Page 10 of Silent Stalker

My fingers trace over my neck, where his mark lingers. The purple bruise in the mirror's reflection reminds me of my momentary loss of control.

"Get it together, Clara," I mutter, tossing the phone onto my couch.

The evening stretches endlessly before me. I pour a glass of wine, trying to drown out thoughts of Silas's hands on me, his lips against my skin. The silence of my apartment mocks me.

My phone lights up. My heart leaps.

But it's James's name on the screen, not Silas's.

Another body found. Need you here ASAP.

My stomach drops. I'd convinced myself the first two scenes were isolated incidents, that maybe we were all jumping toconclusions about a serial killer. But three victims? On the third day?

Where?

I text back, already grabbing my coat.

James sends the address. It's on the outskirts of town, near the old industrial district. As I grab my keys, reality crashes back. This isn't about my embarrassing date or Silas's radio silence. There's a killer out there, methodically working through his twisted Christmas carol.

And a family is about to get the worst news of their lives somewhere in town.

My phone buzzes again.

Three French hens. You're not going to like this one.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. As I head for the door, the wine glass sits abandoned on my counter. Whatever awaits at the crime scene will be far worse than my bruised ego.

I pull up to the abandoned warehouse, my headlights cutting through the darkness. Red and blue lights paint the crumbling brick walls in an eerie dance. James waits by the entrance, his face grim.

"You should prepare yourself," he says as I approach.

The metallic stench of blood hits me before I step inside. The warehouse floor is empty except for a grotesque display in the center. My stomach lurches.

A woman's body lies spread-eagle on the concrete, her blonde hair fanned out like a halo. Three dead hens circle her head, their necks twisted at impossible angles. Their feathers—dyed a garish French blue—are scattered across her naked torso.

"Victim's name is Leah Collins," James says. "Twenty-eight. Worked as a French teacher at the high school."

I move closer, forcing myself to study the scene clinically. The killer has positioned her arms to mimic wings. Her fingernails are painted the same shade of blue as the hens.

"Look at her throat." James points with his pen.

Three precise cuts mark her neck, parallel to each other. Clean. Surgical.

"Our killer is escalating," I say, crouching down. "The first victim had a partridge. The second was two turtle doves. Now this—three cuts, three hens, French blue dye, French teacher. He's becoming more... elaborate."

The victim's eyes stare upward, frozen in terror. I can't shake the feeling that there's something familiar about her features. Something that reminds me of?—

"She looks like you," James says quietly.

My hand instinctively goes to my neck. The warehouse suddenly feels colder.

"Similar age, build, hair color." James continues. "Could be coincidence, but?—"

"It's not," I cut him off. "He's sending a message."

The dead hens seem to watch me with their glassy eyes. Three days. Three murders. Nine more to go.

"We've got a full-scale psychotic serial killer on our hands." I turn to face James, my heels clicking against the concrete floor. "This isn't some amateur playing games anymore. The complexity, the attention to detail—our killer has been planning this for months, maybe years."

---