Chapter 3
1174 Words
“What did you expect, coming back to town and giving a lecture about him?” His voice lifted. “You’re playing with fire, Evelyn. This murder was a message for you. You never should’ve come back. Now you’re the next target.”
“I know,” I whispered.
Alan narrowed his eyes. Then he sighed.
“You’re insane.”
“I’m fully aware.”
“You came back to get his attention?”
“To catch him. Obviously. I studied him for years.
“Then what are you proposing?”
“Put me on your investigation, and I’ll finish what my father started.”
“Michael wouldn’t want this—”
“Michael is dead,” I cut in. “He was killed right in front of me. The Ripper is still out there. He won’t stop.”
I stepped closer.
“I’m not afraid of danger. Are you?”
He stared back, his resistance faltering.
“If I refuse, you’ll investigate on your own.”
“You know me too well.”
“You can’t stop me. I’m not a child anymore.”
“I know,” he muttered. “I just don’t want to bury you too.”
“You won’t,” I said. “Give me access. Files. Support when needed. And one more thing.”
“What?”
“Trust.”
I held his gaze.
“Treat me like the professional standing beside you.”
He exhaled slowly.
“I do trust you. I’m proud of you, Evelyn.”
He squeezed my shoulder.
“I’ll have a unit watch your place.”
“Don’t.”
“Not optional.”
“Fine.”
I drove to the rental house with a police cruiser behind me.
My Airbnb was a small, cozy wooden cabin surrounded by the pine trees of the forest—close to the road, half an hour from the city center, and miles from the nearest neighborhood.
I parked in front of the house. Grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and took my gun from the glove compartment. I checked the bullets, engaged the safety, then slid it into the back waistband of my pants.
The men in the cruiser didn’t need to see it as I got out of the car.
And the fact that I was supposedly going to have twenty-four-hour surveillance didn’t make me feel safe enough to go without it. If anything, it made me feel like I needed it more.
I rushed to the bedroom. Grabbed my backpack, a roll of tape, and my folder containing every file, every photo, every news clipping I’d collected on the Grimwood Ripper over the past few years.
I flipped one of the framed pictures on the living room wall facedown and began building everything in a sequence of events—from the oldest crimes to the most recent.
At Alan’s request, the officers in the cruiser across the curb had handed me a document containing the crime-scene photos.
I stepped back and studied my improvised murder board.
At the center was a photo of the note written in blood.
A deadly warning meant for me.
Something told me the Ripper wouldn’t kill again so soon.
A cold breeze slipped through the open curtains, raising the hairs on my neck and making me shiver violently.
I ran to the windows and yanked the curtains shut, hard.
Then I exhaled, dragging a hand through my hair, exhausted.
It had been a long day, and I needed to clear my body and mind—or I wouldn’t get anywhere with this goddamn investigation.
I decided I’d take the night to breathe.
I took a scorching, relaxing shower, changed out of the clothes I’d worn all day into cool pajamas, and collapsed onto the living room couch.
I was so exhausted I didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep —until I heard my phone ringing.
I jolted awake, startled, sitting up in one violent motion.
On the TV, a woman screamed as she was stabbed repeatedly in the back inside a mirror maze. Her bloody death multiplied in every reflection.
Half-asleep, I fumbled for my phone and found it under a cushion.
I unlocked the screen.
Unknown number.
Weird—but I answered anyway.
“Hello? Alan?” I guessed, because I’d forgotten to save his contact and no one besides him would call me that late on a night like this.
For a long moment, there was only heavy silence on the other end.
And the wind singing outside the cabin.
The trees rustled, and the force of the gusts made the windows tremble.
“Hello?” I repeated, impatient now, already about to hang up.
“Who’s your favorite killer?” a rough, unfamiliar male voice asked.
“What?” I tightened my grip on the phone, suddenly wondering if I was truly awake—or still dreaming.
“Don’t play shy with me now.” His voice sounded amused. “We both know the answer to that question, don’t we?”
“Is this a prank? Who is this?” My nerves tightened. Was it one of the students from the lecture? And if so—how the hell did they get my number?
I stood up from the couch, bare feet on the cabin’s icy floor.
I’d left one of the windows open when I fell asleep, and the whole place was flooded with bitter cold.
A deep male laugh rolled through the line. Velvet-dark and threatening, it slid over my skin like a serpent—making me feel strangely invaded.
“Come on, Evelyn.” The mysterious man’s voice was calm, unshakable. And when he said my name, there was the cadence of a foreign accent—Slavic.
A deadly discomfort spread through my stomach and infected my heart.
That wasn’t possible.
And yet there was only one person it could be.
“You’re him. The Grimwood Ripper.”
“I have a name, you know. But if calling me that during our little game of cat and mouse is what gets you excited, you can keep doing it.”
“What did you just say?” My teeth clenched hard enough to make the sound audible.
“I know you heard me.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
This couldn’t be happening.
Surely, I was still on the couch, eyes closed, trapped in some twisted dream I couldn’t wake up from.
“You’re a sick psychopath,” I spat into the phone. “How dare you call me and say that? How did you even get my number?”
“I should be the one asking questions,” he murmured, unwavering. “Since you’re the one writing about me without my permission. But don’t worry…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I was flattered.”
“I don’t write about you,” I scoffed. “I write about the atrocities you committed.”
“You know how to stroke a man’s ego, don’t you?”
“You’re a monster.”
- Writer
