Page 2 of Silent Stalker

"I'll help." The words come out before I can stop them.

"Good." James waves over a crime scene tech. "I'll have the paperwork ready tomorrow morning to consult. Eight a.m, station briefing."

I linger at the crime scene long after James leaves, watching the methodical dance of forensics teams. The winter wind bites at my cheeks, but I barely notice. My mind is already racing, piecing together fragments of the killer's psyche from this macabre display.

Consulting on this case could be what I need. These past months, watching Dad slip away piece by piece, have hollowed me out. Each time he forgets my name, another part of me crumbles.

Back in my car, I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. The truth is, I've been drowning in the silence of my apartment in New York. No amount of true crime documentaries or research papers can fill the void. Here, at least, I have a purpose. A puzzle to solve. A monster to catch.

2

SILAS

Clara's childhood home looks idyllic through the falling snow. Such a quaint little place—perfect for someone who thinks they can escape their darker nature. But I know better. I've seen the real Clara Hart.

The streetlight cast shadows across my dashboard as I take another sip of coffee—black, like my thoughts. Watching her through the upstairs window, I can't help but smile at how oblivious she is to my presence—just like my victims. They never see it coming, either.

My phone lights up with notifications—more reactions to the murder. Humans are so predictable with their performative outrage. They don't understand the artistry, the message. But Clara will. She has to. I've crafted this performance just for her.

The light in her bedroom flicks off. Time for bed, my dear psychologist. Sweet dreams of masked men and serial killers. I know all about your late-night viewing habits and fascination with the forbidden. The way your breath catches when you watch those videos. The soft moans you make when you think no one's watching.

I adjust my rear-view mirror, catching my reflection. People see what they want to see—the successful businessman, thecharming neighbor. They're all so easily fooled. But Clara... she'll see past that. She'll understand that I'm offering her salvation from her mundane existence.

I tapped into her devices months ago—child's play for someone with my skills. The blue glow from her laptop screen illuminates her face as she settles onto her childhood bed, still made up with those same floral sheets from her teenage years.

My breath quickens as she props herself up against her headboard, already wearing an oversized t-shirt. She thinks she's alone, safe in her private sanctuary. If only she knew.

The familiar TikTok interface reflects in her eyes as she scrolls, stopping on a video of a man in a Ghostface mask. Her fingers trail down her stomach, disappearing beneath the hem of her shirt. She bites her lower lip, reaching for something in her bedside drawer—ah, yes, the purple vibrator I've watched her use so many times before.

The soft buzz fills my car's speakers as she spreads her legs, eyes fixed on the masked figure on the screen. Her chest rises and falls faster, small gasps escaping her lips as she moves the toy between her thighs. She's beautiful like this—uninhibited, embracing her darkness.

Another video plays: a different man in theCall of Duty;Ghost mask, moving with predatory grace. Clara's back arches slightly, her free hand gripping the sheets. I lean closer to my laptop screen, drinking in every detail: the way her toes curl, how her throat moves when she swallows, and the flutter of her eyelashes when she hits just the right spot.

She doesn't realize that her fascination with masked men, danger, and death leads to me. Each video she watches, each fantasy she indulges in, brings her one step closer to accepting who she truly is—who we could be together.

I lick my lips, my eyes never leaving the screen as I watch her lose herself in the fantasy. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and those beautiful green eyes are squeezed shut.

Leaning back, I unbutton my slacks, the car's warm interior embracing me as I free myself from the confines of fabric. My cock springs free, hard, and eager. I wrap my hand around it, feeling a primal satisfaction in my own need. She's getting closer, her movements more frantic. Her fingers pinch and tug at her nipple.

"Fuck, yeah," I whisper, my voice hoarse with anticipation. "Show me how beautiful you are when you surrender."

My thumb strokes over the scar on my palm as I move my hand in sync with hers like we're fucking dancing.

Her hips buck and the screen shakes a little, momentarily obscuring my view. But then I see it—the classic telltale sign. Her jaw clenches, her neck muscles straining as she tries to hold back. She wants to prolong it and tease herself, but she can't. Not this time.

"Take me," she whispers to the screen, her eyes rolling back. "Use me. Fuck me so hard I see stars."

My jaw tightens. So, she wants to be taken, does she? My palm squeezes my cock harder, the sting a reminder of how she's fantasizing about another. Another man in a mask. Not me. I tighten my grip on my cock, the desire to mark her rising.

But I remind myself of the bigger picture, the grander plan. This is all part of the dance. Clara plays her role beautifully, unaware that a master puppeteer is leading her. I'm giving her what she wants, what she truly craves. But it comes at a price.

And I know just how to collect.

Her back arches and her eyes squeeze shut as she surrenders to the pleasure. "Oh, God," she moans, biting her lip.

I chuckle softly. She thinks it's God doing this to her. How quaint.

Soon, she'll call on me—the only god she'll ever need. My dick swells at the thought, each pulse a testament to my growing obsession. I won't let anyone else have her. I won't share her with these masked men on her screen. Not anymore.

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