33. Him
HIM
HIT YOU WHERE IT HURTS
That fucking composite sketch.
Doesn’t even look like us.
Which, I suppose, was the point.
But they won’t find us. They never will. We’re too careful. Too clever. Too many steps ahead.
I tamp down a wince as my monster thrashes beneath my ribs—claws like knives pounding against bone. He’s furious. Screaming. Seething. That fucking detective said her name. Her name.
No one else is allowed to say it.
Only us.
“Thank you, Detective Cruz. And now, a few words from Mayor James Evans,” the chief of police announces as that smug bastard steps away from the podium.
“Sir, you’re up,” my assistant whispers, leaning in discreetly.
I nod, adjust my suit, and ensure the mask is in place; duplicity concealed. A slight tightening of my jaw, a slow breath, and there it is—composure.
As I approach the podium with a confident stride, I meet the cameras with a solemn expression. My voice is steady. Calm and well-practiced. Every word measured, delivered like a man who cares. Like a man who protects.
And they’re eating it up. Imbeciles, the lot of them.
The moment the speech ends, I turn from the flashing lights and empty praise and walk straight toward the car. My assistant tries to get my attention—something about a meeting.
I don’t care.
I don’t have time for their mundane routines.
Don’t have the patience for them.
All I can think about is her.
My Clara.
She’s in my head, in my blood.
She’s taken over my brain, filling every quiet second with noise.
And now I know where that special agent has taken her. Where he’s keeping her captive. Keeping her away from us.
My monster regrets burying her. She belongs to us.
And it’s time she remembered that.
We’ll write her a letter.
A proper one.