15. Clara

15

CLARA

I blink awake, sunlight streaming through the living room windows. My body aches in the most delicious ways as I stretch beneath the soft blankets draped over me. The house feels empty, too quiet.

A folded note sits on the coffee table next to a fresh bagel. My stomach growls at the sight, but my hand trembles as I reach for the paper.

"Had an early meeting. Enjoy breakfast. - S"

The precise, cultured strokes of his penmanship make my skin prickle. I sink back into the cushions with a wistful sigh, already missing his commanding presence.

Then reality crashes over me like ice water.

"Oh shit.” I bolt upright, the blanket falling away. The events of last night flood back in vivid detail. Silas revealing he'd been watching me, knowing my darkest secrets, my shameful late-night activities, and instead of being horrified, I...

My face burns as I remember begging him. Pleading for his touch, his control. Submitting completely to this dangerous man who had stalked me for months.

"What is wrong with me?" I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself. The bruises he left throb, a physical reminder of how thoroughly I gave myself over to a virtual stranger who admitted to invading my privacy.

I should be filing a restraining order and running as far from him as possible. Instead, my body hums with remembered pleasure, craving his dominance all over again.

Shame coils in my gut. What kind of forensic psychologist throws herself at a man who's shown such predatory behavior? I'm supposed to study these patterns, not fall victim to them.

But even now, knowing what I know, a part of me hopes he'll return tonight.

The shrill ring of my phone cuts through my spiraling thoughts. James's name flashes on the screen, and my stomach drops. Another death already?

"Clara, you need to see this." James's voice carries an odd note. "I'm heading to pick you up. The sixth... well, it's different."

I clutch the phone tighter. "Different, how?"

"No human victims this time. Six geese. Dead in the center of the town square." He pauses. "It's a mess, Clara."

My head pounds as I push myself off the couch. "Give me ten minutes to get dressed."

"Make it five. And Clara? Bring your camera. The scene won't last long in this weather."

I hang up and rush to my bedroom, pulling on the first clean clothes I find. My reflection catches my eye—the marks on my neck from last night are still visible. I grab a scarf, wrapping it tight.

The doorbell rings just as I'm sliding on my boots. James stands there in his usual detective stance, but his face is pale.

"That bad?" I ask.

He nods. "Six geese a-laying. But there's nothing natural about how they're laying. The precision of the cuts, the arrangement... it's like some twisted art exhibition."

My forensic mind kicks in, pushing aside thoughts of Silas and last night. "Any witnesses?"

"None. Town square's been dead quiet since the curfew." He guides me to his car. "But get this—these weren't just random geese. They were tagged. Belonged to the Parker family farm outside town."

"The Parkers?" My chest tightens. "Their son Michael was?—”

"Our first victim. Yeah." James starts the engine. "Coincidence? Or calculated?"

"Calculated for sure. Nothing this killer does is a coincidence."

The town square's only minutes away, but each second feels like an eternity. Six geese. The sixth day. The killer's sticking to his Christmas theme but changing the rules. Why?

The police barricade comes into view, a wall of blue uniforms holding back the press. Camera flashes burst like lightning against the gray morning sky. James pulls up behind a patrol car, and I step out into the biting December air.

"Dr. Hart!" A reporter shoves a microphone toward my face. "Is this the work of the Christmas Reaper?"

"No comment." I push past the crowd, ducking under the yellow tape. The scene hits me in full force.

Six geese lie in a perfect circle. Their wings spread wide like fallen angels in the fresh snow. Each neck has been slit with surgical precision, blood frozen in crimson streams. Their bodies form a grotesque wreath, heads pointing inward toward a small object in the center.

"What's that?" I point, and James hands me a pair of latex gloves.

"Music box." He crouches beside me as I examine it. "Still playing when we found it."

I recognize the tinny melody. "The Twelve Days of Christmas."

"Dr. Hart!" Another reporter calls out. "Why animals instead of people? Is the killer losing his nerve?"

"He's not losing anything," I mutter, studying the careful positioning of each bird. "This is deliberate."

The geese weren't just killed—they were arranged with the same mathematical precision as the human victims. Each wing spans the same distance, creating perfect symmetry. Their necks twisted at identical angles. Grotesquely, it's like beautiful art.

"He could have had a field day with six human victims." My fingers trace the air above one goose's wing. "But he chose not to. Why?"

"Maybe he's toying with us?" James suggests.

I shake my head, remembering similar precision in other cases I've studied. "No. This is about control. The killer wants to show us they decide who lives and dies, when and how."

The music box continues its cheerful tune, a jarring contrast to the macabre display. As I study the scene, I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something obvious. Something right in front of me.

I rub my temples, staring at the bloody snow until my vision blurs. The answer hovers at the edge of my consciousness, like a word stuck on the tip of my tongue. Something about the mathematical precision, the music box, the connection to the Parker family...

"Clara?" James touches my shoulder. "You've been staring at that spot for ten minutes."

"I know there's something here." I gesture at the grotesque display. "The killer wants us to see it, but I can't..." My hands clench in frustration.

"Hey." James steps closer. "When's the last time you slept? Really slept?"

The bruises under my scarf throb, reminding me of last night's activities. It was not exactly restful sleep. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine. This case is eating you alive." He lowers his voice. “You should take a break and visit your dad.”

Dad. Guilt crashes over me like a wave. I haven't been to Evergreen Falls Care Home in days, not since finding that first body.

"He probably doesn't even notice I'm gone." The words taste bitter. "The nurses say he barely remembers his own name anymore."

"That's not the point, and you know it."

I turn away from his concerned gaze, focusing on the crime scene. But the precise angles and careful positioning swim before my eyes, refusing to reveal their secrets. My brain is wrapped in cotton, thoughts moving like molasses.

"I can't step away, James. Not now. Not when we're this close to..." To what? Understanding? Catching the killer? The truth dances just out of reach, mocking me.

"Take a break, Clara. That's an order." James's voice carries the authority of his position. "You're dead on your feet, and we both know you can't solve this running on fumes."

I open my mouth to argue, but exhaustion weighs down my bones. The crime scene blurs at the edges of my vision. "Fine. But I didn't bring my car."

"I'll drive you home." James pulls out his keys.

The thought of my empty house, with its lingering memories of last night, makes my skin crawl. I adjust my scarf, hiding the evidence of Silas's possession.

"Actually, could you drop me at Evergreen Care Home instead?" The words tumble out before I can stop them. "I should check on Dad."

James's expression softens. "Of course." He guides me back through the crowd of reporters, shielding me from their questions with his body. "I think that's exactly what you need right now."

I sink into the passenger seat, letting my head rest against the cool window. The geese and the music box swirl in my mind like snow in a blizzard. Maybe James is right. A few hours with Dad will help clear my head.

"You know," James says as he pulls away from the curb, "your father would be proud of your work here."

I close my eyes, remembering Dad in his prime—sharp, intuitive, always three steps ahead before dementia stole his mind piece by piece. "Would he? Or would he tell me I'm missing something obvious?"

"Hey, don't do that to yourself." James navigates through the quiet streets. "You're doing everything you can."

The rest of the drive passes in silence. When we pull up to Evergreen Care Home, James squeezes my hand. "Get some rest, Clara. That's not a suggestion."

James's hand lingers on mine for a moment too long. I pull away, pretending to adjust my scarf. His eyes drift to my lips, and the air in the car grows thick with tension.

"Thanks for the ride," I mumble, reaching for the door handle.

"Clara, wait." His fingers brush my arm. "Maybe we could grab coffee after your visit? Talk about something other than dead bodies for once?"

A week ago, I might have said yes. James has always been attractive in that clean-cut, reliable way—the kind of man my mother would have approved of—the kind who'd never push boundaries or explore dark desires.

But now? After Silas?

The memory of last night floods my senses—rough hands, demanding kisses, complete surrender. My body heats at the thought. James could never give me that kind of passion. He's too... safe.

"I should get some rest after this," I say, avoiding his disappointed gaze. "Doctor's orders, remember?"

He forces a smile but hurt flashes in his eyes. "Right. Of course."

I step out into the cold, wrapping my arms around myself. The truth is, James deserves someone whole. Someone who doesn't crave the dangerous thrill of submission. Someone who doesn't dream about masked figures in the dark.

Someone who isn't me.