Page 20 of Silent Stalker

“These aren’t from the store,” James notes, examining one ring. “He brought them with him. Planned this.”

I hover my fingers above the victim’s throat, studying the evidence. “See this precise line of trauma? Our killer used something delicate—likely piano wire.” Suddenly, something comes to me. “James.” My voice cracks. “Remember what we found in the Songbird files yesterday?”

He looks up from his notepad, brow furrowed. Then recognition hits. “The wire markings.”

“Identical to these.” I pull out my phone, bringing up the photos we’d studied for hours. “See the angle of the bruising? The depth? It’s the same signature.”

My breathing is shaky as I swipe through twenty-year-old crime scene photos. Six children, all killed with piano wire, arranged in elaborate patterns. The case that haunted Evergreen Falls. The case that drove my father to drink.

“But the victims were children back then,” James says. “This is different.”

“The methodology is exact.” I zoom in on an old photo. “Look at the bruising pattern on Emily Watson’s neck. Now look at our victim.”

James crouches beside me, comparing the images. “Shit.”

“The Songbird killer was never caught.” My throat tightens. “What if he’s back? We have to consider this seriously. What if the Christmas theme is just a cover?”

“Like we said yesterday. Or it could still be just be a copycat,” James suggests. “Those files were sealed.”

“Only law enforcement had access.” The implications hit me like a punch to the gut. “Someone on the inside?”

James rakes his fingers through his already messy hair. “I’ll pull the visitor logs and see who accessed the archives recently.”

I stare at the golden rings gleaming around our victim’s head. They have the same precise spacing and ligature markings. But why change the victim profile? Why emerge now after twenty years?

“We need to re-examine everything,” I say. “Cross-reference all three scenes against the Songbird files. There has to be a connection we’re missing.”

The familiar buzz of my phone makes me jump. A text from Silas:

Miss you already.

I shove the phone back in my pocket, guilt twisting my stomach. People are dying. I can’t let myself get distracted by whatever this thing with Silas is.

Not when a killer from my past might be hunting again.

12

SILAS

Iwatch Clara's car disappear around the corner, sitting alone. My fingers find the key in the ignition as I plan to follow her, but then a flash of movement catches my eye—an older woman struggling with grocery bags in the snow.

The old bat reminds me of Mrs. Peterson, the librarian who used to sneak me cookies when Father locked me out of the house. She'd pat my head and tell me everything would be okay. It never was, but those moments stuck.

I get out of my car. "Need help with those, ma'am?"

Her weathered face brightens. "Oh, aren't you sweet? These old bones aren't what they used to be."

The bags are heavy with canned goods and frozen meals. Single-serving portions. Living alone. Vulnerable. Perfect prey.

But something in her grateful smile stops the darker thoughts. "Let me carry these inside for you."

"Such a gentleman. My Harold, God rest his soul, would've loved to meet a nice young man like you."

Her house is small and tidy. Photos everywhere—grandkids, probably. I arrange her groceries exactly how she directs, ensuring the expiration dates face forward.

"Would you like some hot cocoa? Fresh-baked cookies, too."

Just like Mrs. Peterson. My throat tightens. "Thank you, but I should go."

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