Page 78 of Silent Stalker

I watch Clara's face transform as she makes her decision. Her shoulders straighten, and her chin lifts with determination.

"Let him live." Her voice carries over the wind. "My reputation doesn't matter anymore. It was all pretense. Playing the good girl, the dedicated profiler." She steps down from the plane, snow catching in her blonde hair. "My place is with you now, Silas. Working in our own way."

My breath catches. The meaning behind her words sinks in because she's not just choosing to run with me. She's choosing to hunt with me. To help select the ones who deserve our attention. The ones who slip through society's cracks.

"You're sure?" I keep the gun steady against James's head, but my focus is entirely on Clara.

"I've never been more certain." She approaches us, her heels crunching in the snow. "I spent years studying killers, trying to understand them. But you showed me something different, justice where the law fails."

James makes a choked sound. "Clara, you can't?—"

"I can. And I will." She stops beside me, her hand sliding over mine on the gun. "Lower it, Silas. Let him live with knowing what I've become."

I pull the weapon away from James's head, my chest tight with an unfamiliar sensation. Pride? No, something deeper. Clara isn't just accepting me. She's embracing everything I am, everything we could be together.

"The police will be here soon," she says, turning toward the plane. "We should go."

I grab James's phone and gun, throwing the cell phone on the ground and crushing it beneath my foot. "Remember this moment, Detective. Remember that she chose this."

I guide Clara up the steps of my Gulfstream G650, my hand pressed against the small of her back. The leather interior gleams under soft ambient lighting as we return the cabin. Everything is exactly as I arranged: champagne chilling, plush seats, and absolute privacy.

"You own this?" Clara's fingers trail along the polished wood panels.

"Among other things." I help her into one of the cream leather seats, enjoying how she sinks into it. "Family money has its advantages."

The engines roar louder as we begin taxiing. James's figure grows smaller through the window, still kneeling in the blood-stained snow. Clara watches, too, but there's no regret in her expression—only anticipation.

I watch Clara doze in the leather seat beside me, her head resting against my shoulder. The last two hours have given me time to appreciate how perfectly this has played out. Her steady breathing and occasional sighs of contentment tell me she's finally at peace with her choice.

The Canadian wilderness spreads beneath us, endless white broken only by dark forest patches. My pilot signals our descent, and I gently squeeze Clara's thigh to wake her.

"We're landing." I brush a strand of hair from her face. Her green eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep.

"Already?" She stretches.

The landing gear deploys with a mechanical whine. Through the window, I spot the private airstrip. Which is just a narrow strip carved into the forest, exactly as arranged. The plane touches down smoothly, snow spraying from the wheels as we decelerate.

Clara's hand finds mine as we taxi to a stop. Her palm is warm, and her pulse is quick with anticipation. The engineswind down, leaving us in perfect silence except for the whisper of falling snow against the fuselage.

"Welcome to your new life," I murmur against her ear, feeling her shiver at my touch.

I guide Clara through the snow toward the black Range Rover, its engine already running and interior warm. My contact here knows how to follow instructions, and the vehicle is fully stocked and untraceable, just as I specified.

Clara slides into the passenger seat while I load our bags. Her fingers trace the leather dashboard, taking in the luxury surroundings. I settle behind the wheel, adjusting the seat to accommodate my height.

"The roads are clear enough," I tell her, pulling onto the single-lane track that leads away from the airstrip. "Should take about thirty minutes to reach the cabin."

The SUV easily handles the snow-covered road as we wind through dense forest. Tall pines crowd the edges of our path, their branches heavy with fresh powder. The heater hums softly, creating a cocoon of warmth against the Canadian winter.

Clara's breathing has steadied since our dramatic departure. The adrenaline crash is hitting her now. Her head rests against the window, eyes half-closed as she watches the pristine wilderness pass by. I reach over and squeeze her thigh, feeling the muscle tense, then relax under my touch.

The route is exactly as memorized from satellite images: left at the fallen birch, right where the creek crosses under the road. Each turn brings us deeper into isolation, exactly as planned. There are no cameras, no cell service, and no unexpected visitors.

Twenty minutes in, the track narrows further. Fresh snow crunches under our tires, unmarked by any other vehicles. Perfect. I slow our pace, careful on the final approach. The cabinisn't visible from the road—another crucial detail in my selection—just the way I need it to be.

"Almost there." I squeeze her thigh, and she stirs. "You'll love the cabin."

"Mmm." She stretches, her sweater riding up to expose a strip of skin. "How much longer?"

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