“He’s taunting us,” I answer, jaw tight. “Said I won’t be able to save her. No one will, and that she’s his.”
“Fuck.” The word comes out on a breath, his jaw locking as he looks past me toward the house. “They’re going to want to talk to her,” he says after a beat. “You know that, right?”
“I know,” I mutter. I don’t want that for her. She’s been through enough. But now that she is being personally named, they’re going to want to wring every ounce of information out of her to understand why people she knows are dying and why she is being hunted.
He sighs and rests his hand on my shoulder. I know it’s meant to be comforting, but my muscles tense instead.
“Go,” he says, voice steady but soft. “I’ll handle shit with the detective. You need to be with her, make sure she’s safe and not alone. I’ll tell them she’ll come in tomorrow to give her statement. That’ll buy you some time.” He gives my shoulder a firm squeeze before pulling back.
I nod once. “Thanks.”
Kline’s mouth lifts in a half-smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You owe me, amigo,” he teases quietly. “Now get that hand wrapped and go see your girl.”
A dry laugh escapes me, more breath than sound. I glance down at my hand. The skin is already swollen, streaked with blood that keeps dripping in steady drops to the porch. I flex my fingers, wincing when the skin pulls, but the pain helps clear my head. I honestly wasn’t expecting Kline to take over for me. But I sure as fuck was appreciative of it.
Out by the curb, the block is painted in red and blue light. Patrol units idle at both ends of the street to hold the perimeter, engines rumbling low. Lights pulse over the dark windows of nearby houses. A few neighbors stand behind the yellow tape, faces pale and drawn, whispering to each other. Some record with their phones, screens glowing ghostly against their faces. A news van creeps around the corner, slowing as it approaches the scene like a vulture spotting prey, their logo gleaming in the wash of headlights. I ignore it all and start toward my cruiser. Gravel crunches under my boots, every step pulling me farther from the house. The message on the wall burns behind my eyes, refusing to fade.
I don’t care what this fucker thinks will happen. Iwillnot let him have her. Icansave her. I will be by her side, making sure she is safe, because it does not matter if the door is locked, if the city puts on a curfew, or you’re in public,hehas proven nothing will fucking stop him. Safety is a fucking illusion to a serial killer. Where there is a will, there is a way.
And he seems to always find a fucking way. I’m done with it. I’m done with this fucker.
I’ll stand at her side. I’ll break rules, burn bridges, risk my badge, whatever it fucking takes. If it costs me everything to keep her safe, then so be it. Let him come, let him test me. He’s picked the wrong woman to haunt and the wrong man to bait. This bastard is playing a game he doesn’t understand. A game I will make sure he fuckingloses.
I swear to God, on my fucking life, he will not get her. Not while I’m still breathing.
TWENTY-SEVEN
RAELYNN
Every door,every window in this damn apartment is locked—and I still don’t feel safe.
When Tessa and I got home, I took Max for a quick walk, not daring to go farther than the end of the building. My nerves were still shot, my pulse a constant drum beneath my skin. I kept my taser in one hand, my kubaton in the other, and Max’s leash looped tight around my wrist. Pepper spray sat ready in my jacket pocket, though it would probably blind me before it did anything to him because the fucker is wearing a mask.
After averylong pee, Max and Ifinallyheaded back to the apartment. Knowing I was still on edge, Tessa and I tore through the apartment like we were prepping for a siege. Every lock, every latch, every goddamn window was secured. I checked the kitchen and bedrooms twice while she went over the living room and back door. Then we switched and did it again, just to be sure. The blinds are shut tight. Curtains drawn. We secured the screen door, the front door, the patio door, and even jammed the broom handle into the sliding track so it can’t be forced open. And when that still didn’t feel like enough, we dragged the entry table over and stuck it in front of the door.
After seeing him following me at school, the feeling that he would come here—try something—hasn’t left. I keep telling myself I’m overreacting, but that voice in the back of my head won’t shut up. I also couldn’t shake the gut-deep certainty that someone was in danger tonight. Maybe not me, not yet—but someone. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. That helplessness gnaws at me, sharp and constant, like it’s digging under my skin and taking root.
I did what I could. I texted Marlena to let her and Austin know to lock their doors and windows. She responded quickly, assuring me they would. But once I put my phone down, I realized I couldn’t think of anyone else to warn, and that hit harder than I expected.
There are so many people who are a part of my life in some way: friends, classmates, study partners, and those I grab coffee with on occasion. Someone is picking apart my life, murdering people I know or am close to, just to torture me. And the thought that one of them might not wake up tomorrow makes my stomach twist. I keep wondering if I should’ve done more, said more, reached out to more people. But the truth is, no matter how many locks I check or texts I send, it won’t change what’s coming.
Nothing has stopped him up to this point.
The shrill ring of my phone slices through the heavy silence like a blade, jerking both Tessa and me awake. My heart slams against my ribs, pulse pounding in my ears as I look around the darkened living room, confused and disoriented. It doesn’t take long for my brain to catch up and remember tonight’s events. Iguess, at some point, after securing the apartment to the best of our ability, Tessa and I must have fallen asleep.
Tessa stirs beside me on the couch, a groggy sound catching in her throat. “What the hell…” she mutters, rubbing at her neck.
The phone’s glow cuts across the room in rhythmic flashes. Emilio’s name burns on the screen, his contact photo flickering with every vibration. My stomach sinks. I snatch the phone off the table, nearly dropping it in my haste.
“Emilio?” My voice comes out rough, the sleep still clinging to it.
“Hey, baby,” he replies, voice low. There is a tightness in his voice, one I have begun to recognize as something has happened, and it typically isn’t good.
“Hi,” I reply softly, pulling the phone away just long enough to glance at the time. It is nearing midnight. My pulse quickens. “What’s going on?”
There’s a pause on the line, a soft exhale, like he’s trying to decide how to word something he doesn’t want to say. “Nothing good,” he finally says. “I’m heading your way soon and will explain, but until then, do me a favor.”
My chest tightens. “Okay…?”
