Elias
The drive back to the cottage was quieter than it should have been.
Collins and Walker had been found just after noon. Two bodies. One abandoned house. One familiar signature. Pinned neatly to Collins’ chest with a heavy hunting knife was a handwritten note.
You're welcome.
Beneath it, written in the same meticulous, careful handwriting:
And goodbye.
The scene had been completely scrubbed. No fingerprints, no DNA, nothing left behind except enough blood to paint the concrete floor.
The killer had finished what I had started, executing the final two monsters Blackridge had ever produced and somehow, I couldn't shake the chilling feeling that they wanted me to know it.
Every detective instinct told me this wasn't over, but every piece of physical evidence suggested otherwise. Whoever had done it had erased the rot from this town. Maybe... maybe that really was goodbye. Maybe the killer was finally gone.
By the time I pulled into the driveway, dusk had settled heavily over the pines. The cottage lights glowed warmly through the trees, cutting through the dark. Before I could even shut the truck door, the front door burst open.
"There you are!"
Seraphina practically flew across the porch. She laughed a real, vibrant laugh and launched herself straight into my arms. I barely had time to brace myself and catch her before her lips found mine, kissing me hard enough to steal the breath right from my lungs.
Then, just as suddenly, she pulled away, her feet hitting the porch. "I have to show you something."
"What?"
"No questions," she insisted, grabbing my hand tightly.
"Come."
I let her drag me across the yard toward her cottage.
"How was Hollow City?" I asked.
She smiled to herself, a small, private expression. "...Interesting."
"Interesting?"
"I like my new friend."
Something about the way she said it made me glance sideways at her. She wasn't lying, but she wasn't telling me everything either. Halfway to her porch, she slowed down, her fingers tightening around mine.
"Elias..." Her smile faded into something much softer, more intense.
"I need to confess something. So, we can begin anew."
A strange feeling settled low in my stomach. It wasn't fear. It was pure, raw instinct.
"No takebacks," she whispered, unlocking the front door and looking back over her shoulder at me.
"You kissed me. We had sex. Max loves me. So... no. No, you can’t run away."
Despite the weight in the air, a rough laugh escaped me.
"What is it, baby? I'm not planning on running anywhere."
She breathed out, studying my face for another second before nodding.
"Good."
She stepped inside, and I followed. The air was faintly sweet, like her vanilla and cedar perfume lingered right in the walls. I shut the door quietly behind me as she led me down the short hallway toward her bedroom. Stopping outside the closed door, she took one deep breath.
"Just a moment," she whispered.
She opened the door, stepping into the pitch-black space, and flicked on the light.
My hand brushed along the edge of her desk as I stepped in behind her, passing scattered notebooks and something that looked like a ticket stub. Then I turned and stopped cold.
For a second, I just blinked in shock. My pulse stumbled, my mind fracturing as it tried to catch up with exactly what I was seeing.
Now I understood. One entire wall was me. A shrine.
Photos ripped from websites, local news articles, and grainy candids someone had snapped of me at training drills and public events...
dozens of them, pinned in overlapping layers like a massive collage of pure obsession.
Some of the clippings were torn straight down the middle and carefully taped back together, jagged scars running through my face like she’d rescued them from the trash, completely refusing to let go.
My name was circled in red ink over and over again, bold, dark, and possessive.
My breath caught.
There, sitting on a small shelf, was the black beanie I’d lost two weeks ago.
The silver chain I’d sworn was left in my gym bag.
A heavy grey hoodie I hadn’t seen in weeks, the sleeves folded neatly like it was waiting for me to put it back on.
And there, tucked into the corner, pinned with a single red pushpin, was the black hat I’d worn after a meeting at the beginning of the year.
She’d taken them. All of them. My pulse kicked hard, a heavy thud against my ribs.
She’s been watching me. Collecting me. Stalking me. Every photo, every stub, every single stolen piece of my life... it wasn't just fandom. It wasn't just a history of my cases. It was absolute devotion. A secret altar dedicated entirely to me.
And the longer I stared at the red lines and the candid photos taken from the shadows of Blackridge, the deeper the realization sank into my bones:
Seraphina was my stalker.
I should have been disgusted. As a cop, as a sane guy, I should’ve felt my skin crawl. My gut should have twisted with fear. Any normal man would’ve backed out of the room, called the precinct, and burned the key to the cottage on the way down the road.
But I didn’t.
I stepped closer, my gaze locked onto the stolen pieces of my clothing, the scent of her perfume clinging to the fabric. A dark, primal thrill shot straight to my core, and my cock stirred, thickening heavily against my thigh.
Fuck.
Driven by a sudden, urgent need to see how deep this went, I yanked open the top drawer of her desk. My breath came faster. There was even more of me hidden away inside.
A stack of my old practice jerseys from the academy folded small, hidden protectively under a pile of heavy textbooks. A half-empty bottle of my cologne, the exact one I used to wear every single day on the job. Even a single black sock I’d lost weeks ago.
She hadn't just watched me from afar. She had embedded herself into my life long before I ever realized she was there. She had carved out a piece of me and kept it hidden in the dark, waiting.
I turned slowly to face her, the room suddenly feeling entirely too hot, my heart slamming against my chest as I looked at my beautiful, sweet, not so innocent girl.