15. Fleeting Dreams
Fleeting Dreams
Evelyn
I push away my half-eaten sandwich and sigh, glancing at the stack of paperwork still waiting on my desk. Being back at work helps keep my mind off everything happening with Zeke, but the endless reports are mind-numbing.
“You should finish that,” Narissa says from her desk across from mine, nodding at my abandoned lunch. “Never know when we’ll get another break.”
“Lost my appetite.” I shuffle through the files, trying to focus on the latest witness statements.
The words blur together, my thoughts drifting to last night and this morning’s activities with Zeke. The way he fucked me and commanded my body is seared into my memory.
The sensation of his touch still lingers on my skin like a gentle caress, making it hard to concentrate on anything besides the way his fingers trailed down my spine and his lips pressed against my neck.
The harsh ring of Narissa’s desk phone cuts through my distraction. She snatches it up on the second ring, her expression shifting from relaxed to alert in an instant.
“SVU, Detective Crane speaking.” She grabs her notepad, pen hovering. “Slow down. What’s the location?”
Her tone makes my skin prickle. I straighten in my chair, watching as she scribbles frantically.
“We’re on our way.” She slams down the phone and jumps to her feet. “Body found in an alley by a dive bar. Female victim, signs of sexual assault. They’re saying it matches our guy’s MO.”
“Fuck.” My chair scrapes against the floor as I stand, grabbing my jacket. Ice spreads through my veins, that familiar mix of dread and determination flooding my system. “How long has she been there?”
“Bartender found her when he took out the trash.” Rissa is already heading for the door, car keys jingling in her hand. “Dispatch says there are ligature marks on her wrists. Just like the others.”
I follow her out, my pulse thundering in my ears. Another victim. Another woman who suffered and died alone. It settles heavy in my chest as we rush to the elevator.
Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to the crime scene. The stench of stale beer and garbage assaults my nostrils. I recognize the neon sign—the same one that had buzzed above my head during those long nights of undercover work watching Gio and his men.
“Victim’s down here,” Officer Chen calls out, leading us down the alley. The morning sun barely reaches between the buildings, leaving most of the scene in shadow. Each step crunches on broken glass and gravel, the sound mixing with the distant wail of sirens.
The body lies crumpled behind a dumpster, partially hidden by cardboard boxes.
She’s young—maybe mid-twenties—with long dark hair matted with blood.
Her wrists bear the telltale rope burns I’ve seen in photos of the other victims. My throat tightens as I crouch beside her, noting the bruising around her neck, the torn clothing.
“Jesus,” Rissa whispers behind me. “The bartender found her when he came to dump the trash. Called it in right away, but …”
But it was too late. The words hang unspoken between us as I study the victim’s face. Her eyes are still open, glazed and empty, staring at nothing. Someone’s daughter. Maybe someone’s sister. Maybe even someone’s mother.
“Time of death?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.
“ME estimates between midnight and 3:00 AM,” Chen responds. “CSU is processing the scene now.”
My gaze drifts to the bar’s back door, remembering how many times I’d walked through it during my investigation.
How many times I’d sat inside, watching Gio and his men, hoping to catch them in the act.
And now, mere feet from where I’d been working, another woman had suffered. And this time she was dead.
The familiar burn of failure settles in my chest, mixing with a simmering rage. This is personal now—not just because it’s my case, but because it happened right under my nose, in a place I should have been watching more closely.
Memories of my own encounter with Gio flood back. The feel of his hands on my throat, the terror of knowing I might die. But I survived my attack unscathed. Just like all the other women Gio had brutally raped, I got away.
This woman didn’t.
“The bruising pattern around her neck,” I murmur, more to myself than Narissa. “It’s different from the others.”
The marks are darker, deeper—evidence of increased force and rage. The violence is escalating, becoming more brazen. More brutal.
The rope burns on the victim’s wrists mock me, a stark reminder of my failure to stop this before another life was lost.
“The bastard’s getting more confident,” Rissa says, pulling on latex gloves. “Leaving her out in the open like this.”
I stand and step back from the body, my hands trembling as I peel off my latex gloves. The sound of sirens and camera shutters fades into white noise as a devastating thought hits me. If I had died that night instead of getting away, would all these other women still be alive?
The question burns in my throat like bile. My gaze drifts back to the victim’s face—so young, so violated.
I lean against the alley wall, the course brick grounding me as waves of guilt crash through my chest. The rational part of my brain knows this isn’t my fault. I didn’t ask to be attacked in my home. I didn’t kill Gio. But the man who did, did it to protect me.
I’m not responsible for this crime but I’m the reason it’s happening.
But logic does nothing to quiet the voice whispering that if I had just died that night, maybe this would have ended with me. Maybe Gio wouldn’t have been murdered. Maybe this new killer wouldn’t have emerged, leaving a trail of broken bodies in his wake.
The afternoon sun rises higher, casting harsh shadows across the crime scene. Across a woman who didn’t survive. My chest constricts as I count them in my head—all the victims who’ve been raped since that night. Since I lived and Gio didn’t.
“Look at the pattern of bruising around her neck,” Rissa says, crouching beside the body. Her latex gloves crinkle as she gestures to the dark marks. “The thumbprints are deeper on the right side, suggesting a right-handed attacker who applied more pressure with their dominant hand.”
I force myself to focus on her clinical analysis, grateful for her methodical approach. It’s easier to think about ligature marks and blood splatter patterns than to dwell on the growing knot of guilt in my chest.
“The rope burns on her wrists show signs of struggle,” Rissa continues, gently lifting one of the victim’s arms. “The patterns suggest she was bound for several hours before death. See how the skin is abraded differently here? She tried to break free.”
I’ve seen these wounds before—in photos of previous victims, in my nightmares about that night with Gio. The clinical part of my brain catalogs the evidence while another part screams that this is my fault.
“The sexual assault was particularly violent,” Rissa says, her voice steady but tight. “Multiple tears and contusions. He’s escalating, becoming more aggressive with each victim.”
I think I’m going to be sick. A crime scene has never affected me this violently before.
“There are defensive wounds on her hands too.” Rissa points to the broken fingernails, the bruised knuckles. “She didn’t make it easy for him.”
I nod mechanically, trying to stay present in the investigation and not lose my lunch in the process. But my mind keeps circling back to the women in our community—mothers, daughters, sisters—all potential targets. How many more will suffer before we catch this bastard?
“Eve?” Rissa’s voice cuts through my spiral. “You with me?”
“Yeah,” I manage, though my voice is hollow. “Just … processing.”
She gives me a knowing look but continues her analysis, providing a lifeline of facts and evidence to keep me from drowning in guilt.
Rissa and I walk back to our car in silence. My hands tremble as I fish the keys from my pocket, still seeing the victim’s empty eyes staring up at nothing.
My phone buzzes in my jacket. Probably Zeke checking in—his men probably informed him the second I left the precinct. I pull it out, expecting to see his name on the screen.
Instead, there’s a text from an unknown number. My breath catches as I read the words.
Unknown Caller
It should have been you.
The phone nearly slips from my suddenly numb fingers as I stare at the message, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Eve?” Rissa pauses by the passenger door, frowning at me. “Everything okay?”
I can’t find my voice, but I manage a quick nod. The words on the screen blur as memories flood back—Gio’s hands around my throat, the terror of thinking I would die, the relief of survival that now feels like a curse.
It should have been you.
Is this a threat? A warning? Or just someone’s sick way of confirming what I’d already been thinking—that if I had died that night, maybe this woman would still be alive?
My hands shake even more as I unlock the car, trying to push down the rising panic. The message glares up at me, each word a knife twisting in my gut.
It should have been you.
The sender knows about my attack. Knows I survived. Is this the murderer taunting me? Or someone else who blames me for what’s happening?
One thing’s certain now—this isn’t random. This is personal. And it confirms what I’ve suspected—these attacks, these women, they’re all connected to me somehow.
The madness has to end. No more women can die because I lived.
The steering wheel is slick beneath my sweaty palms as I guide my car through the late afternoon traffic.
Every few minutes, my eyes dart to the rearview mirror, catching glimpses of the black SUV following at a discreet distance—one of Zeke’s men keeping watch.
The text message burns in my mind like a brand.
It should have been you.
I grip the wheel harder, trying to ground myself in the present moment, but guilt and fear swirl together in a toxic cocktail that makes my stomach churn.