Chapter Three
I’ve been in the shower for over an hour, and I swear I can still feel his blood on me.
It’s seeped into my skin, into my bones, clinging to every cell.
I’ve brushed my teeth three times already, desperate to scrub out the taste of vomit.
The first thing I did when I got home was drop to my knees and throw up.
Thanks to the TV show Dexter and his plastic obsession, I wrapped the entire room.
All I had to do was peel it away—walls, floor, my own skin—and burn it.
The wig, the jumpsuit, the gloves, the sheets.
Every piece gone to ash, but the smell of melting plastic and blood still lingers at the back of my throat.
Oh, fuck. I drop to the toilet again, dry heaving, but there’s nothing left but stomach acid. Getting back under the warm water I lean on the cold tiles.
I can’t believe I did that. I don’t regret it, not even a little, he deserved every second.
I force myself out of the shower, scrub one last time until my skin stings raw and pink. Wrapping myself in my favorite towel, I stumble into the bedroom, collapsing face-first onto the bed, still damp. Still shaking.
Exhaustion drags at my body, but the adrenaline hasn’t faded; it’s still running hot in my veins.
Daisy deserves closure.
They all deserve to pay. They didn’t just rape her, as if that horror wasn’t enough, they marked her.
Cut into her thighs, carved shame into her skin in a way no surgeon could erase.
Even after all the procedures, the scars stayed.
She has to live with them forever and still, she stayed strong.
She did everything right. Police reports, lawyers, statements, but the second their names came up, every door slammed shut.
Money and power rules the world and the justice system.
We even considered going public. I searched for podcasters, even contacted a reporter, and that’s when they came, four men in black suits with foreign accents. My aunt answered the door, and they forced their way in, put a knife to her throat, and made their threat.
Stop fucking around or you and the girls will end up in a ditch no one will ever find.
I held Daisy in my arms as they said it. When they left, she made the decision for the three of us. We never spoke about it again—but I couldn’t let it go.
It took longer than I wanted. These bastards are well protected, hidden behind layers of money and power, but now I got one.
Henry Lane is rotting in a hole with his testicles sewn into his eye sockets. I even named it. The Shame Socket. Has a ring to it!
Camden Wolfe is next. He’ll be harder to reach, but not impossible. They’ll all fall. One by one.
I lay back in bed, towel clinging to my damp skin, and stare at the ceiling. I start counting the cracks in the paint—one, two, three—letting the numbers slow my pulse.
“I killed a man,” I whisper as my eyes begin to shut.
Where the fuck is it?
I’m tearing through the drawer, flinging utensils across the counter, like the knife might magically appear under a spoon. I can’t find it! My fucking knife!
Panic swells in my throat. I grab the bathroom trash bag, rip it open, tossing towels, tampons, nail scissors, everything but what I need.
Shit. Shit.
Did I leave it there?
Did I seriously walk out and forget the one thing that ties me to Henry Lane’s body?
I dress in a rush and drive straight to the hideout by the docks to get the busted Ford that only starts on the second try, and I gun it down the road.
The cabin is quiet and clean. Fuck, I’m good at this cleaning blood thing, but there is no goddamn knife.
I start breathing faster, my attempts to slow it down fall short. Maybe I left it outside. Maybe it fell while I was dragging the body. Maybe… I bolt to the grave and drop to my knees. The dirt looks untouched, and I search the surrounding ground, shifting leaves, moving stones.
Nothing.
Did it fall in the grave with him? Maybe it slid in while I was covering the body, and I just didn’t see. That would be lucky. That would be smart.
The knife didn’t have prints, only his blood, I think. No one could trace it back to me. I bought it with cash from a shady roadside stand that probably doesn’t even exist anymore.
Still…
A crack behind me makes me jump, and my breath catches, heart punching into my ribs as I whirl around. “Hello?”
Silence.
Just the whisper of wind in the trees, the soft chirp of birds nesting in the branches above, but I swear I heard something. A branch cracking under weight.
I stay frozen for a second too long.
Nothing.
I let out a slow, shaking breath and rub a hand down my face. So this is what being a criminal feels like? Constantly on edge? Waiting for the worst?
Shit.
Driving home, I grip the steering wheel so hard my fingers cramp; my knuckles are white, tendons tight, and my foot is heavy on the gas.
Calm down. Breathe.
Chamomile tea! That’s what my aunt always made when things got too loud in my head. She’d put the kettle on, tuck a blanket around my shoulders, and sit with me until I stopped shaking; she was everything my parents weren’t.
They lost custody when I was four, there was too much partying, too many strangers passed out on the floor, and not enough food in the fridge even though they had money to burn. I still remember the flashing red and blue lights outside our apartment. I didn’t cry when they took me.
My aunt was pregnant with Daisy when she took me in, she didn’t even hesitate. She made space in their small house and in her big, soft heart, and never made me feel like a burden.
I was just as important as Daisy and just as loved.
My chest tightens thinking about it, about them, about everything they gave me and everything they lost. After my uncle died in a car crash, we broke, but we broke together. Grieved together. Three women holding onto each other when the world was trying to tear us apart.
And that night, the one that changed everything, Daisy asked me to go with her to a party. “Just a college party!” she said. A party with loud music, cheap drinks, boys who wore too much cologne, everything I hated so I said, “Maybe next time.”
I was working nights at the pharmacy back then, barely sleeping, barely functioning, and all I wanted was to curl up in bed with a book and rest.
When she came home, my aunt screamed so loud I ran down the stairs, and the second I saw her, I knew I’d made a mistake that couldn’t be undone: I wasn’t there, and now Daisy lives with pain I’ll never be able to erase.
This is my fault.
I can’t give her back what they stole from her, but I can give her justice. Even if it kills me, and if I’m caught, I pray it’s only after I’ve killed them all.
It’s well past lunch when I finally pull into the driveway.
I don’t remember most of the drive home, just the knot in my stomach, the burn behind my eyes from all the memories of my family, and the echo of Henry’s screams still tucked somewhere in the back of my mind.
The knife’s still missing, but I can’t bring myself to care anymore. I used gloves, there were no prints, so if someone finds it, they won’t link it to me.
I hope.
My body moves on autopilot as I step into the house and lock the door behind me. Everything feels quieter now.
I kick off my shoes, shrug off my jacket, and head to the kitchen. Tea. I need tea. Chamomile, just the way Auntie used to make.
I grab the kettle, start filling it with water. I turn to the counter next to the stove and my breath stops. The knife is sitting on the counter, right there, in the center, as if it never left.
My stomach lurches. I’m hallucinating! There’s no way. It wasn’t here before; I tore this house apart.
I don’t touch it. I just stare, certain that if I move too fast it might leap off the counter and bury itself in my throat.
I notice that it’s clean, spotless, actually.
Not a trace of blood, not a smear of flesh, but it’s definitely mine.
There is a little scratch on the handle where I slipped cutting into pork during one of those online butchering tutorials.
Is that…? Is that a piece of paper underneath it?
Shit.
I inch closer, carefully, like the damn thing is alive. My whole body stiffens up, as if any movement might trigger the damn inanimate object. I nudge the knife with the edge of my pinky, just enough to slide the paper out.
My eyes never leave the blade.
I unfold the note with trembling fingers, and there is one line printed.
“Next time. Clean better.”
And just below that a symbol of an eye, stamped with a name: Eidolon.
Who the hell is Eidolon?
Oh fuck—
I rush to the door, fling it open, and scan the hallway.
Nothing. No one, just silence and stale air.
I turn back and kneel; the lock looks fine.
No obvious scratches, no busted frame, but who am I kidding?
This lock is old as fuck. It’s covered in marks.
Hell, I’ve probably made most of them myself!
I shut the door again, slower this time, and check everything. Kitchen. Bathroom. Hall closet. I dart to the window, locked, just as I left it. I live on the third floor with no fire escape, no balcony. So unless someone got bit by a radioactive spider, there’s no way in from the outside.
Everything looks untouched. The bed is as messy as I left it, and the rug is still crooked. Nothing’s moved, except for that fucking knife, still sitting on the counter.
I walk toward it slowly, my teeth grinding, and glare down at it.
“You little shit,” I mutter. “Who brought you here?”
I’m talking to a knife. Jesus Christ! I’m going insane!
There’s a knock at the door and I scream, loud.
A second later, I hear Ally scream back from the other side.
I fly to the door and yank it open. She’s standing there, hand clutching her chest, eyes wide as if I just slapped her soul out of her body.
“What the fuck, girl?” she pants. “Why did you scream like that?”
“I—” Shit. Fuck me. “I was distracted. Just finished watching some horror movie.”
She narrows her eyes for a second, shrugs and walks in.
Oh my fuck—
“So, let’s order the pizzas?” she says, tossing her coat onto the little table and flopping down on my bed.
I blink. “Pizzas?”
Her head whips around. “Tamsin. What the hell? You asked me to come over for pizza and movies.”
Right. Right. I did. Another alibi, just in case but with the whole knife situation, I completely forgot.
“Of course,” I say, grabbing my phone, trying not to look like I’m losing my mind.
“You okay?” She’s watching me, suspicious. Ally’s sweet, but she’s got a quick brain and zero chill when she senses bullshit.
“Yes! I just didn’t sleep great, and the horror movie was fucked up,” I say with a casual shrug and an unhinged smile, finally opening the food app.
“So what pizza do you want?” I ask, forcing myself to calm down.
Once Ally leaves, I need to do a serious deep dive.
Who or what the hell is Eidolon?