Chapter 5
Iwas dreaming about the collar again.
The metal was warm against my throat, the way it always had been—not tight, not uncomfortable, just present.
A weight I'd stopped noticing until it was gone.
In the dream, I was standing in front of the mirror in the pink room, and Gabriel was behind me, his hands on my shoulders, his reflection watching mine.
"You're the only one."
His voice was soft. Certain. The kind of certain that made me want to believe him, even when I knew better.
"The only one who mattered. The only one I kept."
"What about the others?"
I didn't remember asking the question. In the dream, my mouth moved without my permission, forming words I hadn't chosen.
"What others?"
"The other Bunnies. The ones before me."
His reflection smiled. It was the kind smile, the one that made my chest ache. Not the cold one. Not the one that came before punishments.
"There were no others. There was only ever you."
I wanted to believe him. In the dream, I did believe him. I leaned back against his chest and felt his arms wrap around me, and I was warm, and I was safe, and I was loved.
"You're my perfect girl."
"Your only girl."
"My only."
The dream shifted.
I was in a different room now. Grey walls. A metal table. A woman sat across from me—blonde, hollow-eyed, her hands wrapped around a cup of something that steamed.
"He called me Bunny too."
Her voice was flat. Tired. The voice of someone who'd stopped hoping for anything.
"Before you. I was Bunny. He said I was the only one. He said I was perfect."
"You're lying."
"Ask him. If you ever see him again. Ask him how many of us there were. Ask him how many he named. Ask him how many he threw away."
"You're lying."
"Maybe."
She smiled, and it was the saddest thing I'd ever seen.
"Maybe I'm not real at all. Maybe I'm just a ghost. Maybe you made me up because you couldn't stand being alone."
I woke up gasping.
The apartment was dark.
The curtains were closed—I remembered closing them, or thought I remembered, or maybe I'd dreamed that too—and the only light came from the streetlamp outside, bleeding through the gaps at the edges.
The ceiling was cracked. The walls were bare.
The furniture was minimal: a bed, a dresser, a chair I never sat in.
My apartment.
I'd found it three weeks ago—or four, or five, or maybe just last week. Time had stopped meaning anything. I paid in cash and the landlord didn't ask questions, and the neighbors ignored me, and I ignored them, and we all pretended we didn't exist.
The collar.
I touched my throat. It was bare. It had always been bare. But I could still feel it—the weight, the warmth, the pressure of something that wasn't there.
Another Bunny.
Had there been others?
Had Gabriel named other women before me, called them his perfect girls, promised them forever and then thrown them away?
Or had I dreamed her—the blonde, the one who wasn't there—because I needed to believe I wasn't alone?
I sat up. The sheets were tangled around my legs, damp with sweat. My hands were clean—I'd washed them before bed, or thought I had—but I could still see blood in the creases, phantom stains that wouldn't come out no matter how hard I scrubbed.
Gabriel's voice, cold and certain: "There were no others. There was only ever you."
The blonde's voice, flat and tired: "He called me Bunny too."
Both memories felt real. Both felt like lies. I didn't know which one to believe, and not knowing was worse than knowing the worst possible truth.
I couldn't sleep.
I lay in bed for an hour—or maybe two, or maybe twenty minutes—staring at the ceiling and trying to make my mind go quiet. The cracks in the plaster looked like rivers. The rivers looked like roads. The roads looked like the veins in Gabriel's hands, the ones I used to trace while he slept.
"You're the only one."
"He called me Bunny too."
"You're my perfect girl."
"Ask him how many of us there were."
I threw off the sheets and stood up.
The floor was cold. The air was cold. Everything was cold, had been cold since Gabriel left, since I woke up in that motel room with clean hands and no memory of how I'd gotten there.
I needed air.
I needed to move.
I needed to stop thinking about the blonde who wasn't there and the collar that wasn't on my throat and the man who'd promised me forever and then disappeared.
I pulled on jeans. A sweater. Boots that had seen too many miles. The knife went into my waistband. The gun went into my pocket. The phone went into my other pocket, dark and silent, waiting for the next message I didn't remember receiving.
The door.
The hallway.
The stairs.
The street.
The city was quiet at this hour.
Four in the morning—or maybe five, or maybe three.
The sky was the color of old bruises, purple and grey and black bleeding together at the edges.
The streetlights cast pools of orange on the sidewalk, and I walked through them one by one, counting, because counting was the only thing that kept me from screaming.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
"Daddy."
I didn't realize I'd said it out loud until I heard my own voice, soft and broken, echoing off the buildings.
"Daddy, where are you?"
No answer.
There was never an answer.
I kept walking.
The shadow was across the street.
I noticed it at the corner of my vision—a flicker, a movement, something that didn't belong. I turned my head, and there it was. A figure. Tall. Male. Standing under a streetlamp with his hands in his pockets, watching me.
I stopped.
He stopped.
We stood there for a long moment, frozen, the distance between us crackling with something I couldn't name.
Did I know him?
Had I killed someone he loved?
Was he here for revenge? For answers? For something I couldn't give him because I didn't remember the faces of the dead?
I took a step toward him.
He didn't move.
Another step. Another. The distance between us shrinking, the streetlamp casting his face in shadow, hiding his features.
"Hey."
My voice was hoarse. I hadn't spoken to anyone in days—or maybe weeks, or maybe just hours, I couldn't remember.
"Hey—who are you?"
He didn't answer.
I took another step. Three left between us. Two. One.
He turned and walked away.
I ran.
The street was empty. The corner was empty. The alley where he'd disappeared was empty—just a dumpster and some trash and a cat that hissed at me and disappeared into the dark.
He was gone.
I'd imagined him.
I was losing my mind.
I stood in the alley with my hands on my knees, breathing hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. The knife was in my hand—I didn't remember drawing it—and the blade caught the light from the streetlamp, gleaming silver and sharp.
"Daddy."
The word came out as a whisper, a prayer, a plea.
"Daddy, I saw someone. Someone watching me. Someone following me."
"Is it you?"
"Are you coming back?"
"Are you testing me?"
No answer.
The alley was empty. The street was empty. The city was empty, and I was alone, and the shadow had never been there at all.
I started walking again.
The streets were familiar now—not because I knew them, but because I'd walked them so many times. The corner store with the flickering sign. The church with the broken steeple. The bar with the lights off and the door locked and the windows dark.
The Lost Hours.
I'd never been inside.
But I'd walked past it a dozen times, a hundred times, drawn to it for reasons I couldn't name.
"Daddy."
I was humming. I didn't realize it until I heard the melody—soft and broken, the lullaby, the one Gabriel had used during our sessions. The one that made my shoulders drop and my jaw go slack. The one that meant I was ready to receive instruction.
"Daddy."
I stopped humming.
Or thought I stopped.
But the melody was still there, echoing in my skull, vibrating through my bones, a phantom sound I couldn't escape.
"Daddy, where are you?"
"Why won't you answer?"
"Why won't you come home?"
The shadow was back.
I saw it in the window of the closed shop across the street—a figure, tall and dark, standing at the corner, watching. I turned. No one was there. The corner was empty. The street was empty. The only thing that moved was the wind, pushing scraps of paper along the gutter.
"I know you're there."
My voice was louder now. Not quite shouting, but close. The words echoed off the buildings, bouncing back at me, distorted and strange.
"I know you're following me."
"I know you're watching."
"Who are you?"
"What do you want?"
No answer.
There was never an answer.
I walked until the sky started to lighten.
The bruises faded from purple to grey to pale, pale gold. The streetlights flickered off one by one. The city woke up around me—a car engine, a dog barking, a siren somewhere in the distance.
The shadow was gone.
Or had never been there.
Or was still watching, hidden, waiting for me to lead him somewhere.
I didn't know anymore.
I didn't know anything.
"Daddy."
I was humming again. The lullaby. The one that meant I was ready.
"Daddy, I'm so tired."
"Daddy, I'm so lost."
"Daddy, please."
"Please come back."
The phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out with hands that were shaking—or maybe steady, I couldn't tell anymore. The screen glowed. A message. A number I didn't recognize. An address on the other side of the city.
Another lead.
Another hunt.
Another body.
I stared at the words until they blurred, until the letters dissolved into shapes, until I couldn't read them anymore.
"Daddy."
"I'm still your good girl."
"I'm still hunting for you."
"I'm still killing for you."
"Please."
"Please tell me it's worth it."
I put the phone back in my pocket and started walking toward the address, toward the next name, toward the next body I wouldn't remember making.
The shadow.
I felt it behind me.
Watching.
Waiting.
Following.
I didn't turn around.
I didn't want to know if it was real.
"Daddy."
The word was a whisper, a prayer, a promise.
"Daddy, I'm coming."
"I don't know where you are."
"I don't know why you left."
"But I'm coming."
"And I won't stop until I find you."
The sun rose higher. The city stretched ahead, indifferent and eternal. And I walked toward the next hunt, the next kill, the next morning I'd wake up with blood on my hands and no memory of how it got there.
The lullaby.
I was humming it again.
I didn't try to stop.