Damien hadn't slept. Again.
The box from Miles Perrow's home sat on his desk like a quiet bomb. It wasn't just evidence—it was an invitation. And every murder now felt like a reply to a question Damien hadn't figured out yet.
Cole's voice lingered in his head.
"Do you ever feel like you're chasing your own shadow?"
He opened the case file again, flipping back through crime scene photos. Flint. Traynor. Miles. All connected by a single event—Rowan Hale's accusation. All silenced by someone who knew too much.
But that's what troubled Damien most.
These weren't vengeance killings.
They were lessons.
"You're too quiet," Jonas said, stepping into the office with a cup of coffee. "Makes me nervous."
"I think I've seen this before," Damien muttered.
Jonas frowned. "The pattern?"
Damien shook his head slowly. "The obsession. The calm. The need to send a message with every detail. This isn't about justice. It's about art."
Jonas raised a brow. "You saying the killer thinks they're some kind of… performer?"
"No," Damien said. "I'm saying they're rehearsing."
Cole was at the station too, sitting in the observation room, staring at a wall of photos.
Victims. Crime scenes. Boxes. Symbols.
He didn't speak to anyone.
Didn't need to.
The images said more than words could.
He could feel something building—something sickly familiar. That gnawing itch behind his ribs. The quiet thrill just beneath his skin.
The desire to understand.
Or maybe it wasn't understanding he was craving.
Maybe it was release.
The door opened. Jonas stepped in with a file. "You doing okay?"
Cole didn't look up. "Define okay."
Jonas smiled tightly. "Fair enough."
He set the file down beside Cole.
"There's a name Damien wants you to look into—Rowan Hale. Ever heard of him?"
Cole finally looked up. And for a fraction of a second, Jonas thought he saw something behind Cole's eyes—recognition, maybe. Or fear.
But then it was gone.
"No," Cole said. "Never heard of him."
That night, the killer moved again.
This time, the victim wasn't part of the original list.
This time, it was someone personal.
He was a nurse. Thirty-nine. Worked under Traynor during the investigation. Had retired to a quiet neighborhood in Eastlake.
The killer found him walking his dog—just a little too late.
The leash lay limp on the pavement. The dog whined quietly, pawing at its owner's side.
The killer crouched down beside the body, checking for breath.
Still alive.
Good.
They reached into their bag, pulled out a photo, and slipped it into the man's coat pocket.
Then they whispered something, just one word.
"Remember."
And vanished into the dark.
Back at the station, Damien sat at his desk flipping through Rowan Hale's patient file. Every note screamed instability—paranoid episodes, violent outbursts, obsessive tendencies.
But then, on page five, he found something new.
A drawing.
Rough. Chaotic. But familiar.
A symbol.
The same symbol carved into the first victim's wrist.
He snapped the file shut and stood abruptly.
"Jonas!"
Jonas appeared a second later. "Yeah?"
"Get me everything you can on Rowan Hale's discharge. Who signed it. Where he went. I want addresses. Photos. Anything."
Jonas nodded. "You think he's our guy?"
"I think…" Damien paused. "I think someone wanted us to believe he disappeared."
Cole couldn't sleep.
He hadn't dreamed in weeks. But now, his body shook with exhaustion, his mind racing with fragments.
He sat at his kitchen table with an empty glass, trying not to think about the dog, the blood, the smell of fear.
Then something caught his eye—an envelope, tucked just under his front door.
He crossed the room slowly and picked it up. No name. No return address.
He opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
On it, scrawled in black ink, were three words:
"He's watching you."
Cole stared at it for a long time.
Then he picked up the phone.
Jonas was still at the precinct when the call came through.
He answered immediately. "Cole?"
"I need to see Damien."
"He's not here."
"Then you need to listen to me," Cole said, voice low and strained. "Someone left me a note. They know where I live. They know what I've done."
Jonas stiffened. "What have you done, Cole?"
Silence.
Then: "Not what you think."
Jonas grabbed a notepad. "I'm listening."
But before Cole could speak, a knock came at his door.
He froze.
Jonas heard it too, faintly through the phone. "Cole? You okay?"
Another knock.
And then a voice.
Not loud. Not threatening. Just calm.
"Open the door, Cole. We have things to talk about."
The line went dead.