Page 62 of Not This Time

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. I have an appointment."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her face. "What kind of appointment?" he asked, the words laced with a hint of danger.

She swallowed hard, her face flushing with embarrassment. "It's... it's personal," she said weakly.

He chuckled darkly. "I see. Well, I'll let you go then. But be careful, Ms. Carter. You never know who might be watching you."

With that, he stepped back from the car.

"Th-thank you..." she gave him an odd look.

"Have a good evening," he replied, tipping his hat as he stepped back.

As he passed the rear of her car once more, returning to his own vehicle, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a tiny container of dark red paint. His fingers trembled with excitement as he unscrewed the cap, dipping his forefinger into the thick liquid. There was something almost sensual about the motion.

He pressed his finger against the back of her car, leaving a small, bloody handprint on the surface. It was a mark indicating that she was now his. He had marked her, and she didn't even know it.

He got back into his car, a thrill coursing through his veins as he watched her drive away. He knew where she lived now, where she had moved to. He knew everything about her.

As she pulled away, his eyes never left her taillights, their crimson glow a beacon guiding him to his next conquest. Tonight, he would visit her home, marking her as his prey, sealing her fate in blood and darkness. And soon enough, she would know everything about him too.

As he drove home, the paint on his finger drying to a crust, he couldn't help but grin. The chase had begun. And he was going to win.

"See you soon, Ms. Carter," he whispered, driving up an old, dusty road in the police cruiser.

A second later, he realized his lights were still flashing. He reached down, flipping the switch off.

And once more, he blended into the evening, disappearing into the dark, and becoming just another vehicle on just another, old, country road.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The dimly lit, cramped room at the police precinct was a veritable labyrinth of case files and evidence boxes, each casting long shadows across the worn and stained floor. The musty scent of yellowing paper and stale coffee hung heavy in the air as Rachel sat hunched over the desk, her dark eyes scanning through hospital records with a laser-like focus. Beside her, her tall, dark-haired partner, methodically sifted through stacks of photographs and witness statements.

"Rachel, any luck on your end?" Ethan asked, his voice soft yet tinged with urgency.

"Give me a minute," she replied, her fingers deftly flipping through pages of medical jargon and scribbled notes from doctors. Growing up on her own had taught her the importance of self-reliance, and she had learned to trust her own instincts above all else.

"Okay," Ethan acquiesced, knowing better than to interrupt her when she was this focused. His own upbringing had been rooted in close family ties and religious teachings, which provided a stark contrast to Rachel's solitary nature. Their differences made them an unlikely pair, but Rachel had decided they worked well together.

As Rachel continued to pore over the hospital records of the three victims, her keen attention to detail became evident. She scrutinized each line of text, searching for patterns or connections that might bring them closer to solving the mystery.

Three victims. No apparent connections... but that wasn't possible, was it? The faint hum of the overhead fluorescent lights mixed with the muted sounds of footsteps and distant conversations outside the room, creating an eerie soundtrack to their investigation.

"Wait," Rachel suddenly whispered, her brow furrowing as she stared intently at a specific section of one victim's file. "I think I found something."

Ethan leaned in, his curiosity piqued. "What is it?"

Rachel double-checked the find.

She'd given up on hospital records and was now going through insurance claims. Something caught her attention. She nodded now, realizing she was right.

"Each of these victims had visited the same chiropractor within a week of their deaths," she explained, her eyes narrowing as she processed the potential implications.

Rachel squinted at the records, her fingers tracing the neat rows of text. The pages felt crisp and cold in her hands.

"Look at this," she said, tapping on the highlighted section with excitement. "All three victims visited Dr. Marcus Caldwell for chiropractic adjustments within a week of their deaths."

Ethan leaned closer, his breath warm against Rachel's cheek. Their shoulders brushed as he studied the records. "That's an interesting coincidence. "

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