The police asked me if I had heard anything.
I told them I hadn't.
They asked more questions, but most of my answers were just "I don't know" and "okay."
I don't think they believed me.
But what else could I have done?
The killer knew my face. My house. Everything.
I started blaming myself—for choosing to live alone, for walking back that night, for not screaming when I could have.
Since that day, I haven't stepped outside. It's been two days without a proper meal, a shower, or even sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, that twisted face appears—burned into my mind.
So I stayed up.
Forty-eight hours.
No sleep. No food. I didn't even use the bathroom.
But now… I've decided.
I'm going to the police. I'll tell them the truth.
I don't know if what I'm doing is right or wrong—but I can't live like this, constantly afraid, every moment filled with terror.
Outside, it was raining. Again.
There were still police around the neighborhood.
This wasn't the first murder like this in town—it was the third. Maybe even the fourth. Same pattern. Same killer.
And the only person who had seen him—was me.
So I knew he'd come for me eventually.
I picked up my phone to check for case updates. And that's when I saw it.
The killer had been arrested.