11. Clara

11

CLARA

I slam my coffee mug down harder than necessary, sloshing hot liquid across my desk. Third cup this morning, and my hands still shake. Dark circles rim my eyes from tossing and turning all night.

My thighs clench as phantom sensations of Silas’s touch replay through my mind - his firm grip on my waist, those skilled fingers brushing my neck, the heat of his breath against my ear.

“Focus,” I mutter, shuffling crime scene photos. But the images blur as memories of his intense blue eyes bore into mine.

I spent hours with my vibrator after he dropped me home, chasing release after release until my sheets were soaked and my legs trembled. Nothing helped. Each orgasm just left me more desperate, more hollow, craving the real thing.

My phone buzzes. A text from Silas:

Good morning, beautiful.

Heat floods my core. I cross my legs tight, trying to ease the ache. Three little words shouldn’t affect me this strongly. What is wrong with me?

I grab my phone, fingers hovering over the keys. Should I play it cool? Flirt back? Before I can decide, James drops a new case file on my desk.

“Earth to Clara. You okay? You look flushed.”

“Fine.” I clear my throat. “Just... didn’t sleep well.”

That’s an understatement. I’d barely slept between bouts of desperate touching and replaying every moment with Silas. The way his muscles flexed beneath his shirt. How his voice dropped to that dangerous growl. The predatory gleam in his eyes when he marked my neck.

I press my thighs together again, heat building. This is ridiculous. I’m a professional, for God’s sake. I need to get myself under control.

But as I try to focus on work, all I can think about is Silas’s hands, mouth, and body against mine. I want him to consume me, unleash the darkness I glimpsed in those blue eyes last night.

My phone buzzes again. Another text:

Thinking of you.

I bite back a whimper. It’s going to be a very long day.

I stare at the crime scene photos, but my mind keeps drifting. Every few minutes, I catch myself squirming in my chair, pressing my thighs together. The air conditioning feels too cold against my flushed skin.

James keeps shooting concerned glances my way. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Just tired.” I take another sip of coffee, willing my hands to stop shaking.

My phone lights up with another text from Silas. I flip it face down, but the damage is done. Fresh heat pools between my legs as I remember his touch.

A knock at the door makes me jump.

“Special delivery.” That deep voice sends shivers down my spine.

Silas stands in the doorway, holding a paper bag from my favorite deli. Those crystalline eyes capture mine, making my breath catch. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that hugs his broad shoulders, looking every inch the powerful finance executive.

“I thought you might be hungry.” He crosses to my desk in long strides.

Before I can react, he bends down and presses his lips to my cheek. His cologne wraps around me, making my head spin. His mouth lingers a beat too long, his breath hot against my skin.

James clears his throat. My face burns as I remember we’re not alone.

“Oh, sorry.” Silas straightens, turning to James with an easy smile. “I’m Silas Knight. Clara’s...” He trails off, raising an eyebrow at me.

I want to sink through the floor. What are we? After one dinner and that kiss...

“We’re seeing each other,” I manage to squeak out.

James’s eyebrows shoot up. I’ve never mentioned dating anyone since moving back.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to work.” Silas sets the bag on my desk, fingers brushing mine. “Text me later?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. As he leaves, I catch James staring at me with his mouth hanging open.

“Silas Knight, huh?”

I busy myself with the lunch bag, hoping he can’t see how badly I’m blushing.

James shuffles papers on his desk, stealing glances at me. “So, how long have you been seeing him?”

“It’s new.” I focus on my sandwich, avoiding his gaze. The way his jaw tightens tells me everything I need to know about his feelings.

“Just... be careful, Clara. With everything going on-”

“I can handle my personal life, James.” The words come out sharper than intended.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “You’re right. Not my business.”

The tension eases as we return to work, but I catch him watching me with concern. After an hour of reviewing case files, his phone rings. The color drains from his face.

“Where?” He grabs his keys. “We’ll be right there.”

My stomach drops. “Another one?”

“Yeah.” His voice is grim. “Found at the jewelry store on Main.”

“Shit, we should have thought of warning the jewelers in the area. Five gold rings.” I shake my head, frustrated that I didn’t think of it before.

We pull up to Evergreen Jewelers amid a sea of flashing lights. The store’s display window is shattered, glass crunching under our feet as we enter.

The victim lies on the carpet, surrounded by five golden rings arranged in a perfect circle around his head. His dead eyes stare unseeing at the ceiling, mouth frozen in a silent scream. Blood has soaked into the cream-colored carpet, turning it rust-brown.

“Store owner found him when she opened up,” an officer reports. “David Lovell, twenty-five. Worked here part-time.”

I crouch beside the body, studying the precise placement of the rings. They’re identical, simple gold bands positioned exactly two inches apart.

“These aren’t from the store,” James notes, examining one ring. “He brought them with him. Planned this.”

I hover my fingers above the victim’s throat, studying the evidence. “See this precise line of trauma? Our killer used something delicate—likely piano wire.” Suddenly, something comes to me. “James.” My voice cracks. “Remember what we found in the Songbird files yesterday?”

He looks up from his notepad, brow furrowed. Then recognition hits. “The wire markings.”

“Identical to these.” I pull out my phone, bringing up the photos we’d studied for hours. “See the angle of the bruising? The depth? It’s the same signature.”

My breathing is shaky as I swipe through twenty-year-old crime scene photos. Six children, all killed with piano wire, arranged in elaborate patterns. The case that haunted Evergreen Falls. The case that drove my father to drink.

“But the victims were children back then,” James says. “This is different.”

“The methodology is exact.” I zoom in on an old photo. “Look at the bruising pattern on Emily Watson’s neck. Now look at our victim.”

James crouches beside me, comparing the images. “Shit.”

“The Songbird killer was never caught.” My throat tightens. “What if he’s back? We have to consider this seriously. What if the Christmas theme is just a cover?”

“Like we said yesterday. Or it could still be just be a copycat,” James suggests. “Those files were sealed.”

“Only law enforcement had access.” The implications hit me like a punch to the gut. “Someone on the inside?”

James rakes his fingers through his already messy hair. “I’ll pull the visitor logs and see who accessed the archives recently.”

I stare at the golden rings gleaming around our victim’s head. They have the same precise spacing and ligature markings. But why change the victim profile? Why emerge now after twenty years?

“We need to re-examine everything,” I say. “Cross-reference all three scenes against the Songbird files. There has to be a connection we’re missing.”

The familiar buzz of my phone makes me jump. A text from Silas:

Miss you already.

I shove the phone back in my pocket, guilt twisting my stomach. People are dying. I can’t let myself get distracted by whatever this thing with Silas is.

Not when a killer from my past might be hunting again.