Page 56 of Silent Stalker

"I must be certifiably insane." Clara's fingers trail across my chest. "Lying here with you, knowing what you've done. What you are. Yet I can't stop wanting you."

I capture her mouth with mine, drinking in her confession. The kiss deepens as I roll her beneath me, pressing her into the mattress.

Breaking the kiss, I drag my lips along her jaw. "I wish I could spend all day inside you." My teeth graze her pulse point, feeling it jump beneath my touch.

"Your fault you can't." Clara arches against me, her nails scoring light trails down my back. "I'll be stuck poring over your handiwork for hours. James will have the whole team analyzing every detail."

"Mm." I suck a mark just below her ear, marking her as mine. "Tell me more about how I'm making your job difficult."

"Christmas Eve is in two days." Her breath hitches as I bite down gently. "Even if you stop now, I'll probably work straight through Christmas. The paperwork alone..."

I silence her with another kiss, slower this time. Savoring how she melts against me despite knowing exactly what kind of monster holds her. My perfect match in every way.

25

CLARA

Istep into the dance studio. The scene before me steals my breath—not from horror but from its macabre beauty. Sarah Matthews hangs suspended in an eternal pirouette, her body twisted into perfect form. Eight mirrors surround her in a precise circle, creating the illusion of nine ladies dancing.

“Nine ladies dancing,” I whisper, running my fingers along one of the mirror’s edges. The positioning is immaculate. Every mirror sits at the exact angle needed to create seamless reflections.

Blood pools beneath Sarah’s suspended form, yet it doesn’t detract from the artistic vision. If anything, it enhances it—like paint on a canvas. My pulse quickens as I study the precise cuts across her neck and wrists. Clinical, calculated, perfect.

“What kind of monster could do this?” One of the officers asks behind me.

I bite back my immediate response: Not a monster——an artist. The thought should disturb me more than it does, but I’ve always been drawn to this darkness, fascinated by the psychology behind such elaborate displays.

Sarah Matthews is PTA president, charity organizer, and beloved community figure. But Silas wouldn’t have chosen her randomly. Something must be beneath that pristine surface, some darkness that caught his eye. I circle the scene, noting how the mirrors transform one death into nine synchronized dancers.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Do you see the beauty in it?

As I examine Silas’s handiwork, I shouldn’t feel this thrill, this rush of excitement. But I do. Maybe I’m more like him than I care to admit. Maybe that’s why I became a forensic psychologist—not to understand monsters, but to understand myself.

“Dr. Hart?” James calls from the doorway. “We found something you should see.”

I look at Sarah’s body before turning away. The mirrors catch my reflection, and I’m part of the performance for a moment, too.

I follow James down the hall, my heels no longer clicking as I step onto the carpeted area of the dance studio’s office space. He leads me to a small room filled with security monitors.

“Watch this.” James points to one of the screens showing footage from earlier tonight. A tall figure moves through the parking lot, carrying what appears to be a large duffel bag. The timestamp reads ten p.m.

My breath catches. The figure looks up directly at the camera.

“He’s never been this careless before,” James says, rewinding the footage. “Look at his face—it’s partially visible under the mask. And here—” He pauses on a frame where the killer adjusts his grip on the bag. “That’s a class ring. Private school, it looks like. We’re running the design through our database.”

I lean closer to the screen, studying the grainy image. The ring glints silver in the parking lot lights. Something doesn’t add up. Silas is too meticulous for this kind of mistake.

“There’s more,” James continues. “We found traces of cologne on Sarah’s body. Very distinct scent. We’re waiting for forensics to make a match.”

My stomach turns. Silas wears a very distinct cologne, which was almost impossible not to notice whenever he was near.

“With the face shot, the ring, and the cologne...” James grins, looking more optimistic than I’ve seen him in days. “We’ll have this bastard in custody before Christmas.”

I force myself to nod, to mirror his enthusiasm. But my mind races. Silas wouldn’t make these mistakes. Not unless...

“I need some air,” I say, turning away from the screens. “This is... it’s a lot to process.”

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