I set my blond leather briefcase on the ground and cross my ankles. Flipping open to a page in my book, I keep him in my peripheral vision. Past the quad and students migrating toward the colonnade, I watch him dismount his bike. He removes his helmet, swipes a gloved hand through his messy dark hair, and my breath stalls.
As much as you have to fear your target, you have to admire them. Their intelligence. Their skills. Their calculated execution. You have to be a little in love, studying them the way a lover would, memorizing every defining detail. Those qualities that make them unique, even their flaws.
Especially their flaws.
From his hair to his laced-up motorcycle boots, Orion is dressed like the night, those teal eyes that reflect stars and sea the only trace of color. When he unzips his leather jacket, I notice how the material of his charcoal suit stretches across the muscular definition. His hair falls over one eye, obscuring the scar along his forehead.
There’s no denying Orion is beautiful. His body, his features. His mind.
Over the past few weeks, our brief encounters have amounted to a handful of lingering glances and fleeting smiles. I’ve expanded my groundwork, learning his habits, his routine, mannerisms. Mimicking him like our very own courting ritual. Small encouragements to bait him.
I don’t pose a threat.
Every exchanged look is a message, so much said in just his eyes, in the tension of his jaw, the subtle curve of his mouth. Every charged, almost brush of contact is a move on our board—like two opponents facing off, inching closer.
Casually, I comb my fingers through my freshly dyed hair. I check my roots daily, keeping two bottles of cool black demi dye stocked. The cyan undertones bring out the teal in my eyes, a small but important detail.
Orion finds meaning in the symmetry of things. Like the birds that flock above the spires, moving in a flowing wave, as if the sky mirrors the ocean.
I turn a page in the book, my thumb grazing the stars dotting my wrist. The tattoo was a part of me from before. I could’ve covered the ink, but it’s easier to maintain a cover story when you blend truth with the lies.
For now, let him believe I’m the fiery seductress who threatens to disrupt his routine. Just enough to unravel him a little.
There’s an art to psychological profiling, stringing connections on a murder board like the constellations connect patterns along the stars. Ironically, in this case, when a literal web of constellations happens to be the murder map.
That night on the beach when Darby said my discovery was a coincidence, that there are billions of star patterns…it felt impossible. Although technically, as I soon learned, there are officially eighty-eight constellations across the celestial sphere.
Difficult.
But not impossible.
Once I mapped the chain of kill sites along the ecliptic, I realized not only that the staged victims mirrored zodiacal constellations, but that the date of each kill coincided with a cosmic event, like a meteor shower or planetary alignment.
Location. Event. Victim. This was the pattern.
Hispattern.
The design that helped pinpoint where he’d strike next. After losing myself in astrology and—god—astronomy, my only logical course was to focus on upcoming events.
My gaze lifts to the banner draped across the quad that reads:
SOLAR ECLIPSE OBSERVER SYMPOSIUM
The moment I spotted the projected eclipse on the star map, I felt the connection falling into place. Not astrological—astronomical. The path the sun takes through the sky, through each constellation.
His ritual coming to completion when the sun goes dark.
So I followed the projected path of totality through each major city and town, eventually landing on Shorehaven.
I slip my hand into my coat pocket, fingers brushing the cool brass artifact I recovered from the Bethany Beach crime scene. This small piece of evidence is what ultimately led me to one of the world’s foremost astrophysicists.
Engraved into the brass are three worn letters: SUO—the initials a perfect match for Stonehurst University Observatory.
Once I had a lead to explore, all I had to do was track my hunter on his own turf.
To ensure my place here, I removed every competing résumé from consideration.
While the evidence could’ve belonged to virtually anyone in the astronomy department, the closer I looked at him, the more the man started to align with the psychological profile.
