Yes,” I reply grimly. “And CSU and I found this.”
My jaw clenches as I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. I’ve already forwarded the CSU photo to myself; the duty phone’s camera doesn’t flatter anyone under normal circumstances, but it captured the message at the scene. I hand it to her.
She takes it with trembling fingers and zooms, her lips mouthing the words to herself. For a moment, she just stares, her brows furrowing, lips parting like she doesn’t want to believewhat she’s seeing. Then she hands it back quickly, like she doesn’t want it in her hands a second longer.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she asks, sharp and raw now. The line between curiosity and panic splits her words.
“I don’t know for certain,” I say, my jaw taut, “but I’ve got a gut feeling. And my gut’s never steered me wrong.”
She folds in on herself for a breath, then shakes her head like she can dislodge the thought. “That’s—what? Who even says that?”
I close the distance and exhale slowly through my nose, my thumb finds the hollow beneath her ear, brushing the line of her jaw. “Whoever left that note… it wasn’t random. Killers don’t leave words like that unless they want them seen. They’re telling us something,claimingsomething. And if I’m right, it means this wasn’t about Liam, Bailey, or even Khloe. It’s about the person they’re circling.”
Her eyes search mine—hungry for certainty, for a way to refuse the worst. “You think that person is me?” Her voice is paper-thin.
“I don’tknowyet,” I admit, “but look at what’s already happened. Your best friend was murdered. Tonight, two more people you know were killed in a similar gruesome manner. That’s not a coincidence, Rae. That’s a pattern.”
She shakes her head, the motion quick and desperate. “That doesn’t mean it’s about me.” Her reflex is bravery, bargaining. I hear it, and I hate that she has to say it.
“Maybe not,” I say firmly, “but until we know for sure, I’m not willing to gamble with your life. This person isn’t just killing. They’re taunting us. Sending messages. And I don’t give a damn if you think it’s paranoia—” I lean closer, my voice dropping lower, harder “—there is a psycho fucking killer on the loose and you arenotsafe.”
Her lips press tight, her mind spinning—but then, suddenly, something flashes in her expression. Her eyes widen, recognition and fear.
“Wait,” she whispers before taking off down the hall.
My brows crease together in confusion, and I follow. She pushes her bedroom door open. Max perks up on the bed when he sees me and jumps down, his whole body wiggling with excitement. I pet him as Rae rummages through her desk drawers, fingers scrabbling through a jumble of notebooks, old lecture notes, and stray pens. The cheap wood rattles as she throws things aside—her motion is urgent, frantic. Then she pulls up a white envelope, creased and stained tan around the edges with her name written across the front.
“What is that?” I ask, my brows creasing.
Her hand trembles as she fully withdraws it from the drawer. “A card,” she says, her voice thin. “I got it a few weeks ago. At first, I thought it was a dumb prank, and I almost threw it away. Actually, I did. But something… I don’t know. I retrieved it from the trash a few nights later and kept it in the drawer. Just in case.”
She peels back the already torn flap like someone defusing a bomb. From inside, she withdraws a light blue card, which bears the words “Thinking of You” printed across the middle in soft cursive. She hands it to me, and I unfold the card. The first thing that catches my eye is the yellowed newspaper clipping, the headline in bold, faded black letters. The next thing my eyes catch is the writing above the cutout and the one below it.
“Tell me you don’t recognize the handwriting,” she says, eyes wide, breath shallow.
I pull my phone out, bring up the photo of the note from the scene, and lay it beside the card. The two samples sit together like mirrors.
