Rain drummed against the windowpane, a relentless crescendo that matched the frantic beating in Lena's chest. Inside her apartment, the only light came from a lone lamp casting quivering shadows across the floorboards.
She sat on the edge of her bed, hands pressed against her temples, trying to quiet the cacophony of voices in her mind. Some whispered her name in mocking tones; others roared with savage delight, urging her to complete what she had started.
The detective's words from the other night replayed over and over:
"If anything happens to Caitlyn… I won't need coincidence."
Lena's skin crawled at the memory. Alina Voss—cool, precise, and unsettlingly perceptive—had seen into her. And now Voss was a threat she couldn't ignore. But before confronting the detective's watchful gaze, Lena had to eliminate the more immediate danger: Caitlyn Myles.
She rose from the bed, knees stiff, and moved to her desk. Her journal lay open, pages stained with coffee rings and smeared ink. On the last page, in a handwriting that teetered between neat cursive and jagged scrawl, she had written:
Remove witness. Ensure no shadows follow.
Her breath caught. Witness. The word felt too small for what Caitlyn was—a living record of Lena's darkest secret. A forensic analyst who had seen evidence under the floorboards: the stain patterns, the angles of the wounds on her father, the pharmaceutical residue in her brother's bloodstream. Caitlyn hadn't just watched; she had understood. And that knowledge was a blade pointed straight at Lena's heart.
Lightning flickered outside, illuminating her face in quick silver bursts. She picked up a pen and added beneath the note:
Plan: lure to isolated location. Offer answers. Then silence.
Her hand shook, but she didn't hesitate. The pen scratched out another line.
Destroy phone logs. Keep Voss distracted.
She closed the journal, heart pounding with a gruesome exhilaration. Rising, she went to her closet and retrieved a long black coat.
She felt the cool weight of the knife in her pocket—slender, unforgiving. As she slid the coat on, a memory surfaced: the gleam of that blade as she'd plunged it into Miranda's chest.
The warmth of blood on her fingertips. The sense of purpose that had pulsed through her mind like a drumbeat. A soft tremor ran through her body, and she whispered into the empty room, "I'm ready."
Caitlyn was not where Lena had expected. She'd assumed the analyst would flee—perhaps to a friend's house, or a motel outside of town. But a quick scan through social media, disguised as an innocent search for "home for sale," revealed Caitlyn's location: a halfway house on the edge of the city, nominally for victims of domestic abuse.
Clearly, Caitlyn had decided her best option was blending into a place where she might be protected. But that decision made her vulnerable: Cautious, but predictable.
Lena parked her car a block away, rain plastering her black hair to her forehead. She waited in the driver's seat, watching the building's dimly lit windows. In the lobby, she saw Caitlyn's tall frame, shoulders hunched as though burdened by fear itself. A red umbrella—slender, simple—unfurled as Caitlyn stepped outside.
As Caitlyn walked down the sidewalk, her gaze flickered to the darkened street. She clutched her phone so tightly her knuckles were white; Lena recognized that grip from her own nightmares. She switched on the interior light of her car, illuminating the steering wheel and her reflection. The detective's face flashed in her mind: Voss is watching. You must be careful.
But Caitlyn's own terror gave Lena a twisted comfort. She started the car and followed, maintaining a safe distance. Summoning all her patience, she waited until the halfway house receded behind her before tailing her into a nearby park.
Caitlyn's steps grew slower, then halted altogether at a small clearing. Streetlights cut through the night drizzle, casting mottled patterns on the damp grass. She fumbled with her phone, likely dialing Voss, but in her panic, failed to hit the right contact. Lena parked on a side lane and turned off the engine. She didn't open the door—she didn't need to. The knife in her coat pocket felt like an old friend, warm with promise.
Lena looked up at the crooked branches of oaks above her. The wind sighed through their leaves like a lullaby turned to mourning. She closed her eyes and inhaled the night air. Then, with deliberate grace, she stepped out of the car.
Caitlyn spun around when Lena's figure emerged from the shadow of a lamppost. She stared with wide eyes that glimmered with disbelief.
"L-Lena?" she stammered.
"What are you—?"
"Shh," Lena whispered, moving closer.
"The rain traced thin rivers down her cheeks. "I know you're scared. Good. You should be."
Caitlyn took a step backward—but it was slow, uncertain.
"I… I called Voss. She'll be here any minute."
Lena's lips curled. "Detective Voss is busy," she said softly, dragging the knife's tip along the palm of her hand.
A drop of blood welled and slid down.
"She told me herself she couldn't afford coincidences." She showed Caitlyn the crimson bead.
"Now, step closer."
Caitlyn's hands trembled as she raised them in a futile gesture of peace.
"Lena, I don't want to fight. I just want to live."
"Live?" Lena echoed, eyes cold as the blade.
"You think you deserve it? After everything you saw?" Her voice softened.
"I'll give you a choice. You can stand right there and beg for mercy… or you can come with me and talk like grownups. Face the truth."
Caitlyn's chin quivered. "But I don't want your truth—"
Lena's hand lashed out. Pain bloomed on Caitlyn's face as her fist connected with the analyst's jaw. She tasted blood on her knuckles and smirked.
"I'm not here to talk." She spun on her heel, gesturing for Caitlyn to follow.
Caitlyn stumbled, tears mingling with rain as she obeyed. Lena guided her to the park's edge where a narrow service road led into denser woods. All along, her mind echoed with fragments:
You're not weak. You're necessary.
Finish it.
She's only alive because you allowed it.
Lena's calm demeanor never wavered, even as Caitlyn's sobs filled the night air.
Ten minutes later, they reached a small clearing so remote that even the wind seemed hesitant to intrude. A shallow dip in the ground formed a natural pit, leaves and muck softening its edges. Lena stopped.
Caitlyn's eyes darted, frantic. "You can't—please, not here. I… I'll beg your pardon—"
"It's too late for begging," Lena whispered.
She advanced, and Caitlyn backed toward the pit. The moon briefly emerged from behind a cloud, illuminating Lena's face—pale, fierce, a predator's calm. She raised the knife to Caitlyn's throat.
Caitlyn's breath hitched. "What do you want?"
Lena's voice was a steady hum, like a lullaby that curdled into venom.
"I want you to remember. Really remember. I want you to feel that moment again: the screams, the fire, the sound of bones snapping. I want you to understand why I had to survive."
Tears streamed down Caitlyn's face. She whimpered.
"Lena, I'm sorry. I trusted you. I… I thought you were hurt. You believed your lie, and it's broken you. But I don't want to hurt you. I just—I wanted to help."
Lena's hand tightened. The knife pressed against Caitlyn's skin, warm blood blossoming.
"Help? You don't help me. You expose me." She paused, as if listening to something no one else could hear.
"You're not alone," a whisper like distant thunder murmured in her mind.
"Your family is ash—let nothing else live to speak for them."
Lena's eyes glazed. She closed the last inch of space between the blade and Caitlyn's artery. With a swift downward motion, she slid the knife across Caitlyn's neck. The cold steel cut through flesh evenly. Caitlyn gasped once, then crumpled, crimson pooling beneath her like spilled ink.
Lena stepped back. Rain mixed with blood on her coat sleeves as she watched Caitlyn's final breath slip away. The child-ghost in her mind giggled—insatiable, triumphant. A hush fell over the clearing. The only sound was Caitlyn's ragged exhale, then silence.
For a moment, Lena felt… empty. The world felt hollow, as though all life had been drained from it. Then, beneath the crushing void, a glimmer of exhilaration bloomed. She'd done what she had to. She'd reclaimed her truth.
She knelt beside the body, removed a lighter from her coat, and set the edges of Caitlyn's clothing alight—an echo of the flames that once consumed her home. The fire caught quickly, embers dancing upward to join the sky.
As Caitlyn's body burned, Lena watched until the flames consumed her completely. Then, with a casual brushing of ash from her sleeve, she stood and walked away, leaving only embers and a scorched earth in her wake.
Three nights later, Detective Alina Voss stood at Caitlyn Myles' charred remains in the woods, surveying the blackened clearance.
The forensic team had already packed up, deeming it an accident—perhaps a drifter had lit a campfire that got out of control. The official story was tidy: an unfortunate wildfire. But Voss knew, instinctively, this was no accident.
She knelt and felt the warm soil—still damp from the rain. She dug a fingertip into the soft ash mixed with earth. The scent of burned hair and fabric lingered. Her gaze hardened. Someone had deliberately destroyed evidence—someone who wanted the truth to die with Caitlyn.
Her phone buzzed:
"Detective, you wanted to see this."
"—Megan, CSI."
Attached was a single grainy photo pulled from a security camera near the edge of the park. A shadowy figure, slender, clad in black, with a distinctive limp, strolling into the woods minutes before the blaze. The detective's heart hardened. She recognized that limp. The same one she'd seen at the clinic when she had cornered Lena in Caitlyn's living room.
Lena Cavanaugh.
Voss rose, staring at the blackened clearing. The city lights gleamed in the distance through the trees—an indifferent metropolis ignorant of the darkness lurking within.
She drew a breath of cool night air. The rain was coming again, she thought. Perfect for hiding flaws. But not for her. She would find Lena. And when she did, there would be no refuge left.
In her pocket, her phone buzzed again:
"You okay, Alina?"
"Call me if you need back-up."
"—Megan."
She typed a reply: "On my way back. Will follow leads."
As she walked back to her car, Voss paused near the edge of the clearing. She stared at the dancing embers of a dying pile of ash, almost invisible in the darkness. She whispered:
"You can't hide forever, Lena."
And in the distance, the wind carried an echo—one that felt both childlike and menacing:
"They're coming! They're coming!"
Lena's hunt had left a trail of charred evidence. But Hunter Voss was on the prowl now. The game had grown bloodier, the stakes infinitely higher. Lena might have silenced her first true witness, but Alina Voss would not rest until she unearthed every secret Lena had buried in the ashes.