Page 21 of Devotion

I’m uncertain whether it’s significant that she’s the first woman who’s been targeted. Maybe, until now, it’s simply been more convenient to select men, and this is just a fluke, but it feels like a detail worth filing away for later.

For the first time ever, I’m finding it difficult to focus on the victim’s eyes. Hers are strikingly blue and eerie. I’ve become numb to the thousand-yard-stare of the deceased, but her gaze is… haunting.

I make quick work of photographing her, capturing the blood slathered in her dark hair, her slashed throat, the web carved into her torso. The camera flashes again when I capture an image of one of her hands. From the looks of it, two of her fingers are broken, as if they’ve been stepped on. It’s likely impossible to tell, but I’m almost willing to bet this happened after the kill, unintentionally.

A scene of the killer flashes in my head. I imagine him meaning to step around her body once he’s finished cutting, accidentally catching her fingers underneath the heel of his shoe. It’s all that makes sense from my limited expertise. It’s just that there’s never any sign of forced entry at the scenes, never much sign of struggle or self-defense.

So, why break her fingers and deviate from his usual M.O.?

The shutter clicks again, another flash, then I move on to observe her environment. My first stop is a tall, wooden bookcase in the corner near the sofa. There’s a photograph of the victim standing between a man and woman I assume are her parents. She shares features with both, so it feels like a safe bet. There are other photos—images of people she loves, a collage of those who will mourn this loss.

She’s a collector of random things, but the largest collection is an array of cat figurines that take up an entire shelf on their own. A thin layer of dust coats the surfaces, drawing my attention to a rectangular space that’s notably cleaner than the rest of the area. It could be that the victim recently moved something.

Or… it could mean The Widowmaker’s taken a trinket.

I snap the picture, and then a few others before moving back to the body. Stooping beside her, I capture the web carved into her torso, but something’s… strange. I squint my eyes, tilting my head, then snap another pic before calling Detective Stevens over.

“What’s up?”

I point at the artwork before answering. “Am I losing it, or does the web look like it’s in the shape of a heart this time?”

Stevens frowns, then does the same squinty-eyed head tilt I’d just done. “Shit. You’re right. Looks like this sicko might be getting sentimental on us.”

Shaking his head, he walks off, but I’m not nearly as dismissive. There are too many deviations tonight. From the broken fingers, to the victim being female, and now this. There’s a definite message here, and I might be the only one with the intuition to notice.

But that’s when I spot it. The piece that might just make this all fit together, might just bring to light why tonight’s kill feels different.

I stand to full height again, nearly forgetting where I am, nearly disturbing the crime scene to reach for the woman’s keys. But at the last second, I stop myself, leaning in instead for a closer look at something attached to her keychain.

It’s a swipe card.

For an employee at the local public library.

“Shit.” The whispered word leaves my mouth as I stagger back, finally getting the full scope of what first looked like random details, that now seem like more.

That now seem like a… message.

One meant specifically for me.

My eyes flit toward the woman, taking note of her dark hair, blue eyes, and the fact that she appears to be taller than average. It all feels so familiar. Then again, it should.

Because, although I didn’t realize it at the time… I’m the one who marked her.

My feet are moving swiftly, backing me away from the victim as her eyes seem to be fixed right on mine. Like she knows what I’ve done.

A loud gasp leaves me when I slam into a body, and a set of hands catch me around my waist.

“Whoa, hey, you okay?”

I glance over my shoulder at Martinez, answering his question with a nod. But I’m still in a daze as the puzzle comes into full view.

“I—yeah. I’m actually done, though, so I’m gonna take off.” My hands shake as I remove my camera from around my neck and place it back in my bag.

I’m frantic enough that I’ve earned the curious look currently set on Martinez’s face. “You’re sure? You seem, I don’t know, spooked.”

Spooked.

That’s a good fucking word for it.

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