26. Jerome

Chapter 26

Jerome

T he other detective cleared his throat, eyeing me. "If you don't mind, sir, I have a few questions for you as well."

My jaw tightened, hands curling into fists at my sides. "Can't this wait? She needs to rest."

"This will only take a few minutes." The detective's tone brooked no argument. "We found some inconsistencies in your original statement, too."

My eyes narrowed. "Such as?"

"You claimed by the time you arrived, the assailants were gone. Do you have an alibi for where you were before you arrived?"

"I was at the police station, actually. Good enough alibi for ya?"I bit out. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see to Raven. You can show yourself out."

The detective bristled, but seemed to think better of pursuing the line of questioning.

"Ms. Fields, we will be getting copies of all the recording, but if you could bring any of the notes down to the station, that will help the investigation as well."

"I'll go grab them. They are all in a box downstairs."

One of the detectives followed me. I wasn't new to this. Everything about the way they looked at me meant I was a suspect. How could they possibly think I was capable of hurting her? Once they verify my alibi, all would be well.

Can't let this psycho get any closer.

After handing him the box, they were still asking her questions.

"Ms. Fields, I need you to walk me through everything. Any detail could be pivotal, no matter how small."

Raven's eyes, a striking contrast against her porcelain skin, met mine with an intensity that belied her composed exterior. "It started with letters. Then calls at any hour, saying things...knowing things about me that no one should know."

"Has anyone close to you been acting differently lately? Any unusual encounters?"

"Everyone seems to be on edge, but that could just be because of the situation. My life is an open book to the public; I don't know where to start."

"That's what I'm here for. We'll find this person."

The detectives finally left, and I sat next to Raven. "You must be exhausted."

"My nerves are shot."

"Well, I have two of my ex-military buddies coming over to stay downstairs tonight. We won't let anything happen to you."

My military buddies were all about helping and since they had access, we listened to some of the recording pulled. I donned the headset, hitting the play button. The voice that slithered through the speakers was distorted, a deliberate rasp designed to cloak its true timbre. I listened intently, closing my eyes as if shutting out the world would amplify any hidden truth in those taunting words.

Nothing is random . One of the phrases that was repeated in the recordings. Patterns often emerged from chaos, and it was my job to discern them. There was a cadence to the stalker's speech, a particular pause before he mentioned Raven's name—a reverence, almost.

Obsession, but to what end? Most of her inner circle would jump in front of a bus for Raven. Loyal to a fault... which leaves us with what? An outsider? Or someone playing a long game?

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. A mountain of data, yet the peak was still shrouded in fog. But somewhere within this avalanche of information lay the key to unmasking Raven's tormentor.

Think. Patterns, behaviors, access… maybe, it's someone who's been hiding in plain sight, someone who's jealousy has been simmering undetected beneath layers of admiration.

My eyes narrowed as I reached for another file. If the stalker was part of Raven's world, they had just made their first mistake. And I didn't plan on letting them make another.

"Three cases. Same MO. And look at this..." I pointed at the screen, "Each victim had a sudden rise to fame or came into a significant fortune right before the incidents began."

"Someone's targeting stars on the rise."

"Or creating their own twisted constellation," I added darkly. "They're selecting their targets, watching them ascend, then deriving pleasure from instilling terror just when they're at their brightest."

The realization sent a chill down my spine. The Phantom, as this stalker was being called, wasn't just a random predator. They were a collector of sorts, seeking out the thrill of control over those who shone the brightest.

"Let's get these patterns cross-referenced with social events where all the victims attended," I suggested. "There's a link here, and I'm going to find it."

"Will do."

The stalker had made a game of hunting the stars, but I was about to change the rules. "I've got some other things to look into. Let me know what you find."

The tidbits of information would all go together in the end, but it was my job to find and collect them. Here we go.

Leo's fingers danced across the keyboard, the glow of the computer screen casting an eerie pallor on his face. He had navigated through layers of cybersecurity, bypassing digital tripwires with the practiced ease of a seasoned detective who had seen too much yet still hungered for justice.

Come on, show me something.

He was deep in the bowels of the dark web now, a place where legality blurred into obscurity and the most depraved of human activities found their willing audience. My stomach churned with distaste, but my eyes remained fixed, unflinching as he sifted through the forum after anonymous forum.

Nothing is random. There has to be chatter; there always is .

Then, a break in the pattern. A forum unlike the others, its interface rudimentary, almost intentionally archaic. The header read simply: "Admirers of The Phantom."

The threads were filled with twisted accolades and disturbing confessions. Users spoke of The Phantom with a mix of reverence and envy, dissecting each known move with the meticulousness of scholars studying ancient texts.

"Raven Fields will never see it coming. The Phantom's work is art," one comment read.

"Art?" I scoffed under my breath. To glorify terror as art—it sickened me.

I continued scrolling until one user's posts caught my attention. The handle ‘AMacho' appeared consistently, their insights too intimate, their knowledge too precise.

Could you be our guy?

I jotted down the list of the victims with the same M.O. and left them a message to see if they would meet with me. Any information they could give me could help me with Raven. I needed to keep her safe.

The next day. I was in front of a coffee shop where the woman asked to meet.

Focus. They're victims, not suspects.

A woman with cautious steps approached the car. Her gaze flitted about nervously before landing on me. She gave a tentative wave and walked to the passenger side.

"Ms. Carter?" I asked as the woman got into the car.

"Call me Lucy."

"Thank you for meeting me. I know this isn't easy."

"Anything if it helps stop him."

"Can you tell me about your experiences? Any detail could be crucial."

Lucy recounted her tale, her words punctuated by shivers that had nothing to do with the cool air. I listened intently, fingers drumming on the steering wheel as patterns began to emerge. The letters, the phone calls—always escalating but never crossing a line into physical violence.

"Did he ever reveal what he wanted from you?"

"Control," Lucy whispered. "To make us dance like puppets on strings."

"Did he ever mention any specific goals? Anything he was trying to achieve?"

"Only that he wanted us to feel his presence... always watching, always there."

"Thank you. You've been very helpful. I'll reach out if I have any more questions."

Lucy exited the vehicle.

On the drive back to the house, my mind went back through Lucy's rendition.

Always watching . The same phrase appeared in the letters to Raven. The intent was clear now: The Phantom thrived on inducing paranoia, on being an omnipresent terror.

Watching and waiting, but for what? Every victim is a piece of the puzzle, and puzzles have solutions.

Hours passed as I sat surrounded by files, photos, and transcripts. My eyes were weary from analysis, yet I refused to succumb to fatigue. There was a method to The Phantom's madness, and I was close to deciphering it.

Creating fear, maintaining distance, evading capture. You're no random predator, are you? This is calculated. Personal, even.

I leaned back in the chair, rubbing my temples. Raven's the key. But why her? What makes her the centerpiece of your twisted gallery?

The pieces floated around me, taunting me with their elusive significance. Then, a revelation struck—a pattern within the pattern.

Each victim... high-profile, influential. You don't just want to scare them; you want to shake the very foundations of their world. But Raven... Raven's different.

I stood abruptly, pacing the room as the thought took root. It's not just about fear; it's about sending a message. But what message?

"Raven Fields will never see it coming," the forum post echoed in my mind. "The Phantom's work is art."

Art . My eyes snapped open wide. An artist signs their work, claims it. You don't want anonymity; you want recognition. But how far are you willing to go for your masterpiece?

Whatever The Phantom's endgame, it was building toward a crescendo, and Raven was the unwilling muse.

* * *

The next morning, I stood at the stove, the sizzle of bacon breaking the silence. Each strip crackled in rhythmic harmony, a culinary overture to the day ahead. I flipped them expertly, a technique honed from countless solo breakfasts and the discipline of my military past. A rich scent wafted through the kitchen, mingling with the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee—a dark roast, Raven's preference.

Perfect. My attention to detail was not just a byproduct of my training; it was an intrinsic part of who I was—calm, controlled, thoughtful. Every action, every decision, carried a weight and purpose.

I glanced outside the window where the sun had just begun its ascent, a golden hue spilling into the room and casting a warm glow on the crisp white tablecloth I had laid out. It was a simple canvas, yet it transformed under the morning light, becoming something almost ethereal.

Today needs to be perfect. I arranged the silverware next to the plates, their polished surfaces reflecting the sunlight. My movements were methodical, each fork and knife aligned with precision that betrayed my underlying need for order amidst the chaos that threatened Raven's life.

In the center of the table, I placed a vase of fresh flowers—daisies, Raven's favorite. They were modest yet vibrant, much like her, resilient even in the harshest of conditions. I found myself admiring their beauty and simplicity, qualities that echoed in Raven herself.

Flowers to brighten the day . It wasn't often that I allowed the barriers I had built to protect myself to lower, but with Raven, it seemed almost natural. She had that effect on people—on me, especially.

Good thing she can't see me now…the stoic bodyguard getting sentimental over daisies . Yet, there was comfort in these small acts of care, a silent language of affection that needed no words to be understood.

With the table set, I stepped back to survey my handiwork. The plates gleamed white and blue, the cutlery lay in perfect symmetry, and the flowers added a soft splash of color. It was more than just a meal; it was a statement—a moment of peace we could share amid the uncertainty of our world.

Breakfast is all about the start. A good beginning sets the tone for what's coming.

I hoped today's breakfast would offer more than sustenance; perhaps it could serve as a bridge, narrowing the gap between Raven and I. After all, every shared smile and exchanged glance wove another thread in the bond that had begun to form between us, a bond I was only just beginning to understand.

I lifted the skillet from the stove, the bacon sizzles tapering off as I slid it onto a paper towel-lined plate to drain. The scent of the savory meat mingled with the sweet aroma of coffee, forming an inviting atmosphere. With practiced motions, I scooped fluffy scrambled eggs from another pan, piling them high beside the crisped slices of bacon. The buttered toast landed next, its edges golden-brown, followed by a colorful assortment of fresh fruit—ruby strawberries, plump blueberries, and vibrant orange slices.

Presentation matters . I arranged the food with meticulous care. I was aware that in my line of work, details could mean the difference between safety and peril. Here, in this moment, they were the unspoken words of comfort and care I hoped would ease her mind.

I placed the plates on the table, each movement silent yet filled with intention. The morning sunlight cast a warm glow on the tablecloth, transforming the simple white fabric into a canvas bathed in gold. It was a breakfast fit for royalty, yet it was not duty that drove me, but something far more complex and personal.

The creak of a door hinge announced her arrival before she stepped into the kitchen. Raven's presence immediately filled the room, her strong-willed character evident in every stride. But as her eyes fell upon the breakfast spread, a softness replaced her usually guarded expression. Her resilience seemed to take a backseat, allowing a glimpse of vulnerability to surface.

"Jerome, this is... wow," she breathed out, her voice tinged with genuine appreciation. The corners of her lips curled into a smile that reached her eyes, lighting them up like the first rays of dawn.

"Good morning. I hope you're hungry."

"Starving," she admitted, moving closer to the table. "You've outdone yourself. It looks amazing. Thank you."

My chest swelled with a sense of accomplishment—not from executing a strategic operation, but from bringing a moment of joy to the woman who had unwittingly become the center of my protective universe.

"Enjoy," I said, tone calm and authoritative, yet laced with a warmth reserved just for her. As she reached for the silverware, our hands brushed momentarily, sending an unanticipated jolt through me, which I quickly masked under my stoic facade.

"Let's eat," Raven said, the assertiveness in her voice softened by the inviting spread before her. She picked up her fork, and I watched as she savored the first bite, her expressive eyes closing for a brief moment in delight.

"Perfect," she declared, and whether she referred to the meal or the moment, I couldn't tell. But one thing was clear—the day had begun with a promise, and in that promise, there lay a world of possibilities.

I poured the rich, dark coffee into two mugs as Raven forked a piece of bacon, its crisp edges curling like a brittle autumn leaf. She chuckled softly, a sound that drew my gaze.

"Something funny?" I asked, passing her a mug.

"Your bacon," she began, a playful glint in her eyes. "It reminds me of Saturday mornings back at home. My dad would get up at the crack of dawn just to start the grill. By the time I'd be awake, the whole backyard would smell like mesquite and smoked brisket."

"Sounds like quite the feast," I replied, leaning against the counter, arms folded across my chest.

"Oh, it was," Raven said, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "We'd have these huge family gatherings—cousins, uncles, you name it. And there'd be enough food to feed an army: ribs, coleslaw, baked beans, and my grandma's peach cobbler." She sighed wistfully. "Those were simpler times."

"Family is important." I nodded, sipping my coffee. "I remember my mother's kitchen during Thanksgiving. It wasn't huge, but there was love packed into every corner of that room."

"Did she have a special dish?"

"Her sweet potato pie," I replied with a soft smile. "Never tasted anything like it since."

"Maybe you'll have to make it for me sometime."

"Maybe I will," I returned, the unspoken promise hanging between us like a secret handshake.

Our laughter mingled, a light moment that seemed to chip away at the walls I had meticulously built around myself. With every story shared, every chuckle exchanged, we wove a thread of connection—a fragile yet burgeoning bond.

"Tell me more," I urged, eager to hear the cadence of her voice painting pictures of a past I'd never seen.

Raven leaned back in her chair, a fondness touching her features. "Well, there was this one spot, a little swimming hole we'd sneak off to on hot summer days. The water was cool, clear, and the perfect escape from the relentless sun."

"Ever think about going back?"

"Sometimes," she admitted. "But that life feels like it belongs to someone else now. I've built something different here." Her determined gaze met mine, a silent acknowledgment of the success—and the threats—that came with it. "In any case, I doubt the paparazzi would appreciate the rustic charm."

"Then it'll be our secret getaway," I chuckled, the words slipping out before I could stop them. But instead of regret, I felt a thrill at the thought—a dangerous, exhilarating prospect.

"Ours, huh?" Raven echoed, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "I'll hold you to that."

With each story, each shared laugh, the trust between us deepened, and the world outside—with all its shadows and uncertainty—seemed to fade, if only for a moment.