Page 15 of Silent Stalker

"Obsessive-compulsive tendencies," James mutters, scribbling notes. "Needs control, order."

My fingers dance along the margin of a witness statement. Mrs. Peterson had reported seeing a man watching the playground for weeks before Tommy's death. The description was vague—tall, well-dressed, carried himself with confidence.

Hours blur together as we dig deeper into the files. My eyes burn from staring at grainy photographs and faded reports. Coffee cups pile up as we search for connections between past and present victims.

"The Songbird Killer stopped abruptly," I say, reviewing the timeline. "No warning, no escalation. Just... vanished."

"Maybe something spooked him." James stretches, his chair creaking. "Or someone almost caught him."

I spread out the current victim files next to the old ones. The similarities are undeniable—the attention to detail, the theatrical staging, the musical connection. But something feels different about these new murders—more personal, more urgent.

Martinez knocks on the door with fresh coffee and sandwiches. We've been at this for hours but can't stop now. Not when we might be close to understanding the connection between these cases.

I rub my tired eyes, staring at the gruesome photos spread across the conference room table. Twenty years separate these murders, but the precision, the artistry - it has to be connected. We're dealing with the same killer or someone who studied his methods intimately.

"James, look at these incision patterns." I tap the autopsy photos. "The depth, the angle—they're practically identical."

My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and bolt upright. Six-thirty p.m.

"Shit." I start gathering my things.

The rustle of papers breaks our silence as James tears his attention from the reports. "What's wrong?"

"I have plans at eight." I hesitate, guilt gnawing at my stomach. "A dinner."

"Now? With everything going on?"

"I know, I know." I shove files into my bag. "But I can't cancel. I'll review these at home after."

"Clara-" James's disapproving tone makes me bristle.

"I'm not stepping away from the case. I need..." What? A break? A date with a mysterious stranger while bodies pile up? "I'll be back first thing tomorrow. We can cross-reference victim backgrounds then."

James watches me with those concerned eyes I've known since childhood. "Be careful out there. Killer's still loose."

"I will." I squeeze his shoulder as I pass. "Call me if anything breaks."

In my car, I check my makeup in the rearview mirror. Dark circles shadow my eyes from hours of staring at crime scene photos. I have ninety minutes to transform from exhausted investigator to dinner date material.

But as I drive home, the victims' faces flash through my mind. Rose in her ring of roses. The choir members' twistedhands. What kind of person am I, primping for a date while a killer stalks our town?

Then again, this dinner with Silas is what I need: a chance to clear my head and approach the case with fresh eyes tomorrow. At least, that's what I tell myself as I push down the accelerator.

10

SILAS

Ipull up to Clara’s house, the engine of my Audi purring to silence. The roses rest in my lap—blood red, a dozen perfect blooms. Their thorns press against my thigh through the wrapping, but I barely register the sensation. Pain has always been an abstract concept to me.

“Eight o’clock sharp,” I murmur checking my Rolex. Punctuality is next to godliness, and I am nothing if not divine.

Clara opens the door before I reach it. Her face flickers with something - fear? Uncertainty? - when she spots the roses. Fascinating. Such a visceral reaction to such a mundane gesture. I catalog it away for analysis.

“More flowers?” Her voice wavers. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to.” I extend the bouquet, studying how her fingers grasp the wrapper as she accepts them. “Beautiful things deserve beautiful gifts.”

She cradles the roses awkwardly as if they might bite. If only she knew how many hours I spent selecting each perfect bloom and arranging them just so. The symmetry speaks to the order I bring to chaos. The red echoes the blood of my latest masterpiece, though she doesn’t know that connection yet.