Chapter 54
Damien
Play - Diet Mountain Dew by Lana Del Rey
Difficult to Love
The library is empty at this hour, and I've been sitting here too long to say I just arrived. The file is in front of me, closed. I should be working, and I am, in bits and pieces, between two thoughts that keep returning to the same place without me understanding why.
The week was normal on paper. Classes, practices, reports, students, calls with my team to make sure everything is running smoothly there.
And yet, there were moments when I slowed down for no reason.
Hallways crossed more slowly than necessary.
Doors I stared at a little too long. Overhearing conversations among her friends, wondering if I could even hear her name at least once to stop the worry I felt.
I didn't allow myself to text her right away. I waited for things to calm down, for things to take a logical form, but it never really did. The messages remained there, sometimes opened, sometimes closed without a reply.
She wasn't responding, and I shouldn't have looked for her. I told myself that clearly, several times. A professor doesn't turn this kind of thing into a personal problem, that's not how it works, and yet I did it without really meaning to.
Detours that weren't really detours, passing through places where she wasn't but where she could have been. I don't know if I was looking for her or if I was trying to confirm that it was nothing more than worry.
And then I saw her, just a few hours ago, in a hallway, and I couldn't help but speak to her, and only then did my heart ease. Now I wait, because she said she would come, and because I know she will.
I watch the door without really looking at it. And I find myself thinking that seeing her disappear has made me understand something. The way she leaves without really asking to be held back. The way she acts as if being understood is already a form of suffering.
Sad blue eyes, empty and begging to be looked at.
I think… I think if sorrow were given a body, it would borrow her eyes and cry endlessly. And for some strange reasons, this thought leaves a weird taste in my mouth.
I catch the small firefly etched on the wood of the table, half-erased, and remember when she drew this during one of our sessions here. I touch it with my fingertips and then bring it to my mouth. The taste of my skin lingers on my lips for a second, and only then do I realize what I've just done.
I remain motionless, surprised by something I never felt, and by the fact that it seems both natural and utterly forbidden
The door opens and I watch her enter without moving. She pauses for a second, as if checking once more that she can be there, then she sits down next to me.
“Are you okay?”
She nods and places her hands on the table. “Yes.”
“You sure?”
She looks up at that moment, breathes in slightly, as if choosing what she’s willing to show. “What have you discovered these past few days?”
Her voice puts everything into perspective. The setting, the case. Us. I push the file toward the center of the table and finally open it, never taking my eyes off her.
“We’ve identified the victim,” I say.
And from that moment, she’s already turning the pages.
I let her read the file without interrupting, and she takes her time, lingering on the details: the date, the name, the position of the body, then the photos. I see that her mind is no longer following a single line but several at once.
“Nineteen…” she finally says. “She was only nineteen.”
“She was supposed to start this year with all of you,” I replied. “but she died the day before classes began.”
She nods slightly, as if she’s already integrating this information into a larger picture, then she lingers a little longer on the marks around the neck, the chains visible in the report, before putting the file down more slowly.
“Why here, and why now?” she says finally, without looking up.
“He was inactive for twenty years, and he came back to this island to kill a student? It doesn’t make sense.
Not with a signature like that. It’s not something that disappears for twenty years only to reappear unchanged, unless the underlying logic has never shifted.
And why is there no quote carved anywhere? ”
I watch her work, connecting effortlessly, without seeking my approval.
“Go on,” I say simply.
“Maybe this one was pure rage, like he lost control because of something.” Her eyes move toward the picture, then the victim’s face.
“He didn’t start somewhere else and then come back here,” she adds, “he started again here because he’s connected to this place.
Maybe we’ve misunderstood everything from the beginning. ”
I don’t answer right away, until she finally looks up at me.
“He didn’t take refuge here,” she says more slowly, “he never really left this place.”
I nod slightly, as she leans a little closer to the file, like something has just fallen into place.
“He was here,” she continues. “He grew up here, or he was trained here. And if he was able to disappear off the radar for years on the mainland without being detected, it’s because he had perfect cover.
In an era when serial killers were already under surveillance, how could someone like that go unnoticed? ”
I gently correct her, without directly contradicting it, “Because he had something that inspired confidence. Status maybe, a structure. A badge, a position… something that made people believe he was one of those who protect.”
She remains silent for a second, but I can already see the next piece forming in her mind.
“That explains the structure,” she says more quietly. “The precision, and also the repetition. It’s not improvised, it’s like he was trained here.” She pauses, then adds almost to herself: “So, the academy.”
The word lingers between us for a second too long and I lightly close the file without taking my eyes off her. “Yes.”
“And if the latest victim was supposed to be a student here,” she says, “then this is a direct continuation of something that started in this environment.” I look at her when she finally raises her eyes.
“His first victim should be linked to Seraphin bay.
I think it's already here, in the old cases.”
“The classified files,” I say simply.
She understands immediately. The old cases, the ones I already checked. She’s right, there’s a cold case that is similar to his victims. But she can’t get access to it. It’s already threatening for her to just work on this with me. I don’t want to push it even more.
She takes a slight breath, but her gaze doesn't move.
“You don't have access to that,” I say more firmly. “And you're not supposed to go near it. You're not cleared.”
She looks up at me this time. “But you are.”
I don't reply.
“Working with you on this case,” she continued, “is already outside the bounds of what’s required. So don’t talk to me about integrity as if it were still intact.”
My jaw tightens slightly. “I told you from the start that I didn’t want to put you in danger. Especially now that I understand what this means to you.”
She glanced down at the file for a moment, then back at me. And her voice changed. “A nineteen-year-old girl died here,” she said. “We found her body. We have a signature, a pattern, a continuity. And you’re asking me to back down to protect what exactly? An uncertain future?”
I look at her, and understand that this is no longer a discussion for her.
She gently closes the file. “I’ll find a way,” she says simply.
“No,” I replied immediately.
I stand up without really thinking, my hand grabs her arm for a fraction of a second, “We’ll talk about this again. We finally have a clear pattern, Mireya.” I pause, then add more softly, “Don’t disappear into your mind. Not this time.”
“I won’t,” she promises
I pick up my file, and before leaving, without really looking at her, I whisper, “Tomorrow, same place, same time. And… don’t do anything stupid.”
The door closes behind me.
And I’m gone.