Chapter 19 Gabe
GABE
Iwake to the scent of her still lingering on the sheets, but the warmth beside me has disappeared. My hand slides across the empty space where Amelia’s body should be curled against mine. No sleepy murmurs, no tangle of limbs. Just cold sheets and silence in my apartment above The Blue Room.
“Amelia?”
As I call her name into the empty room, I find myself calculating dates in my head.
If we’d met earlier, on Valentine’s Day, would she have been as receptive to my darkness?
Or was the timing perfect—the commercial holiday of manufactured romance safely in the past, leaving room for something authentic to take root between us?
Not hearts and flowers, but blood and bruises.
Our own savage valentine, arriving late but meaning so much more.
The bathroom door stands open, lights off. My apartment feels too quiet. I pull on a pair of black pants, not bothering with a shirt, and check the kitchen. Coffee pot untouched. Living room empty.
She must have gone downstairs to the club.
I take the private staircase down to the main floor of The Blue Room. The club is silent, with chairs stacked on tables and the stage empty.
A cold sensation spreads through my chest when I notice my office door ajar. I always keep it locked. Always.
Three strides and I’m at the threshold, frozen by what I see. Amelia sits rigidly in my leather chair; her fingers splayed across open folders—the Reynolds files. Crime scene photos. Preservation notes. Blood collection spreadsheets. My meticulous documentation spread before her like a confession.
Her face is drained of color, eyes wide with horror. Her hands that worshipped me last night now tremble against evidence of what I truly am.
“What is this?” Her voice breaks on the question, barely above a whisper.
My mind races through scenarios with clinical efficiency—denial, manipulation, partial truth, full confession. The cold calculation happens automatically while my body remains perfectly still. This moment was always a statistical possibility. I prepared for it, but not with her. Never with her.
I watch her eyes track from the photographs to my face, searching for something—a denial, perhaps, or signs of the monster she now knows me to be. The air between us feels charged with the weight of secrets crashing into daylight.
“You weren’t supposed to see this,” I manage, my voice eerily calm despite the fracturing of my carefully constructed world. One night of forgetting to lock the office door. One mistake after years of perfect discipline.
Her fingers curl against a photo of Reynolds on my preparation table. “These are... these are real people. You...”
I close the door with deliberate care, turning the lock with a soft click. The sound feels definitive in the tense silence between us.
Amelia’s eyes dart from the files to my face, searching for the man she thought she knew. Her breathing comes in shallow bursts, fear radiating from her in waves I can almost taste.
“These are dead people, Gabe. These are—” her hands flutter over the photos, the documentation, “—crime scenes?”
“Sit down.” The command flows naturally, my dominant tone automatic. The same voice that made her quiver with desire last night.
For the first time since I’ve known her, she doesn’t yield to my command. Her body tenses, defiance flickering across her face as she processes what she’s discovered. The sight fascinates me—this new resistance, this transformation happening before my eyes.
“Amelia. Please. Let me explain.” I soften my tone, though the request remains an order.
She sits, but her body remains rigid, perched on the edge of the chair, poised for flight. Every muscle in her frame screams self-preservation. I recognize prey behavior when I see it.
I run a hand through my hair. The routine gives me precious seconds to calculate my approach. Denial would insult her intelligence. Manipulation might work temporarily, but she’s seen too much.
I decide on honesty—partial, controlled, but more truth than I’ve ever given anyone outside of Adrian and Maya.
“I kill people,” I say simply. “Specific people. Bad people. And I preserve them in artistic ways, as reminders of their corruption.”
The words hang between us like smoke in still air. I watch her process this information.
Amelia’s face transforms rapidly—disbelief washing into horror, then a flicker of fascination before settling into naked fear. Her expressions shift so quickly it’s like watching lightning dance across a night sky. Every emotion raw, unfiltered.
“You’re a murderer.” She says it flatly; the words stripped of question.
“Yes.” No point denying what she already knows.
She stares at me, fingers digging into her thighs. “And you... preserve them? Like taxidermy?”
“More like mummification. Ancient Egyptian techniques, mostly.” I gesture toward the detailed notes on my desk. “It’s an art form.”
Her laugh cracks through the air, slightly hysterical. “An art form. You kill people and call it art.”
“I kill predators. Abusers. Corrupt politicians and businessmen who destroy lives. People who deserve it.” I move closer, each step carefully measured, watching for signs she might bolt. “Everything I’ve done has been justice, Amelia. Taking out cancer before it spreads.”
She’s shaking now, fine tremors running through her entire body. I can’t decipher if it’s fear or rage or something else entirely—her eyes hold a storm I’ve never seen before.
“And the things we’ve done together? The sex, the—was that just you practicing? Honing your skills on a willing victim?”
The question cuts deeper than I expected, a blade slipping between my ribs. I hadn’t anticipated this pain.
“No.” I drop to my knees before her. The position feels foreign, dangerous.
“What we have is real. Separate from the other part of my life. You must believe that.” The words leave my mouth with an urgency I rarely permit myself. I’m not accustomed to pleading. The sensation is uncomfortable.
“Why should I believe anything you say?” Amelia’s voice trembles, but her gaze remains steady.
“Because I could have kept lying. Could have cleaned this up, made it disappear, and you’d never have known.
But I’m choosing honesty, right now, even though it might cost me everything.
” I reach for her hand, half-expecting her to recoil.
She doesn’t pull away. Her skin feels cold against mine, but the contact steadies something inside me.
“I’m telling you the truth because you matter. Because what we have matters.”
Tears streak down her face, catching the morning light. Even now, breaking apart before me, she’s beautiful. I want to capture this moment—her vulnerability laid bare against mine. The symmetry feels perfect, tragic.
“This is insane. I should leave. I should call the police.” Her voice breaks on the last word.
“You could. And I wouldn’t stop you.”
I stand, moving to my desk with deliberate calm. My hand doesn’t shake as I write down a number on club stationery. The pen leaves smooth, dark lines.
“This is the direct line to homicide detective Gregory Hawthorne. Tell him what you’ve seen.
He’ll arrest me within the hour.” I hand her my phone, unlocked.
A final offering of trust that feels dangerously sincere.
“Or you could listen to the whole story. Learn who I really am and why I do this. And then decide.”
She stares at the phone in her hand for a long moment. I watch her fingers curl around it, then loosen. I wonder if she has the capacity to see beyond the horror to the complex design beneath. The same talent that makes her art transcendent now keeps her from fleeing.
Then, slowly, she sets it down.
“Tell me everything.”