Chapter 2
1069 Words
It was easy to tell when you were getting close to Grimwood.
The trees stretched along the shoulder of the road, their canopies blotting out the sun and casting the highway into a heavy darkness.
A massive wooden sign, overgrown with vines, ivy, and moss, welcomed you at the roadside.
Welcome to Grimwood.
With a population of 8,000, the town was known for its humid days, cold nights, and the vampire legends whispered since its founding. Every Halloween, the streets filled with macabre decorations—along with crucifixes, garlic, holy water, and salt lining doorways.
All to repel the bloodsuckers.
But outside of that, nothing ever happened in Grimwood.
Which was why, when the murders began, they spread through the town like a plague—until the entire country knew the name of the Grimwood Ripper.
The bastard had turned the city into a tourist attraction for true-crime fanatics. They kept coming and going even after the killings stopped—for five years.
Five years since I met him in the forest.
Five years since he killed my father, the former police chief.
Five years since I fled that town and decided to pour every ounce of myself into finding answers.
Why had he spared me?
Why did he kill?
Who was he?
Those questions spun in my mind like a scratched record—the source of the obsession that stole my sleep and my sanity.
And now that I was back in town, he was killing again.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
The police cars parked along the shoulder ahead of me snapped me out of my trance at the wheel.
I pulled in behind them and grabbed my bag from the passenger seat—everything I needed inside, including my criminologist ID.
Before stepping out, I flipped down the rearview mirror and studied my reflection.
Dark shadows bruised the skin beneath my blue eyes, speckled with brown.
My lips were cracked from dehydration.
At least I was still wearing the slacks and black satin blouse I’d worn to the university lecture. It made me look more responsible.
I decided to take the sunglasses from the glove compartment. My knuckles brushed the cold metal barrel of the gun hidden inside.
I tied my black hair into a ponytail. Swiped lip gloss over my dry mouth. I checked my appearance one last time and slid the sunglasses onto my face.
At the entrance to the trail where the crime scene waited, a number of officers stood alongside a forensic investigation team.
No civilians lingered nearby, which meant the news hadn’t spread yet.
I ducked beneath the yellow-and-black tape that read CRIME SCENE — DO NOT CROSS.
Ignoring warnings was a fundamental part of my job.
A middle-aged white man lay on the ground. His eyes were wide, his mouth open. His hands were smeared with the blood he’d tried to stop after his throat had been opened in a grotesque cut. His beard was stained red.
A perfect replica of the other men on the Grimwood Ripper’s victim board.
His face was vaguely familiar.
Probably one of my father’s friends.
Across his neck was a deep wound that exposed muscle and arteries. The blood—now dry—had run down his white shirt, torn open at the chest.
My eyes dropped to the bloody mark carved into his flesh.
There was no need to call a medical examiner, no need for forensics.
The occult symbol had been carved with the same knife the Ripper used.
He always did this.
It was the finishing touch.
And no one had ever been able to decipher the origin of that symbol—not even me.
A strong hand clamped down on my shoulder suddenly.
“Ma’am, this area is restricted. Only law enforcement can enter the crime scene,” a sharp male voice said behind me.
I turned with a sly smile.
“Good thing you’re talking to one, then.”
I raised an eyebrow at the officer glaring at me.
“Leave her with me.”
A tall Black man with a gleaming badge on his chest strode toward us. His lips curved into a welcoming smile when his gaze met mine.
The officer looked at my face for the first time.
Recognition hit him. His eyes widened, and he released my shoulder immediately.
“Yes, sir.”
He walked away, leaving us alone.
Alan—the current police chief of Grimwood—gave me a small nod.
I nodded back.
“Evelyn,” he greeted.
“Alan.”
“You came.”
“You called.”
I gestured toward the scene around us.
“And you waited until I arrived to cover him. Which tells me my presence was actually required here.”
“I figured the famous criminologist Evelyn Cross would want to see what we found.”
“Is that so?”
He tipped his chin toward the body.
“Steve Jackson. Sixty years old. Retired officer. Most likely killed during the early hours of the morning.”
“The Grimwood Ripper is back. Nothing new. Same victim profile, same method. So why did you call me?”
Alan glanced over his shoulder and motioned to a woman wearing gloves.
“Vanessa. Bring the evidence envelope and gloves for Evelyn, please.”
She nodded.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
“See for yourself.”
Once I finished putting on the gloves, she handed me a sealed envelope. I opened it carefully and peeked inside.
What I saw nearly made me drop it.
Inside was a note.
Its edges were stained with blood.
I didn’t realize my hands were shaking until I tried to move them.
I unfolded the paper slowly—and found a message written in elegant handwriting, in ink so dark red it looked like blood.
The only blood it could be was the same blood from the dead man on the ground.
Instantly, my vision tunneled.
There was nothing but the note in my hands—and the bloody words aimed at me like a dark love letter.
To my biggest fan.
With love,
Your killer.
Bile rose in my throat. I gagged—but forced it back down.
Don’t you dare vomit on the crime scene, I screamed inside my head. You’re a professional. Act like one.
“He wants your attention,” Alan said.
“And he got it.”
- Writer
