4

“If I am the killer, you wouldn’t be standing here right now.” He said.

Not a denial but… a terrifying truth.

We sat on opposite ends of the couch and the silence between us was a fuse.

“Were you in the military before?” I asked because of how he is kin in knowing things.

He didn’t answer immediately, then nodded. “A long time ago but didn’t last.”

“What about before that?”

He chuckled, bitter. “No one asks what came before.”

“I do.” I said.

He looked at me, really looked, like he was trying to decide whether to lie or not.

Then he said, “I worked with some people. Not exactly Boy Scouts or so. I did things I can’t undo. I hurt people while I protected others.”

“Were you a mafia then or an assassin?” I asked.

He didn’t blink. “I was useful. That’s all that mattered.”

“Until?” I asked again with curiosity.

“Until someone decided I wasn’t.”

The air between us changed. He leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees with a quiet voice.

"Did you think I’m dangerous?” He asked.

“I know you are.” I replied with a pounding heart.

“And you’re not running from me.”

I swallowed. “I don’t run anymore from anyone or anything .”

Something dark passed between us—either mutual understanding or warning.

He shifted closer to me. My body tensed, but not from fear.

“I want to kiss you,” he said. “And I want to know what happens if I do.”

I stared at him and for a second, I wasn’t Camille the ex-cop nor the broken girl in a strange town chasing shadows, I was a woman on fire and wanted to burn.

I didn’t pull away when Damien leaned in neither did I flinch when his fingers brushed my jaw. I let it happen—his mouth grazing mine like he was testing a wire for electricity.

There was no test needed, we both already know it would burn, so, when his lips finally met mine, it wasn’t sweet, It was war.

My hands gripped the front of his shirt and drag him closer to me. His mouth took mine with hunger that felt personal—like we have been fighting this for too long. Like kissing me was something he haven’t allowed himself to want until it was too late to stop.

When his hands slid down my waist and found the gun holstered at my thigh, he paused, smirked, and said—

“You’re armed.”

“Always,” I breathed, kissing him harder.

The heat between us wasn’t soft or romantic. It was dangerous, a collision of sharp edges and bruised hearts. We kissed like two people who isn't expecting to survive the night or maybe we won't.

I broke away first with shaky breath. “This doesn’t mean I trust you.” I said to him.

Damien didn’t move back but replied. “I don’t need your trust, Camille. I just need your instincts.”

I grabbed my leather jacket and strapped the gun tighter to my thigh. The mood shifted fast—like we both remembered why we were here in the first place, danger is circling.

He followed me out of the door, scanning his eyes and scanning on every angle of my porch like a soldier checking for snipers.

We were halfway down the street when a call came in.

Sheriff Boone’s voice crackled through my phone, tight and clipped. “Another body. Teen girl. Found behind the shuttered motel near old route 9.”

"On my way,” and hung up.

Damien was already watching me. “Where are you going?”

“You don’t need to know.” I replied.

“I’m going anyway.” He said.

“No, you’re not.” I declined.

He stepped forward with eyes unreadable. “You can’t keep pushing me out every time it gets worse. Someone wants you dead and you really gonna face that alone?”

I didn’t answer because yes—I always did but something about this one felt different. Something about the photo, the boots in my yard etc. It's as if the killers is circling me and I don't know how close they already come.

I took the backroads to the old motel, a strip of cracked pavement led up to the rotting building. It has a broken neon letters clung to the roof: "SUNDAZE INN." It looked like something out of a horror film but it was the police tape that made it real.

I flashed my retired LAPD badge and ducked under the tape. Sheriff Boone gave me a look like I was a stray dog wandering too close to the case again.

“Her name’s Isabel Moreno, 17 years old, been missing for three days now.”

I crouched beside the body. Her face is pale and peaceful. She is fully clothed with her shoes still on.

No blood nor bruises. He body is too clean.

“She wasn’t killed here,” I muttered. “This is a dump site.”

Boone nodded. “Same as the girl in the forest.”

A familiar chill slid down my spine.

“Something’s off,” I said. “The killer’s changing methods or sending messages.”

“Or both,” he added grimly.

~

Later, back at my house, I stared at my evidence board with red string, newspaper clippings, the photo I received last night now pinned dead center. The dots weren’t connecting.

Two girls murdered. Both below 20. Both dumped like secrets but then there was the third pin on the board—me.

Why I'm I in that photo? I'm I next? Or is this about something else?

Damien’s voice broke the silence behind me. “I checked the motel security cams.”

I turned, surprised. “You said you weren’t coming.”

“I lied.”

Of course he did.

He held out a USB drive. “Someone cut the power the day she went missing but the backup cam across the street caught a glimpse of someone dragging a tarp into the woods.”

“Is the face visible?” I asked.

“No. But height, body and movement. We can analyze it.”

I plugged the drive into my laptop. The footage was grainy, but clear enough to make out shapes. A man—maybe 6 feet tall, lean but moved with purpose.

Then my stomach dropped. The boots, they matched the prints Damien found in my yard.

I turned to him slowly. “Are you sure you didn’t come into my yard last night?”

He met my stare evenly. “If I wanted to hurt you Camille, you will be dead already.”

We worked in silence for a while, analyzing the footage, cross-referencing timestamps with missing persons data. Damien was precise, efficient which made me ask him again out of curiosity—

“Who trained you?”