CHAPTER 8 - Madeline #2
I point my forceps at the bruising.
“The lack of typical shock-response in the tissue suggests his heart was being artificially stabilized. He was being held at the edge of a cliff, forced to feel every single needle, drop of wax, with a clarity no human should even endure.”
I pause, my throat dry.
I’ve seen a lot of things. But this. This is different. This wasn’t just a simple torture. It was all planned in terrifying detail. I can’t even begin to imagine how Jake must have felt.
“The subject was also found with evidence of total sensory deprivation. No sound, no light. Just the internal amplified scream of his own nervous system.”
I look at his face, his eyes are still slightly open. Frozen in final, jagged stare.
“This person didn’t just kill him. He disassembled him. Nerve by nerve, while keeping him perfectly, cruelly awake.”
I pick up the scalpel to begin the internal exam, but my hand trembles for a split second.
“The cause of death was a massive, brutal hemorrhage, but that was just the ending. The real crime happened in the hour before his heart finally stopped. He wasn’t just a victim. He was a prisoner in a body that was forced to stay alive for its own destruction.”
During the internal examination there is nothing unusual. No message. No symbol. No signature. He didn’t leave anything behind this time. But I know his work too well. It was him. He killed him. Not only that. He literally snuffed the life out of him in the most inhuman way.
“The muscle fibers show signs of extreme tachycardia. There is no sign of typical shock-induced organ shutdown. He was kept alive until the very last second.”
I move the light up to his neck, where the final act is written in a devastating line.
“The killing blow was a single, deep transverse incision across the throat. Carotid and jugular severed with surgical intent. The spray pattern and depth indicate he was at peak blood pressure when it happened, the adrenaline was still screaming through him when the blade hit.”
The silence of the morgue suddenly feels too heavy, too intimate. I reach over and click the recorder off. The red light dies. And finally, I let myself breathe.
For a moment I just stand there, staring at the body. Or what’s left of him. A strange pressure settles at the back of my neck. The kind you get when someone is standing too close behind you. Watching.
I glance over my shoulder. The autopsy room is empty. Just a stainless steel table. Cabinets. The low hum of the ventilation system. Still, the feeling doesn’t go away.
My eyes drift slowly toward the corners of the room, toward the small black dome of the security camera mounted near the ceiling.
We’ve always had cameras in here. For documentation. Liability. Training reviews. I’ve worked under them for a year without thinking about it. But since him. The lens feels… different. Like an eye. Cold. Unblinking.
I shake the thought away and pull my gloves off, tossing them into the biohazard bin. Get a grip, Madeline.
Still, as I turn toward the table. I can’t stop myself from glancing once more toward the camera. Just for a second. And the unease crawling under my skin refuses to fade. Because somewhere deep down, a quiet, irrational part of me is suddenly convinced. That he’s watching me.
The wheels of the gurney squeal softly as I push it down the hallway. Jake’s body lies zipped inside the black bag now, the white tag tied around the zipper pulling slightly with every movement.
The weight of him is different than it used to be. Not because the body changed. Because I know what’s inside. What he went through.
The elevator doors slide open with a dull metallic sound. I press the button for the second floor. The ride down feels longer than it should. The doors open into the quiet corridor that leads to the cold storage.
The temperature drops the moment I push through the heavy insulated doors. The air here is dry and sharp, smelling faintly of steel and disinfectant.
I stop in front of one of the empty drawers and pull the handle. The metal tray slides out with a hollow scrape. My hands resting on the edge of the gurney.
For years I imagined different endings to our story. Arguments. Distance. Eventually never seeing each other again. Not this.
I grip the zipper and pull it open just enough to see his face one last time. His expression hasn’t changed since the autopsy table. The same frozen tension in his jaw. The same empty eyes staring at nothing.
Whatever he was at the end of his life, the monster who hurt me. The man who threatened me. The cop who thought his badge made him untouchable. None of it matters anymore. Now he’s just…. A body.
I close the bag again and help guide him onto the metal tray. The cold steel groans softly under the weight. Then I push the drawer in. The final metallic click echoes louder than it should. And just like that, Jake Sullivan disappears into the dark.
Work is done. At least the part that requires gloves. The rest…. is worse.
By the time I make it back to my office upstairs, the building feels quieter. Bryan is somewhere on the first floor like usual. My mind is too loud.
I close the door behind me and sit down at my desk. The computer screen glows softly in front of me, the autopsy report still open where I left it.
The Arbiter. The most wanted killer in the city.
My fingers press against my temples. What the hell am I supposed to do?
If I tell the police what I suspect, they’ll ask questions.
A lot of them. About Jake. About our history.
About the messages. About the night of the party.
About why I was the last person seen with him alive. My head feels light.
And then there’s Lucy. I still haven’t told her the truth. Not about Jake. Not about the man who held me like he already owned me. The man who might have tortured someone for hours because of me.
I stare at the phone on my desk. One call. That’s all it would take. Detective Hargrove. Tell him everything. About the threat. About him. About the way he looked at me when he said Jake wouldn’t bother me anymore.
My hand moves almost on its own. I pick up the phone. The phone screen shows the digits as I start dialing. One more number and the call will go through.
My thumb hovers above the screen. This is the right thing to do. Isn’t it? My heart starts beating faster. Because the moment I press that button, everything changes. The investigation. My life. Everything.
I inhale slowly. Then my phone vibrates in my hand. A message notification. Unknown number. I open it. The message is short. Too short.
UNKNOWN: “Madeline, we don’t want to actually call the detective. Are we?”
The air leaves my lungs. My eyes slowly lift from the phone. And without meaning to, I look up. Straight toward the small black security camera in the corner of my office. The red indicator light glows quietly. Watching.
My fingers tighten around the phone as another message appears.
UNKNOWN: “Put the phone down, little storm.”
My breath stops completely. Little storm. The same nickname he used in the note before. It’s him. There’s no doubt anymore.
My fingers hover above the screen. For a moment I consider doing exactly what he said. Putting the phone down. Ignoring it. Pretending none of this is happening. My curiosity takes over.
ME: “Was it you?”
The message is sent before I can change my mind. The typing bubble appears almost instantly. Like he was already waiting.
UNKNOWN: “You’re asking the wrong question.”
ME: “Did you kill Jake?”
UNKNOWN: “Did he deserve to die?”
I stare at the words. My pulse stutters. That’s not an answer. And he knows it.
ME: “That’s not what I asked.”
UNKNOWN: “You already know the answer, Madeline.”
This manipulation with the “you already know,” shit, is really starting to get on my nerves.
ME: “Why did you do it?”
A long pause follows. When the reply comes, it’s only one line.
UNKNOWN: “He hurt you.”
I stare at the message for several seconds before responding.
ME: “That wasn’t your decision to make.”
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then appear again.
When the answer finally arrives, it sends a slow chill through my back.
UNKNOWN: “Everything about you is my decision.”
I sit back in my chair, staring at the screen. Fear. Anger. Something else I don’t want to name.
I type another message.
ME: “You’re watching me, aren’t you?”
A long pause follows. So long I start to think he won’t answer. Then the phone buzzes.
UNKNOWN: “I always am.”
My eyes lift again toward the security camera.
The building has grown quieter. The mortuary feels different at night. Bigger. Hollower. Like the walls themselves are listening.
I look back down at the phone.
ME: “You can’t keep doing this.”
No reply. Seconds pass. Then minutes. The typing bubble never appears. I wait. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. Nothing. The silence begins to feel heavier than the conversation.
Finally I set the phone down on the desk. Maybe he’s done. Maybe he just wanted to scare me. The evening light outside the windows slowly fades into deep blue. Shadows stretch across the room as the building settles into nighttime quiet.
An hour passes. I’m halfway through reviewing another report when my phone vibrates again.
UNKNOWN: “Go to the second floor. Now.”
My fingers freeze.
Another message appears before I can respond.
UNKNOWN: “Cold storage.”
My pulse spikes instantly. The room with the body drawers. The place where I left Jake.
ME: “No.”
UNKNOWN: “Madeline.”
Only my name. One word and I know it’s a warning. Suddenly the entire building feels a lot less empty than it did an hour ago.
My phone screen slowly dims in my hand. Every rational thought in my head screams that this is a terrible idea. He’s a killer. Not just a killer. The serial killer the entire city has been chasing for years. And he’s somewhere in this building. Waiting.
I should call the police. I should leave. But he made it very clear that I shouldn’t.
Instead, I stand up. My legs feel strangely light as I step out of the office. The elevator ride feels endless. The corridor leading to cold storage is empty. Too empty. The air here is colder than the rest of the building. It clings to my skin as I walk toward the heavy insulated doors.
My hand hovers over the handle. I push the door open.
The familiar rush of refrigerated air greets me instantly.
The lights are dim. Not completely off. Just the low emergency lighting that leaves most of the room in shadow.
Rows of metal drawers line the walls. Silent.
Still. The air hums softly through the ventilation system.
I step inside slowly. The door closes behind me with a dull metallic sound. My eyes move across the rows of numbered drawers. My arms fold instinctively across my chest, trying to hold in the cold. Or maybe the nerves.
“Hello?”
I call out quietly. My voice sounds small in the room.
No answer. The silence presses against my ears.
I take another step forward. Then another. I stop in the middle of the room, held captive by the heavy, suffocating silence. Waiting.
Nothing happens. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he…
A presence shifts behind me. So close the air moves.
Before I can even think of turning, something cold and unyielding presses lightly against the side of my neck.
Metal. My breath hitches, then stops completely.
A gun. The barrel glides slowly along the curve of my throat, trailing a line of icy pressure against my skin that makes every nerve ending on my body ignite in a frantic warning.
My entire body freezes. I don’t move. I barely breathe. I can feel him behind me. His warmth. His towering height. Close enough that if I leaned back even slightly, my back would touch his chest. But I don’t dare move a muscle.
His voice breaks the silence, low and terrifyingly calm right beside my ear.
“Now,” he murmurs softly, the gun resting just beneath my jaw.
“You finally understand why I told you not to call the detective.”
His breath brushes my skin, a ghost of a touch that feels like a burn. Then, his voice grows quieter, laced with a flicker of something that sounds almost like anger.
“Because if you had…”
The barrel of the gun tilts my chin slightly upward.
“…. This reunion would have gone very differently.”
The room falls silent again. I didn’t walk into a trap. I walked exactly where he wanted me.