Page 57 of Carnival Shadows

Before I can respond, he moves to stand before me and leans down to kiss me. Not the brutal, claiming kisses I’m used to. He kisses me in an achingly gentle way, I would say affectionate, butthat feels surreal, truly unlike him. His lips move against mine with a reverence that makes tears well in my eyes.

When he pulls back, his expression is vulnerable. “You’re incredible, Eden.” The words fall soft between us.

His words linger between us, and my mind races with the weight of what I’ve just done. As a true crime podcaster, I know exactly what I’m risking—obstruction of justice, interfering with a police investigation, potentially even accessory after the fact. Felonies that could destroy my career and land me in prison.

Yet I can’t bring myself to regret it when I look at him. I stand up and reach up to touch his face, half expecting him to pull away, but he allows the contact, watching me with those intense eyes as my fingers trace his jawline. The magnitude of my choice settles in my chest—I’ve crossed a line I can never uncross, chosen his darkness over the law.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the words carrying the heaviness of my decision to potentially throw away everything I’ve built, my reputation, my freedom, all for these moments with him. Part of me wants to laugh at the irony—I’ve spent years documenting criminals, only to become one myself.

“I’m making you dinner tonight,” Remy announces, his hand lingering on my face.

I can’t hide my surprise. “You cook?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He tightens his arms around me. “Had to learn young. Foster homes weren’t exactly five-star restaurants.”

The mention of foster care catches my attention. I watch him pull ingredients from the small fridge. “I get that. After my mom died, I bounced between relatives. None of them really wanted me.”

Remy pauses, knife hovering over an onion. “How old?”

“Eight.” I lean against the counter, close enough to feel his warmth. “Car accident. Dad was already in prison. Armed robbery and three counts of homicide.”

He starts chopping, the rhythmic sound filling the silence. “Explains the true crime obsession.”

“Maybe.” I reach for a pepper and start to slice it. “What about you? How many homes?”

“Lost count after twelve.” His movements are precise and controlled. “Learned to cook in the third one. Lady ran a diner and taught me basics between shifts. Only good thing about that place.”

I process this, thinking of young Remy learning to survive. “Is that where you got that scar? The one on your shoulder?”

“No.” He tosses the onions into a pan, the sizzle sharp in the small space. “That was home number eight. Guy liked to put out cigarettes on kids.”

My hand finds his forearm, squeezing gently. He stills for a moment, then continues cooking.

“Your podcast,” he says. “It started with your dad, didn’t it? Trying to understand?”

“Yeah.” I hand him the peppers I’ve cut. “Spent years studying criminal psychology, trying to figure out what makes someone cross that line. Then I realized...”

“You wanted to cross it too,” he finishes.

The truth of it hangs between us as he stirs the pan.

I hesitate, watching Remy stir the vegetables. The question burns on my tongue, but I know how delicate these moments can be. Still, my investigative nature wins out.

“What about your parents?” I ask softly, keeping my eyes on the pepper I’m slicing.

His movements don’t falter, but I notice the slight tension in his shoulders. “Never knew my dad. Just another deadbeat who knocked up a waitress and disappeared.”

I wait, giving him space to continue or stop. The sizzle of the pan fills the silence.

“Mom...” His knife pauses mid-chop. “She married this guy when I was five. A real piece of work.”

My hand stills on the cutting board.

“He killed her.” Remy’s words come out flat, emotionless. “Shot her right in front of me when I was six. Caught her trying to leave him.”

The pepper falls from my trembling fingers. I’ve interviewed countless killers and studied hundreds of cases, but hearing Remy speak about his own trauma hits differently. I think of six-year-old Remy, watching his mother die, and my chest aches.

“Did they catch him?” I whisper.

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