22. Silas

22

SILAS

I drum my fingers against my desk, staring at the phone. Three hours. Three fucking hours since Clara read my message, and nothing. The read receipt mocks me, a digital slap across my face.

My carefully crafted control splinters. I am her savior, her path to enlightenment. How dare she ignore my messages!

“Fuck!” I hurl my coffee mug across the room. It shatters, dark liquid staining the pristine white wall. The mess bothers me, but I can’t bring myself to clean it. Not now.

I pull up the surveillance feed from her apartment. Empty. The precinct cameras show her hunched over paperwork with that pathetic excuse for a detective, James. My fingers curl into fists at the sight of him leaning over her shoulder.

Their confusion over the eighth day amuses me. While they search for a nonexistent victim, Clara bears the mark of that night in the barn—my perfect eight maids-a-milking. Today's kill will only deepen their bewilderment, adding another layer to my masterpiece.

Nine ladies dancing. The song echoes in my head, a twisted melody that won’t let go. Nine is too many bodies, too messy. But I need to make a statement. Show Clara what happens when she tests my patience.

Sarah Matthews crosses my mind again. That sanctimonious PTA president with her fake smile and judging eyes. I’ve watched her berate young mothers at school meetings, crushing their spirits with her cruel words. And yet, all the while, she’s skimming money from the association. She takes dance classes at the community center.

Perfect.

My hand steadies as I reach for my knife. The blade catches the light, and I smile. I’ll position her body in an eternal pirouette, suspended from the ceiling of her precious dance studio. One woman, frozen in a dance of death, surrounded by eight mirrors reflecting her final performance.

“You’ll see, Clara,” I whisper to the empty room. “You’ll understand when you find her. This is what happens when you try to resist our destiny.”

I check my phone again. Still nothing.

The rage builds, hot and dangerous. I need to move now before this fury makes me sloppy. Sarah Matthews will be leaving her evening class soon. Time to give her the spotlight she so desperately craves.

I park my Audi in the shadowy corner of the community center lot, engine off but ready. The snow falls thick, muffling all sound. It’s perfect. Through the glass doors, I watch Sarah Matthews lead her advanced ballet class through their final positions.

My leather gloves creak as I flex my fingers against the steering wheel. The bottle of chloroform, along with the zip ties and piano wire, sits heavy in my coat pocket. Everything is measured, and meticulously prepared.

The studio lights dim one by one. Students file out in their winter coats, chattering and laughing. Sarah remains behind, gathering her things with that superior tilt to her chin. Even now, she radiates contempt for everyone around her.

I step out into the snow, pulling up my hood. The cold bites at my exposed skin, but I barely notice. My focus narrows to Sarah’s silhouette through the frosted glass as she heads for the exit.

The key scrapes in the lock. I move swiftly and silently across the lot, timing my approach perfectly. I’ve already switched the CCTV live footage with a loop. They won’t see me coming or my car parked nearby. Sarah’s shoulders tense as if she senses something, but it’s too late. I clamp the chloroform-soaked cloth over her mouth and nose, my other arm locked around her waist like a steel band.

She thrashes, trying to scream through the cloth. Her dance bag drops, spilling contents across the snow. I drag her back through the door she just unlocked, kicking it shut behind us. Her struggles grow weaker as the chloroform takes hold.

“Shhh,” I whisper against her ear. “Time for your final performance.”

Her body goes limp in my arms. I hoist her over my shoulder and carry her deeper into the dark studio.

I lay Sarah’s unconscious body on the hardwood floor, the mirrors around us reflecting our forms infinitely. The studio’s emergency lights cast an eerie blue glow across her face. Perfect atmosphere for what’s to come.

My tools click against each other as I remove them from my pocket—piano wire, hooks, pulleys. Everything must be precise. First, I need to adjust the mirrors. I position each one at exactly forty-five degrees, creating an octagon of reflection around the center point where Sarah will hang.

She stirs, eyelids fluttering. I can’t have her waking yet. Another dose of chloroform keeps her under while I drill anchors into the ceiling. The sound echoes in the empty studio, but I’m not worried. No one comes here this late.

“Time to wake up, Sarah.” I slap her cheeks lightly. She needs to be conscious for this. Her eyes snap open, terror replacing confusion as she realizes she’s bound. The zip ties bite into her wrists and ankles.

“Please...” she whimpers.

I grab her chin, forcing her to look at her reflection. “You always wanted to be the center of attention. Now you’ll have your moment.”

The piano wire slides around her throat. I position her body into an arabesque, her leg extended behind her, arms raised gracefully. The wire lifts her slowly as she chokes, feet leaving the ground. Tears stream down her face as she struggles to maintain the pose.

“Perfect form,” I whisper, watching her reflection multiply in the mirrors. “Clara will appreciate the artistry.”

Sarah’s movements become frantic, then weak, then still. I adjust her final position, ensuring she’s perfectly centered. Eight mirrors capture her suspended form from every angle, creating the illusion of nine dancers frozen in their final performance.

I step back to admire my work. Sarah Matthews hangs in eternal grace, her reflection repeated in perfect symmetry. The morning light will catch the mirrors just right, creating a macabre ballet for whoever finds her.

I clean my tools methodically, leaving no trace. Clara will understand the message. Nine ladies dancing. Three more days to go until my tribute to my goddess is complete.

After that, we will be together forever. Perfectly entwined by the murders she’ll never officially solve and an obsession that knows no bounds.

I slide into my Audi, the leather seat cold. My phone screen remains dark, and there are no notifications.

My fingers drum against the steering wheel – tap tap tap tap – faster and faster until the rhythm matches my racing thoughts. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. I’ve been biting my cheek again without realizing it.

“Answer me,” I growl, unlocking my phone for the hundredth time. The message thread with Clara stares back, my last text hanging unanswered:

Did you like my gift? The turtledoves suited you.

The dashboard clock reads ten p.m. Numbers blur as my leg bounces, heel tapping against the floor. She should be awake. She’s always awake at this hour – I’ve watched her enough to know her patterns.

My hands shake as I type:

What’s wrong, beautiful?

Delete. Type again:

I miss the sounds you make when you’re bound.

Delete.

The steering wheel creaks under my grip. Behind me, Sarah’s corpse is frozen in her final dance, but I can’t focus on my masterpiece anymore. There’s only Clara, Clara, Clara.

Are you ignoring me?

Send.

The read receipt appears instantly.

No response.

“FUCK!” I slam my palm against the horn. The sound pierces the night, sending a flock of crows scattering from nearby trees. Their wings beat against the sky like my pulse in my ears.

Answer me.

Send.

Please.

Send.

I need to know you’re okay.

Send.

Each message marks as read immediately. She’s there, watching, staying silent. My vision blurs red around the edges. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. She’s mine. She knows she’s mine.

We both know you’re awake, Clara. Don’t make me come find you.

I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white, peeling out of the community center parking lot. The engine roars as I accelerate through empty streets, snow pelting my windshield. My phone sits silent on the passenger seat, mocking me with its dark screen.

Red light. I blast through it. Another. The same. Traffic laws mean nothing when Clara dares to ignore me.

The streets blur past as I take corners too fast, tires sliding on the slick roads. My breath comes in sharp pants, chest tight with rage. How dare she? After everything I’ve given her – the pleasure, the pain, the perfect deaths laid at her feet like offerings.

Five minutes from her house. Four. Three. My hands shake as I park a block away, killing the engine. As I stride through the snow, the darkness wraps around me like an old friend. Her porch light burns bright, but the rest of the house sits in shadow.

Movement catches my eye – her silhouette passes behind curtained windows. She’s pacing. Good. She should be nervous.

I force air through my nose, counting each breath. In. Out. The rage still burns, but I can’t let it control me. Not with Clara. She deserves better than my animal instincts.

My knuckles hover over her door. The porch light casts my shadow long across fresh snow. Inside, her footsteps pause. She knows I’m here.

“Get it together,” I whisper to myself. My hands tremble, but not from anger now, but from need. Pure, desperate need for her presence.

I knock. Three soft taps echo in the winter silence.

More footsteps. Hesitation. The lock clicks.

Clara opens the door, green eyes wide. The silver turtledoves gleam at her throat. They are my gift, my mark. The sight sends electricity down my spine.

“Silas...” Her voice catches.

Snow drifts in behind me as I step closer, not quite crossing her threshold. Her pulse jumps in her neck. I want to press my lips there. Feel her life beating against my tongue.

“You’ve been ignoring me.” The words come out softer than I intended. Not an accusation – a plea.

She swallows. “I needed time to think.”

My fingers itch to grab her, pull her against me. Show her she’s mine. But I hold back, gripping the doorframe instead. The wood creaks under my hand.

“Look at me,” I whisper.

When she meets my gaze, I see everything I need. Fear, yes – but desire too. Understanding. She knows what I am. What we could be together.

“I can’t...” She starts to speak, but I shake my head.

“You’re everything,” I tell her. Simple truth. “My goddess. My reason. Don’t shut me out.”

A tear slides down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb, as gently as I can manage, when every cell in my body screams to possess her.

“Let me in, Clara.” My voice stays gentle despite the storm raging inside me.

She hesitates, fingers curling around the edge of the door. Her body trembles – from cold or fear, I can’t tell. Finally, she steps back, creating space for me to enter.

I cross her threshold, inhaling her scent. The door clicks shut behind me with a finality that makes her jump.

“Why are you ignoring me?”

Clara wraps her arms around herself, putting distance between us. The turtledoves catch the light as she moves. “Because I know what you are.”

My pulse quickens. “And what am I?”

“The Christmas Reaper.” She says it without hesitation, though her voice shakes. “The milking barn should have confirmed it—no eighth victim because you had me instead. God, I've known, haven't I? But this attraction, this darkness you awaken in me... I let it blind me to the truth.”

I take a step closer. She doesn’t retreat. “And now that you see it?”

“I should have you arrested.” Her eyes meet mine, filled with conflict. “I should be horrified. But all I can think about is how much I want you to touch me again.”

“My perfect, twisted goddess.” I reach for her face, thumb brushing her bottom lip. “You understand the beauty of it now, don’t you? Each death, each careful arrangement—they’re all for you. My tribute. My courtship.”

I watch the conflict dance across Clara’s face, her fingers absently touching the turtledoves at her throat.

“I can’t... I can’t accept this.” She backs away from my touch. “What you’ve done is monstrous.”

“Each one deserved their fate.” I step closer, matching her retreat. “Michael Parker? He was a pedophile who worked in a fucking school.”

“Stop it.” Clara’s voice cracks. “You don’t get to make those decisions. You’re not judge, jury, and executioner.”

“But I am.” The truth of it fills me with purpose. “I see what others miss. The darkness they hide behind their masks. I deliver justice where the law fails.”

“Justice?” Her laugh holds no humor. “You’re delusional. Murder is murder. These people deserved a trial, not execution.”

“A trial?” I scoff. “So they could hire expensive lawyers? Manipulate the system like they manipulated everyone else?” My fingers flex at my sides. “I’m the only one with the strength to do what needs to be done.”

“You’re not God, Silas.”

“Aren’t I?” I close the distance between us. “I decide who lives and dies. I choose who deserves punishment. Their lives are in my hands—just like yours is now.”

Clara’s eyes flash with anger. “I hate what you’ve done. All those people...”

“No.” My hand possesses her chin, directing those defiant eyes to meet their destiny in my stare. “You hate that you understand why I did it. That some part of you sees the righteousness in my actions.”

She tries to pull away, but I hold firm. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I? Then why haven’t you called your detective friend? Why are you still wearing my gift?”

Her resistance only feeds my need. Every step she takes backward, I match. The space between us crackles with electricity.

“You can’t run from this, Clara. From us.” My voice drops low, intimate. “You’re in my blood now. Every thought, every breath – it’s all you.”

“Stop.” She presses against the wall, trapped. “This isn’t right.”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel it, too.” I cage her with my arms. “This connection. This pull. It consumes me, Clara. Burns me alive.”

Her chest rises and falls rapidly. The silver turtledoves catch the light as she swallows. “You’re a murderer.”

“I’m your destiny.” I lean closer, breathing in her scent. “Everything I’ve done has led me to you. Each death and carefully arranged scene are love letters written in blood.”

“Will you...” She hesitates, fingers curling against the wall behind her. “If I stay with you, will you stop the murders?”

I stare at Clara, her question hanging in the air between us. My fingers trace the silver turtledoves at her throat. Stop the murders? The very thought makes my skin crawl.

Three more deaths. Three more carefully orchestrated scenes to complete my masterpiece. The compulsion to finish burns through my veins like acid. I’ve never left anything incomplete. Each kill has been meticulously planned, each victim chosen with purpose. The thought of stopping now feels like suffocation.

Her gaze locks with mine, and the predator within me falters—something deeper than bloodlust clawing its way through my carefully constructed void. She’s become my obsession, my addiction. The way she trembles under my touch, how she fights her attraction to my darkness – it feeds something in me I never knew existed.

My hand slides to her throat, feeling her pulse race against my palm. “You’d stay? Accept everything I am?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

The word hits me like a physical blow. Eleven bodies already laid at her feet like offerings, and she’s willing to accept me. To stop the final three deaths would leave my work unfinished and imperfect. The mere thought makes me want to scream.

But losing Clara? The idea tears at my insides worse than any incomplete pattern ever could.

I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in. My control splinters as competing urges war inside me. The need to complete my masterpiece versus this all-consuming desire to possess Clara completely.

“You’re asking me to go against my nature,” I growl against her skin. “To leave my work unfinished.”

“I’m asking you to choose me instead.”

My fingers tighten on her throat. She doesn’t flinch. My perfect, twisted goddess understands the battle raging inside me. For the first time since I started killing, I’m considering leaving a project incomplete. The thought should repulse me. Instead, I find myself drowning in the possibility of her.