He sat up, his limbs weak and unsteady, adrenaline flooding his veins. It was only a dream. Post-traumatic stress. He’d found Jimmy’s body, seen the ruin of him, the horror carved into flesh. Of course his mind would replay it, would twist it into nightmares. That was normal. That washuman.
But it hadn’t felt like a dream.
It felt like amemory.
He could still smell the chamber—the corrosion, the candles, the copper-sweet reek of fresh blood. Could still feel the weight of the blade in his palm, the resistance of skin against steel. Could still hear Jimmy’s screams echoing in the hollow of his skull.
And the worst part—the part that made his stomach clench and his breath catch—was theperspective. He hadn’t watched the killer. Hadn’t stood beside him, a ghost bearing witness.
He’dbeenhim.
Seen through his eyes. Moved with his hands. Felt his cold, meticulous focus as he worked, as he carved, as heworshippedwith every cut.
Ash wrapped his arms around himself, fingers digging into his ribs, trying to anchor himself in the here and now. It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. Dreams didn’t work like that. Dreams werefragments, distortions, the mind’s way of processing trauma. They didn’t have texture, weight, clarity. They didn’t leave you tasting blood on your tongue.
He swallowed hard, throat tight, and forced himself to breathe. In. Out. Slow. Steady. The cell was real. The cot beneath him was real. The ache in his muscles, the chill of sweat drying on his skin—all real.
The dream was just a dream.
He repeated it to himself like a mantra, a prayer, a lie he needed to believe.
But deep in the pit of him, in that sunken place where hunger lived and something older than darkness stirred, he felt a memory waiting. Patient. Inevitable.
And it terrified him more than anything he’d ever known.
Chapter Ten
(9:49 a.m.)
The door slammed open. Rick jolted upright, heart lurching like a car hitting black ice.
“Rise and shine, Sunshine.” Frank’s voice sawed through the fog in his skull, ragged as a rusted blade. He tossed the morning paper onto Rick’s lap, where it splayed across his crumpled shirt with a faint thump. “You made the front page.”
Rick blinked against the gritty burn in his eyes. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then the world tilted into place: the Venetian blinds bleeding gray morning light across the office walls in narrow slats, the ancient radiator ticking like a cooling engine, the bitter aftertaste of sleep souring his mouth. Outside, the sky hung low and colorless, pressing down like a migraine.
At least the rain had stopped.
He reached for the newspaper, unfolding it with stiff fingers. TheCalgrave Gazette’s masthead sneered back at him in bold type, and beneath it, the headline:
Headless Body Found Near Topless Bar:
The Latest Murder in America’s Capital of Crime
By Declan Frost
“Fuck,” Rick rasped, scrubbing a hand down his face. Below the fold, a grainy photo showed the alley cordoned off, police tape strung across the entrance, the chalk outline just visible in the frame. The article continued inside, no doubt filled with Frost’s usual blend of facts he shouldn’t have and sensationalism dressed up as serious journalism.
Frank gave him a once-over as he took off his coat. “Did you sleep here?”
Rick didn’t answer. He scanned the article—enough detail to be damaging, not enough to be accurate. Frost knew something about the mutilation, the location of the body, even mentioned ‘occult symbolism’ found at the scene. But he hadn’t cracked the pattern, hadn’t connected all five murders yet.
“At least he hasn’t figured out the whole truth,” Rick muttered.
“Only a matter of time before he puts it together,” Frank said. “Before everyone does.”
Rick tossed the paper aside, jaw ticking. “And we’ve got nothing to hold the kid on. Forty-eight hours are up.”
Frank crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. We’ve gotta cut him loose.”
