“You promised not to go.”
“I dropped her.”
“I’m so fucking tired of always pretending.”
“Don’t go in the basement.”
“Max, I see you.”
“He’s gone. He’s gone.”
“They’re watching us. They’re always watching us.”
Each line replayed in my head. She’d been drifting from memory and fear, and I held her all night as she moved from scene to scene in her dreams.
I wanted to tear down every wall she built around herself. I wanted to see every dark corner, every hidden piece, and claim it. I didn’t know who to reach out to. I didn’t know who could help her. Did I call her mom? Did I call her uncle? I figured that it wasn’t her uncle.
She doesn’t know I stay awake most nights, and I lie there listening, counting the spaces between her breaths, memorizing the shape of her fear. I Google the names she mutters in her sleep. I’ve started keeping notes on my phone—times, details, and fragments of phrases.
I wanted to save her, to shield her from the darkness threatening to consume us. My love for her was a fire that haunted my restless nights. The image of her lying vulnerable, dreaming in secrecy, shattered my resolve. I couldn’t afford to lose her. Every fragment of my soul was entangled with hers. Desperation drove me to the edge, seeking answers in the shadows.
Last night, I infiltrated the system that holds sealed juvenile records. Specifically, the confidential database used by federal protection agencies. The one I shouldn’t have even known about.
It wasn’t my proudest moment, but I was already reading all of Jackson’s sickening messages to her. As soon as I cracked the code, her secrets spilled out like they had been lying in wait for me. Her old address, her original birth records, and FBI relocation logs. Disturbing, twisted details about her father: a man who wore a deer skull and mutilated 21 women. A true psychopath.
A newspaper clipping from the Ashbourne Gazette piqued my interest.
It was clipped from the October 17, 2012, edition. Mackenzie would’ve been almost twelve years old, a few months before she met me.
POLICE HUNT FOR ALLEGED SERIAL KILLER AFTER BODY FOUND IN RAVINE
ASHBOURNE,N.Y. - State and federal authorities are intensifying their search for a suspected serial killer dubbed ‘The Butcher’ after the dismembered remains of a woman were discovered late Thursday in a wooded ravine outside Ashbourne.
Investigators say the victim, an unidentified female believed to be in her late twenties, is the 21st womanlinked to the killer over a span of five years across three states. Law enforcement officials describe a “signature” at each scene. Victims are found with ritualistic injuries, and several crime scenes have contained animal bones and antlers arranged near the bodies.
“We are dealing with an extremely organized and sadistic offender,” said Special Agent Tony West of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit during a Friday press briefing. “He is mobile. He is meticulous and escalating. We are asking the public to remain vigilant and to report any suspicious activity immediately.”
Neighbors in the rural outskirts of Ashbourne reported hearing sirens and seeing emergency vehicles converge on the ravine just after midnight.
“We’ve seen the missing posters on TV, but you never think it’s going to be here,” said local resident Marlene Cooper. “Now everyone’s looking over their shoulder.”
Authorities have released very few details, citing the ongoing investigation. However, authorities have confirmed that the murders appear to be connected by a combination of forensic evidence and a pattern of interstate travel. Sources close to the case say at least one potential witness and her family have been placed under federal protection, though officials declined to comment on the claim.
Anyone with information about ‘The Butcher’ is urged to contact the Ashbourne Police Department tip line or the FBI field office in Albany.
It all clicked into place. Her drawings. Her pushing me away. She had been living in a state of terror her entire life. It sickened me to know she had endured such horror, that her father was still out there, on the run, hunting her. She never knew when he might return, and that thought haunted me as well.
I should’ve felt guilty for hacking into her life like this. But I didn’t. Because I needed to know. I needed to know her completely. I should’ve stopped there, but the urge to push forward gnawed at me.
I wrestled through layers of encryption, frustrated at first, but ultimately breaking through. A sick pride surged within me.
Strangely, I’d started to see patterns in her files—unusual names recurring, the same obscure organizations lurking in the background. Contacts that made no sense, hidden connections between people she trusted. She was involved in something far larger than she realized… and so was I.
My brain didn’t register it when I first saw it.
THOMAS MCKINNON, CIA, 07-18-82.
LEGACY PRIORITY HANDLER.
