Page 66 of Silent Stalker

"James, I need to talk to you." Her voice trembles.

James looks up from his stack of files. "What's wrong?"

"I can't do this anymore." Clara sinks into the chair across from him. "These murders... they're too similar to what happened back then. To Rose." Her hands shake as she wipes at her eyes. "And Dad... he barely recognized me this morning."

I drum my fingers against my steering wheel, watching the precinct entrance. The urge to go to her burns through me, but I stay put. This has to play out naturally.

"I need to go back to New York. Clear my head." Clara's voice cracks. "I'm sorry to leave you with this case, but?—"

"Hey, no." James rounds his desk, reaching for her shoulder. My jaw clenches. "Your health comes first. Take all the time you need."

Clara nods, standing. "I'll pack tonight. Leave first thing tomorrow."

I watch through the precinct's security feed as James puts his hand on Clara's shoulder. My fingers dig into the steering wheel.

"With the evidence we've gathered, we'll catch this bastard soon," James says. "The lab results from the last scene gave us more than usual."

Clara nods, wrapping her arms around herself. "You've got a solid team. I was probably just getting in the way, overthinking everything."

"That's not true." James steps closer. My jaw clenches. "Your insights have been invaluable."

"Maybe." Clara shrugs, moving away from his touch. Good girl. "But fresh eyes might help. Sometimes, being too close makes you miss things."

James pinches the bridge of his nose. "I hate to admit it, but you're right. Go home, take care of yourself. We can handle it from here."

"Thanks for being so understanding." Clara grabs her bag. "I'll email you my final notes before I leave."

I switch off the feed as Clara heads for the exit. Everything's falling into place. James thinks he's close to catching me while Clara prepares for our escape. The irony would be delicious if I wasn't so focused on the countdown in my head.

Twenty-four hours until we disappear. Twenty-four hours until Clara and I can fully embrace who we are.

The precinct door opens. Clara emerges, her blonde hair catching the winter sunlight. She walks to her car without looking around, playing her part perfectly.

I start my car as she exits the building. She climbs into her car, and I follow at a distance.

My beautiful, clever Clara. Who but me would have thought she'd choose the darkness over the light? But then again, maybe she was always meant to walk this path with me.

29

CLARA

Irun my fingers along the banister, feeling every nick and groove worn smooth by countless childhood slides. The wood still holds that familiar warmth, as if it absorbed all those secret moments when I'd whoosh down while Dad lay passed out on the couch below.

My bedroom hasn't changed much. The true crime books still line the shelves, their spines cracked from endless re-readings. I pack the essentials first—clothes, documents, and the silver necklace from Silas. My hands shake as I place each item into my bag with care.

Mom's perfume still lingers in the master bedroom, though she's been gone fifteen years. Dad bought it and constantly sprayed it to make it feel like she was still here. As I step inside, the floral scent hits me, and I grip the doorframe to steady myself. This room holds the heaviest memories, finding her cold and still that morning, Dad's drinking spiraling afterward.

In the hall, my fingers trace the height marks scratched into the wall. "Clara. Age 8" is the last one, just before Mom died. After that, Dad stopped measuring. I'd grown up marking my own milestones, finding strange comfort in studying the darkness that took Mom away.

I sink onto my childhood bed, the springs creaking in protest. The old newspaper clippings I'd hidden under the mattress years ago crinkle beneath my weight. I pull them out, yellowed and fragile now. Mom's face stares back at me from the front page.

"Local Woman Found Strangled, No Suspects."

They never caught him. The police said it was random, a burglar who panicked when Mom came home early. But the precision of the kill haunted me.

Dad retreated into the bottle after that. I retreated into books about killers, hoping to understand. Why did they choose their victims? What made them tick? Each case file and psychology textbook brought me closer to comprehending the mind that took Mom away.

But something shifted as I grew older. The fascination turned darker. I'd catch myself admiring the artistry in certain kills, the methodology. The way these men played God. My collection of books grew, hidden in my closet where Dad wouldn't see. I'd stay up late, my heart racing as I absorbed every detail.

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