7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Hydessa

I 've been watching the sun set from one of the windows in a bedroom on the second story of the house. It's beautiful, such a stark contrast to the wall I created in my makeshift office. With bated breath, I watch as the lights on the waterfront start to shut down and the island turns from one of gleaming color to blackened shadows.

That's when I make my move.

Tying my hair back, I put on my black pants and black hoodie. My blue eyes get covered with black contact lenses, gloves and a skull mask finishes the look. With the hood up, you can't tell it's even me, which is exactly the point.

The mask is custom-made to fit my face and will disguise my voice if I ever speak to anyone with it on. Not that I do. I make a point of staying hidden in the shadows normally, as invisible as possible to prying eyes. My parents taught me to blend with the darkness, to hide in plain sight, and I'm good at it. I couldn't avoid drawing attention to myself during the day as someone new, but at night I will be one with the islands shadows.

This is how I am able to catch the bad guys. While most people are tied up in bureaucracy, I let a sliver of my inner monster loose at night. Just enough that it can peek through the cracks, but not enough to give it control. I gather evidence, then watch my prey, waiting for them to give me what I need to put them behind bars.

I think this is one of the few times I truly feel like myself, balancing the dark and light inside of me.

The day my dad, Dare, gave me the skull mask that everyone in the organization wears to protect their identity out on a job, I remember feeling like he could see inside of me. Like he knew what I was struggling with deep in my soul. It was one of the few moments that the blackness under my skin pushed towards him, as if it were seeking out an old friend.

It was a moment I will never forget because it was one of the few times in my life that I didn't feel alone in my fight to balance what was right with what was necessary to protect others.

Leaving quietly out the back door of the house, I use the forest for coverage to get as close as I can to the waterfront again. The forest sweeps in an arc, almost as though it is trying to touch the lighthouse and then cradling the beachfront area, stretching and curving around to the end of it. When the trees stop hiding me, I keep to the shadows, taking the path between buildings until I can see the once-busy stores and cafes. The streets are mostly empty now, with only a few people milling about, likely the late-night workers heading home or the occasional insomniac taking a stroll.

I keep my movements smooth and deliberate, every step planned to avoid detection. My parents always said that if you think like a predator, you'll become one, and I've taken that advice to heart. The skills they taught me, honed over years, are second nature now. I melt into the shadows on instinct, becoming one with the darkness.

The primary target tonight is the small police station. Not to break in—no, that would be too reckless—but to observe. To learn the rhythms and habits of the officers, see how they patrol and when they take breaks. If I'm going to uncover anything about this place and the supposed murders, I need to know what the local law enforcement knows, if anything.

It's clear they aren't investigating anything according to Uncle Max, but are they covering it up so that the towns name doesn't sour? Do they have a secret task force looking into it on the side while keeping no paper trail?

I find a spot behind a thick clump of bushes with a clear view of the station. The lights inside are on, but the front desk is empty. Scanning the area, I note the positions of the security cameras. They're minimal, probably relying more on the low crime rate than on actual surveillance.

After an hour of watching, I see the sheriff step outside, stretching and yawning before lighting a cigarette. He leans against the wall, looking out into the night but not really seeing anything. His routine seems casual, almost too relaxed for a place that's had multiple disappearances. He either has no idea, or he is very good at concealing his concern for the situation.

I wish I could simply have arrived as the detective I am and asked the sheriff upfront about what I know, but sadly, I also know that even law enforcement can't be trusted at times. The sheriff seemed like a friendly face and a nice man, but even the sweetest person could hide a heart of evil. After all, Dahmer was able to charm at least sixteen men long enough to kill them and snack on their corpses.

Never trust a charming face should really be my motto.

Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, a soft light emanating from the building I saw earlier on the beach with the art and surfboards. It looks like all of the boards have been put away for the night, and the lights are out except for one room on the upper floor where there is a large window. I can just make out the side profile of a man sitting in front of a canvas painting.

Getting a little closer, I notice a little more of the details in the dim light. His dark hair is messy, as though he's run his fingers through it repeatedly, almost shaggy with a slight curl at the end. I can see the dusting of stubble along his jaw that seems clenched in concentration as he applies red paint to the piece he is working on.

I can't see the piece from where I am, but when he turns to dip his brush into the pain I can see the art across his bare back. There is a large tattoo that spans across his skin, a bird of prey of some kind, and the sight fascinates me.

I stay there for a moment, watching the artist work. The intensity of his focus is palpable even from this distance, and I wonder if he may have seen something from that window that could be useful. Artists often see the world differently, notice things that others might miss. I make a mental note to approach him later, perhaps under the guise of admiring his art if he has it on display.

Turning my attention back to the police station, I realize that the sheriff had disappeared while I was distracted. I curse silently under my breath, annoyed at myself for losing track of him and getting distracted.

Quickly refocusing, I scan the area around the building. It would be safe to assume he returned inside the station, but I don't like not knowing for sure.

I split my attention between the police station and the artist's studio for another hour. However, it becomes apparent that I won't gain any significant new insights from this vantage point tonight. With a sigh of resignation, I decide to move further along the street.

Most places have already closed, leaving only a few establishments with lights still on. The tattoo parlor catches my attention as I pass by. Through its windows, I glimpse someone inside, meticulously cleaning the space. The person appears heavily tattooed themselves, their movements precise and thorough, black hair pulled away from their face by a hair tie and showing off the shaved sides. I can't make out the details of his face from this distance, but I make a mental note to come back tomorrow.

Continuing down the street, I notice the gym next. Its windows are reflective, preventing me from seeing inside, but the glow from the glass entryway suggests activity within. The deserted streets amplify every sound, making each step feel louder than it should. I remind myself to keep to the shadows, avoiding unnecessary attention.

With nothing else catching my attention, I decide to return to the house to write down my observations for the night. Quietly, I make my way back, staying hidden until I am under the cover of the forest.

I'm almost at the back of the rental house when a shift in the forest shadows makes me pause. Instinctively, I narrow my eyes and scan the darkness surrounding me. The silence is eerie, not even the sounds of nocturnal creatures can be heard.

My mask suddenly feels stifling against my face, and a shiver runs down my spine. Someone is watching me—I can almost feel it, like a phantom touch—but the sensation passes fleetingly, leaving me uncertain if it was real or imagined. Almost like back at my cabin, but this was more intense.

Remaining perfectly still, I listen intently for any sign of movement in the forest. Seconds stretch into minutes, but there's nothing—no rustle of leaves, no snapping of twigs. With cautious steps, I continue towards the house, my senses heightened and on alert.

I almost slam the door behind me when I make it back inside the house. Instead of turning on the lights, I quickly discard my disguise under the cover of darkness, removing the hood, gloves, and skull mask.

I feel like I can finally take a breath when it's all off of me. The coolness of the room is a welcome relief after the tension of the night and the stifling feeling of being watched. Once I tuck the attire away, I flip on the light and make my way to the office, sitting down at the desk and taking out a notepad and pen to record my observations.

Taking careful notes, I am sure to go over in detail everything I know about the various businesses along the waterfront. Once the list is made, I flip to another page to make a note for each person I have come across so far and leave room to add more as I continue to watch them.

Some pages have more details than others, like Sheriff Brooks, Deputy Eli, and Allegra. But then others have minimal detail. The artist whose name I don't even know, the worker at the tattoo shop, and the others I have only seen just have their jobs listed with a brief description of their appearance.

You never know when you will need to recall someone's eye color or a certain tattoo. If I can catch even a glimpse of the murderer in action, maybe it will help me narrow it down. They probably wear a mask, but their build is important which is why I note that Allegra is curvy and that Eli is slightly taller than the sheriff who walks with a bit of a slouch.

Everything is important, even if it doesn't seem like it at the time. Which is why I make these lists, so I don't forget anything.

As I jot down the last details, I ponder my next steps. The eerie feeling of being watched in the forest lingers in my mind. Was it just my imagination, heightened by the adrenaline of the night's activities, or something more? I will have to be more vigilant in the future.

Reaching over to my tablet, I press the button to light the screen and check the time, noticing that there's a notification there. Thinking perhaps that Uncle Max may have found something, I pick up the device, bringing it in front of me and unlocking it.

Except, it's not Uncle Max. It's the alert I set up two nights ago.

Dear Readers,

It's amazing how some people can be so unobservant to what happens around them. They don't even see the life leaking out of someone oh so close by.

But then this one didn't make a sound, didn't scream or cry, all that could be heard was the soft gasping of breath until it rattled and stopped. It was like she had already given up before the knife cut through her pale skin.

She didn't even get a chance to live a proper life, barely an adult and already abandoned by everyone. This time, the sand absorbed her essence, the tiny grains stained red. Her dark blue eyes were a pretty reflection of the dark water, her brown hair like night and day to the sand.

Did you hear her gasps for breath? No, you didn't. You arrived too late. You just missed her when you appeared like a ghost, trying to become one with the shadows.

But we know you're here… creep around town all you like… you won't see us until we want you to. But don't worry, we see you.

Until next time…

X X X X

My stomach drops. What the fuck… Are they talking about me?