32. Clara
CLARA
SECRETS AND LIES
“I’m Detective Jonathan Cruz with the FBI-Rochester Police Department Task Force, working to identify and apprehend the man the media has dubbed The Chameleon. This individual is responsible for the murders of seven women across four states: Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, and Illinois.”
Cruz pauses, allowing the gravity of the statement to settle over the room. The press is silent, every eye on him.
“This morning, the body of Marie Ann Douglas was discovered in a shallow grave near Silver Creek Lake. We believe her death is linked to the same suspect.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd, and Cruz lifts his voice to cut through it.
“Surveillance footage shows the suspect wearing a different disguise with each victim. But his eighth target was found alive here in Rochester. Clara Santos is the only known survivor. She was discovered buried alive in Silver Lake Park. Based on her account and a corroborating eyewitness, she worked closely with our forensic artist to create a composite sketch.”
The screen to the left changes, displaying the sketch in high resolution: sharp cheekbones, a neutral expression, the haunting stare of a man capable of erasing his identity as easily as changing a shirt.
“If you recognize this individual,” Cruz continues, “please call the task force hotline. Any information, no matter how small, could be vital.”
He steps back from the podium, and the chief of police takes his place briefly to introduce the next speaker.
“Thank you, Detective Cruz. And now, a few words from Mayor James Evans.”
He strides up confidently, his posture straight, his expression solemn and statesmanlike. The cameras adjust their focus, and the room quiets again.
“People of Rochester,” the mayor begins with a calm, well-practiced voice, “we are devastated by this morning’s discovery.
Another young woman lost her life, and we grieve with her family.
I want to reassure you that we are working closely with the FBI and the Rochester Police Department to keep our community safe. ”
He pauses and stares into the camera. “If you have any information about the individual shown, I encourage you to come forward.”
He continues speaking, but I don’t hear the words.
All I can focus on is that voice.
God.
My stomach turns to ice.
My lungs seize .
I struggle to inhale my next breath.
A sharp chill slides down my spine.
No . No, no, no.
It can’t be.
How can this be possible? It can’t be him. He’s the mayor.
The fucking mayor.
But I know that voice. I would know it anywhere. It taunted me in my prison. I hear it in my nightmares—soft, cruel, dripping with false comfort, while I lay in the dark with dirt beneath my fingernails.
He doesn’t look the same. The hair is wrong. It’s shorter now. Darker. His nose is wrong. Thinner? I can’t tell, but I know it’s wrong. And his eyes. His empty brown eyes are hidden behind glasses. He always wore contacts with me—I remember wondering what he’d look like in glasses.
Now I know.
And I wish I didn’t.
My whole body locks. My throat tightens.
Oh, god. I’m going to be sick.
“Turn it off,” I manage to say in a barely audible whisper.
Maverick stiffens beside me. “What?”
“Turn it off,” I repeat. Louder. Sharper. Demanding.
He fumbles for the remote, eyes still on me as he kills the TV.
Silence drops over the room like a bomb.
I stare at the dark screen. My hands are shaking, and my heart is pounding as if it’s trying to claw out of my chest .
Juno lets out a whimper by my feet and nudges my hand, but I can’t move.
“It’s him,” I breathe. “It’s him.” The words scrape my throat like broken glass.
Maverick turns to me, eyes narrowing, brows knitting in confusion. “Who’s him?”
“The mayor, Maverick.” My voice is suddenly steady; all the fear giving way to fire. I meet his warm brown eyes—a contrast to his —when I say, “Samson is the fucking mayor.”