16. Noah - August
SIXTEEN
Noah - August
CONTROL - HALSEY
Sitting at my kitchen table, the house was quiet, broken only by Walker’s soft snores at my feet. I’d done everything I could to keep myself in check this morning, knowing it was just the calm before the storm.
Colt and Dorian were in the living room, keeping their distance but close enough that I could sense them—especially Dorian. He was impossible to ignore, no matter how much I wanted to avoid the man and the feelings he brought out in me.
The sound of footsteps broke through the stillness, and Dorian appeared in the doorway.
“You ready?”
I didn’t answer immediately, just stared at the cup of tea sitting in front of me.
I wasn’t, not really—not to be questioned again and to relive it all.
I gripped the edge of the table, trying to steady myself, my fingers pressing into the wood.
Dorian sat down in the seat next to me. His knee brushed mine, sending a ripple of awareness at his proximity, making my head spin.
“You don’t have to do this, Noah.”
I sighed. “I know… But I need to.”
If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night—questioning whether I’d done enough, if there was something else I could do to help bring justice to his victims or reclaim some semblance of my own peace.
He studied me for a moment before nodding. Then he leaned in, his hand resting on my thigh.
“If it’s too much, do this.” I couldn’t think—only feel the pressure of his fingers, the slow rhythm of his taps—once, twice, three times.
“Okay…” I replied.
I exhaled as the tension eased—not entirely, but enough. His hand stayed there for a moment longer, solid and unmoving, before pulling back.
I finally nodded. “I’m ready.”
I still didn’t feel ready, but I wasn’t sure I ever would be thinking about all the ways my life had changed lately.
There was now this shadow that haunted every second, every decision I made. Dorian didn’t say anything for a long moment, letting the silence sit.
But then reality crashed back in, with the knock at the door shattering the fragile quiet. I pulled my leg away, but Dorian’s hand lingered in the air for a moment before he stood.
The absence of his touch left a void, a stark reminder of how much I’d been leaning on him without realizing it. Our eyes met, and his gaze threatened to crumble the walls I put up after John.
Colt appeared in the doorway, his features pulled tight with worry. “They’re here.”
I nodded, swallowing hard and trying to control my breathing.
“You’ve got this,” Dorian said, his tone leaving no room for doubt.
I stood, my legs unsteady beneath me, and trailed Colt to the front door. When he opened it, Lilah stood on the porch with two FBI agents behind her—the same ones I’d spoken to right after John disappeared.
I’d first met Lilah months ago, after Trent was shot. The details of that day blurred together now, but I remembered her steady presence in the chaos.
Standing on the porch, her copper hair framed her face. Her sharp features showed a glimmer of empathy breaking through the professional mask she wore.
“Noah,” she said, her tone measured in a way that hinted at both care and caution.
“Hi,” I replied. I swallowed, trying to clear the sudden dryness in my throat. Walker padded over, sniffing at the agents before offering a few snuffles and a wag of his tail. He retreated to his bed in the corner, curling up with a heavy sigh.
The man, whose hair was even more gray since the last time I saw him, stepped forward.
“Agent Roberts,” he reminded me, offering a small nod, his voice measured, carrying a note of authority.
Next to him, the brunette woman spoke. “Agent Garcia,” she said as a reminder, her tone softer yet still professional.
“Thank you for your time,” Agent Roberts said.
Lilah stepped forward, her movements deliberate. “The FBI is leading this case,” she explained, “but I wanted to be here since this is my jurisdiction.”
She entered the room, the agents trailing behind her. I sank onto the couch but forced myself to sit straighter, my hands restless against my lap.
Dorian sat beside me, his presence anchoring me with the support I needed. Colt stood behind the couch, his shoulders squared and his stance rigid, prepared for whatever this moment might bring.
The agents positioned themselves in the seats across from me, while Lilah stood off to the side of them.
Agent Garcia placed a thick file on the coffee table. The pages made a crisp sound as she flipped through them, her dark eyes darting briefly to mine, sharp and calculating.
“We’re hoping you can help us clarify a few things,” Agent Garcia said, stopping on a page and glancing up. “Colt mentioned you have a tattoo near your pinky toe. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” I answered, keeping my gaze fixed on my hands. “I’ve had it for years. John was with me when I got it.”
I slipped off my shoe and extended my leg slightly to show them. Agent Garcia leaned in, studying it closely without a word.
“Can you tell us about it?” she asked.
I hesitated, the memory lingering uncomfortably in the back of my mind. “There’s not much to say. I was young and wanted to do something reckless after deciding not to follow the path my parents wanted me to,” I said evenly, avoiding the sharper details. “John helped pick it out.”
“He chose the design?” Agent Roberts pressed, his pen hovering over his notepad.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “There were a few options, but he was the one who decided on the butterfly.”
The words were bitter in my mouth, the association now tainted. I couldn’t stop thinking about the same butterfly etched into the skin of another victim.
Agent Roberts flipped through the notepad, then spoke. “The women he’s been linked to all have… similarities. They’re independent and high achieving, wealthy. Several were nurses, mothers, or similar caretakers in some way. We believe this may tie back to his childhood.”
“His mom was a nurse… He wasn’t exactly fond of her. But why is he pulling me into this now?” I asked.
“That’s what we need to figure out.”
“And in addition to that,” Garcia said, leaning back slightly. “The last two victims displayed other details. We’re hoping you might recognize something, anything, that could give us some insight.”
I hesitated, unsure where this was going. “Okay…”
Roberts glanced at Garcia before continuing. “The first victim… she had earrings. Four total—two on each ear.”
Garcia added, “The second victim had a few fingernails painted, only on one hand.”
Confusion washed over me, my brow furrowing. “I don’t—what does that mean?”
“Everything else matches the prior victims,” Roberts explained, his tone careful. “The victim profile, the positioning—those remain consistent. These new details are deviations from the original pattern.”
They both watched me intently.
“Does any of this mean something to you?” Garcia asked.
I shook my head, then stilled. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
Garcia hesitated, then leaned forward. “Would you be okay if we showed you photos? Only the details we’re describing. Nothing else.”
The room seemed to press inward, and my pulse quickened.
I turned slightly, my gaze moving to Dorian. His finger brushed against mine. But it wasn’t demanding, just a quiet reassurance. A silent question— Is this too much?
I focused on it, on the quiet strength it offered, forcing myself to stay in the present instead of spiraling into the nightmare of what John had done.
The need to know burned inside me. It wasn’t only for myself—it was for everyone who’d been affected by all of this. I glanced at Dorian, noticing the subtle change in his expression, the way his lips turned down. I took a deep breath, meeting the agents’ eyes and nodded.
“These are from the first victim,” Roberts said, his voice more cautious this time as he slid the photographs across the table.
The first image showed the left side of a head, a small stud and silver hoop glinting in the light. The next photo captured the other side—another hoop and a simple stud.
I instinctively reached up through my hair, fingers grazing my own ears. Two earrings in each, just like the photo. My chest was heavy as I tried to push back the thought forming in my mind.
Garcia exchanged a sharp glance with Roberts but said nothing as he pulled out the next one.
It was a photo of a lifeless hand, fingers pale except for the deep emerald polish painted neatly onto three nails. My stomach twisted.
“That’s…” My words faltered, and I cleared my throat. “That’s my favorite color. It’s called Evergreen.” My gaze dropped to my own nails, painted in the same shade. I looked at Garcia. “I don’t understand. Why would he—why would they?—"
“We don’t know yet,” Garcia said gently, cutting in. “But these details—they’re specific. We thought they might resonate with you.”
I pressed my lips together, unsure how to respond.
These weren’t random decisions John made on a whim. Nothing ever was with him. He’d always been methodical, precise in the way he handled people, his career, every detail of his life.
Lilah’s expression hardened, her eyes narrowing slightly as she shifted on her feet. “After I heard about the tattoo, I feared this would be the case,” she said. “He’s fixated on you, for some reason.”
“He knew everything about me. He knew my likes, my fears, the things that made me feel safe. And now he’s going to use that against me, isn’t he?” My voice sounded foreign.
Agent Roberts leaned forward, the wrinkles in his face deepening. “This could be his way of trying to communicate with you, or maybe it’s a form of psychological manipulation. Either way, it’s clear that you are central to whatever plan he has.”
The room felt smaller, suffocating almost. John was someone I’d trusted, someone I’d loved. And now, all of that—every vulnerable part of me—was being weaponized against me in the worst possible way. My stomach dropped, the tea I barely touched churning in my stomach.
Dorian’s hand swept gently against my thigh, so slight, so subtle that no one else would have noticed. But it was enough of something to hold onto.
“Anything unusual, any increase in aggression in the months leading up to this?” Agent Garcia asked.
I drew in a steadying inhale. “He used to ask me to come with him on business trips, but I couldn’t just drop everything. At first, he was fine with it, but over time, he started getting upset, trying to guilt me into going. It didn’t feel right, but I didn’t think much of it until… Ugh, why is he dragging me into this?”
Garcia’s face softened, but her eyes remained intent, unwavering.
“Does he know you were planning to move to Woodstone?” Lilah asked.
“No,” I replied. “I didn’t decide to move until after.”
“Good,” she said, her tone firm. “Stay vigilant. Always be aware of your surroundings. It seems like his recent victims have been further away, which is good. He might not know you're here."
“We’ll make sure she’s safe,” Dorian said. His gaze moved to Colt, seeking reassurance.
“That’s how family works,” Colt replied.
For a moment, tears pricked the back of my eyes. This town—these people—they were becoming a haven I never thought I’d find outside the city.