Page 67 of Silent Stalker

When other girls were dating, I analyzed BTK's letters. While they went to prom, I wrote papers on Richard Ramirez. The darkness became my companion, filling the void left by both parents—one dead, one drunk.

I run my fingers over Mom's autopsy photos, memorized from countless viewings. The bruises on her neck tell a story of control, of power. I used to hate the killer for taking her. Sitting here with Silas's necklace around my throat, I understand the intoxicating pull of that power.

"I became what I studied," I whisper to Mom's photo. "I fell in love with the same kind of monster that took you away."

A shadow falls across the autopsy photos; I don't need to look up to know it's Silas. His presence fills the room like smoke, dark and suffocating.

"Finding closure?" His voice carries that familiar edge, like broken glass wrapped in velvet.

I close the folder, but his hand catches mine. "Don't. She was beautiful, wasn't she? The bruising pattern..." He traces the marks in the photo with his finger, his touch reverent. "Whoever killed her understood anatomy. See how the pressure points align?"

My stomach twists. Of course, he'd know about Mom. He probably knows things even the police missed. "How long have you known?"

"I have files on everything about you, Clara." He kneels beside me, and his fingers slide up to mirror the marks in the photo against my own neck. "Your mother's case sparked it all, didn’t it? That delicious obsession with killers."

I should pull away, but his touch grounds me. "You make it sound romantic."

"Isn't it?" His eyes gleam with that predatory light I've come to crave. "Death shaped you. Molded you into someone who could understand me. Accept me." His grip tightens slightly. "Have you made peace with it?"

"I don't know if peace is the right word." I lean into his touch. "But I understand things now that I didn't before. About power. Control. The rush that comes with holding someone's life in your hands."

"My perfect, twisted goddess." He presses his lips to my temple. "We're the same now, aren't we?"

"What shaped you?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Silas's hand freezes against my throat. The warmth drains from his touch, replaced by something cold and sharp. His fingers dig into my skin hard, but not enough to hurt. Even so, it’s enough to remind me of what those hands are capable of.

When he turns to look at me, my breath catches. Gone is the man who held me through the night, who whispered darkpromises against my skin. In his place sits a predator, eyes flat and empty as a shark's. No emotion, no humanity—just endless darkness stretching behind those blue irises.

A chill runs through me. This is the face his victims saw in their final moments. This is the Christmas Reaper who arranged bodies like decorations and painted the snow red with artistic precision.

My psychology training screams at me to run, to get as far away from those dead eyes as possible. But the part of me that's always been drawn to the darkness, that's collected newspaper clippings of murders and studied serial killers with obsessive fascination—that part of me wants to lean in closer.

I've spent my whole career trying to understand what creates someone like him. Now he's here, that carefully constructed mask slipping, showing me exactly what lurks beneath.

His grip hasn't loosened. Each small movement of his fingers reminds me how easily he could squeeze tighter, how completely I've placed myself in the hands of a killer. The same hands that arranged those murder scenes I'd analyzed, that wielded the knife with surgical precision.

"You really want to know?" His voice has changed, too—flat and emotionless, like his eyes. The cultured accent is gone, replaced by something inhumane.

I should be terrified. Instead, I feel a twisted thrill at seeing him stripped bare like this, at being allowed past his perfect façade to the monster underneath.

"Yes," I breathe, not breaking eye contact with those deadly eyes.

I watch the predator fade from Silas's eyes, replaced by something distant and cold as he speaks. His hand drops from my throat, and he turns to stare out my bedroom window.

"Mother made it clear I was her biggest regret. A drunken mistake with Father that ruined her life." His jaw clenches."Father couldn't stand the sight of me. Said I had the devil's eyes."

The winter wind howls outside, and Silas's expression darkens. "They'd lock me out when I displeased them. Seven years old, pounding on doors until my fists bled. Sleeping in the tool shed, stealing bird feed to survive."

My chest tightens as I picture a small boy huddled in the dark, hunger gnawing at his stomach. "How long would they leave you out there?"

"Days sometimes. The barn became my sanctuary in winter. At least the horses provided warmth." His voice carries no self-pity, just a cold statement of facts. "I learned to pick locks by nine. Started keeping food stashed away."

The psychological profile clicks into place—neglect, abandonment, early signs of adaptation to survive. "You were alone."

"Entirely." His lips curve into a mirthless smile. "The moment I turned eighteen, I vanished. My mind was always sharp—numbers, patterns, systems. Finance came naturally."

He meets my gaze, and I see that familiar darkness swirling behind his eyes. "But pushing numbers couldn't satisfy what grew inside me. The first kill..." He pauses, studying my reaction. "It filled a void I didn't know existed."

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