Chapter 84
Mireya
Play - Riverborn by Wickerbird
In my dreams
I see her clearly now, she is standing in the rain again.
My mother looks smaller than I remember.
And I feel the strong urge to run my hands through the strands of her hair, water dripping from her lashes like she’s crying for the sky.
She meets my gaze and then looks up, like she’s searching the clouds as if they owe her an answer.
Her lips move and my eyes strain to follow them.
It’s not your fault. But the words dissolve before they reach me. The ground beneath her turns soft, mud swallowing her ankles, then her knees, then her waist. A scream is trapped in my throat as she reaches for me and I reach back, but my arms feel heavy, like they’re filled with wet sand.
“Mom—” No sound comes out. Don’t look for me. Then she’s gone.
I wake up choking on air and I feel my body damp with sweat like I’ve been running a marathon. My hand flies to my throat. My heart is pounding so hard it hurts and for a second, I don’t know where I am.
“Use your senses Mireya,” I tell myself as I press my palm into the mattress.
Feel the fabric. Feel the bed. Count my breaths.
In. Out. In.
The ceiling is real. The sheets are real. I am real. I turn my head, and he’s not there. So, I place my palm onto the pillow beside me, his side of the bed feels cold to the touch. My chest tightens, that familiar hollow ache creeping back in. Safety disappears too easily.
What time is it?
My phone glows on the nightstand. 1:30 AM.
I sit up slowly, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass. My head feels full of fog, like part of me stayed in his arms and didn’t want to come back. I hug my knees to my chest, repeating the numbers, over and over again, until I can breathe again.
“Breathe,” I murmur. “You’re here.”
Then I hear it. A voice downstairs. His voice. Not the one that whispered monsters can’t reach me in his arms. This one is lower, colder almost.
My fingers curl around the railing as I step into the hallway and walk toward the stairs.
“Are you sure?” he says. A pause. “Send me everything. Cross-reference the marks again.”
I descend slowly, each step careful, like I’m walking through water. The lights are on in the kitchen. He’s standing at the table, back to me, phone to his ear. The table is covered in papers. Photos, folders, evidence bags… he’s working this late?
I take a step closer, and he doesn’t notice. My hand reaches out and grabs the nearest file.
The folder is old. Yellowed edges, and worn out cover, a note sits on top with his handwriting. I open it and my pulse stutters.
My brain lags behind my eyes. Victim profile, a few ligature marks around the neck, some comparison charts, and photos clipped to the page. On one side, the victim’s bruised skin. On the other, the serial killer’s signature marks.
Then I see the sticky note covering something. I peel it off slowly, like I already know I don’t want to see what’s underneath. The photo is grainy. A body on cold ground, hair tangled, eyes half-open like she tried to say something and didn’t finish.
My breath leaves my body. It’s her. My mom.
The world narrows, and my ears ring. Why is there a picture of my mom’s body…
There’s writing on the photo. His handwriting.
Mireya’s Mother.
The file that disappeared. The one I told him about. The one that has a picture of my dead mom. He had it. He had it all along. He had her.
I look up slowly, he’s still on the phone, then he turns. Our eyes meet.
And my heart breaks for the first time since I’ve met him.