She nods. “Positive.”
A shaky exhale slips from me, part relief, part exhaustion, and I try to cover it with a halfhearted laugh. “Is this a detective thing? Knowing what I’m thinking?”
She chuckles and leans back in her seat. “It’s part of the job. You learn to read people—their emotions, their tells. Yours are pretty loud, sweetheart.” She studies me carefully. “Right now, they’re screaming that you’re scared and worried. And you should be. But I meant what I said—Emilio’s okay. And your friend’s with your dog, making sure he will be too.”
Before I can respond, the door opens behind me. I turn slightly as an officer steps in—a tall guy, young, holding a Styrofoam cup in one hand and a folded blanket in the other.
“Thanks, Elcot,” Meyer says as he sets them down on the table.
He gives me a brief nod before slipping back out without a word. Meyer slides the cup toward me and drapes the blanket over the edge of the table. I reach for it immediately, wrapping it around my shoulders. The fabric is thin, like hospital-issued fleece, but it’s better than nothing. I lift the coffee to my lips and take a sip. The bitterness hits instantly, and I grimace. Black coffee. Yuck.
Meyer laughs under her breath, clearly amused by my reaction. “It’s all they had.”
I set the cup down and curl deeper into the blanket. “Figures.”
Her amusement fades as she flips open her notebook again. “Alright, Raelynn. Let’s get through this, yeah?”
“What do you want to know?” I ask, ready to get this shit on the road so I can finally leave and check on Emilio at the hospital. “What can you tell me about your relationship with the victims?”
My stomach twists. The wordvictimsfeels clinical, detached, like it strips them of who they were.
“Khloe is—” I pause, swallowing hard “—my best friend and has been since middle school.” The correction catches in my throat. “Was.” My gaze drifts to my lap, where my fingers have started picking at my nails—a nervous habit I can’t seem to shake.
“I wasn’t close with Liam or Bailey. I dated Liam for a couple of months my freshman year, but it didn’t last. We stayed friends for a while but eventually stopped talking. Bailey… I barely knew her. Tessa was closer to her than I was. Alexis, though…” I exhale slowly. “We had classes together. This semester and last. We were pretty close friends.”
Meyer’s pen moves steadily, the faint scratching filling the heavy silence between us. The sound is rhythmic—almost soothing—if not for the tension wound tight in my chest. I can tell she’s giving me space to gather myself, but all that space does is let my thoughts spiral deeper.
Emilio never got to tell me what happened to Alexis, as he wanted, because everything went to hell before he could. Instead, I had to find out what happened to another friend of mine through Kline. Every brutal, gory, stomach-turning detail. I asked, of course. I needed to know. Needed to see the complete, awful picture, no matter how much it hurt. Because not knowing felt worse.
That’s when Kline told me about the note The Ripper left for Emilio. Every word written in blood—a promise—telling Emilio that no one will be able to save me. That I washis. The words burned themselves into my head like a brand.
I think the bastard severely underestimates what Emilio is willing to do to protect me. He wanted to prove something, to twist that message into reality. To make sure I understood that even Emilio couldn’t stop him. With Emilio gone, I was free game. That’s why he broke into my apartment. He wasn’t there for me. Not yet, at least. The Ripper knew Emilio would come to see me. Even with every nerve on alert, every instinct sharpened, Emilio still got caught off guard. And it’s my fault. I distracted him. If I’d just stayed where I was, if I didn’t call out to him…
My stomach twists violently. Emilio wouldn’t have been hurt if I had used my fucking brain…
“Raelynn.”
The sound of my name cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I blink and look up, startled. Meyer’s watching me with a slight frown, concern etched between her brows, her pen tapping lightly against the notepad.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
She shakes her head gently. “Don’t be. You’ve been through more than most people could handle.”
I shift in my seat, pulling the blanket tighter around me. “What was the question again?”
She glances down at her notes. “Why do you think he went after your friends?”
The answer forms easily, even if saying it feels like coughing up glass. “To hurt me,” I say quietly. “To break me down. To make me suffer. There’s about a thousand reasons I could give, but they all come back to that.”
Meyer nods slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. “And why do you think he’s after you specifically?”
I swallow hard and pick up the coffee cup; it’s warm against my fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe…” My voice trails off. “Maybe it has something to do with my mother. You know what happened to her, right?”
Her expression softens, and she nods. “I do. She was the last known victim of The Butcher.”
I nod faintly, staring down into the dark surface of the coffee. The bitter smell turns my stomach. “Yeah. That’s why I think this is connected. Why else would someone target me like this? I’ve never done anything to deserve it. But it’s more than a hunch—it’s what he’stellingme.”
Meyer raises an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”
