3. Clara

3

CLARA

I push through the precinct doors at eight sharp, greeted by the buzz of fluorescent lights and stale coffee. The familiar scent of paper and printer toner fills my nostrils as I reach James's desk.

"Right on time." James looks up from his computer, his blue eyes lingering a moment too long. "Coffee?"

"Please."

He pours me a cup from his coffee maker, his fingers brushing mine as he hands it over. The warmth spreads through my hands but does nothing to settle the unease in my stomach.

I take a sip of the dark roast coffee with cream, exactly how I like it. James shuffles through a stack of papers on his desk and pulls out a manila folder.

"Standard consulting agreement." He slides it across to me. "Pay's not great, but you'll have full access to case files and evidence."

I flip through the pages, scanning the familiar legal jargon. My pulse quickens at the thought of diving into this case. Between Dad's declining health and my restless thoughts, I need something to focus on.

"Full autonomy on psychological profiling?" I tap the section outlining consultant responsibilities.

"Within reason. You'll report directly to me, but I trust your judgment." James leans back in his chair. "You're still the smartest person I know when getting inside killers' heads."

The compliment brings a slight flush to my cheeks. I grab a pen from his desk and sign my name with quick, decisive strokes. The scratch of pen on paper feels final and binding—like I'm stepping through a door I can't close.

"Welcome aboard, Dr. Hart." James takes the contract back, his expression turning serious. "Fair warning—this isn't going to be pretty. Our killer's methodical, theatrical. The crime scene photos alone..."

"I can handle it." I straighten my spine, already feeling my analytical mind clicking into gear. "So, walk me through what we know."

James spreads crime scene photos across his desk. "Victim is Michael Parker, forty-five. No priors. Worked as a caretaker at the elementary school. The body was positioned deliberately—arms spread, fingers twisted. The pears and partridge weren't random."

“So it’s been confirmed the bird was a partridge?” I question.

James nods, a grave look on his face.

“Yeah, the first day of Christmas." I lean forward, studying the images. "The killer's methodical, organized. This took planning."

"That's why I need you." James shifts closer, his cologne mixing with the coffee scent. "Your insight into these types..."

I feel his eyes on me as I examine the photos. The old spark between us crackles, but I push it aside. Relationships complicate things, and right now, I need clarity.

"The positioning suggests ritual significance. Beyond the Christmas theme—see how the fingers curl like tree branches. And the pears placed at specific points..." I trace the pattern with my finger.

"You always see what others miss." James's voice drops lower. "I've missed working with you, Clara."

I straighten up, maintaining professional distance. "Let's focus on building a profile. We have eleven days until Christmas. If we don't stop this, there will be eleven more victims."

The sharp trill of James's phone cuts through our discussion. His face tightens as he listens, and my pulse quickens. I already know.

"Mall on Fifth." James grabs his coat. "Security found two bodies in the underground parking."

I snatch my bag and follow him through the precinct. The December wind whips at my face as we hurry to his unmarked car.

"Two turtle doves," I murmur, sliding into the passenger seat.

James flicks on the lights but not the siren as we pull into traffic. "Let's not jump to conclusions."

"You don't believe that." I grip the door handle as he takes a corner faster than necessary. "The timing's too perfect."

Snowflakes dance across the windshield as we weave through morning traffic. My mind races with possibilities. The arrangement, the symbolism. Will it mirror the first scene's precision?

"You okay?" James glances at me. "You're quiet."

"Just... processing." The truth is, beneath my professional exterior, excitement bubbles up. This is another piece of the puzzle, another glimpse into this killer's mind. The shame of my fascination wars with my analytical drive.

The mall's concrete parking structure looms ahead. Police cruisers cluster near the entrance, their lights painting the snow alternating red and blue. As we pull up, I spot the coroner's van.

"Stay close," James says, killing the engine. "If this is our guy, I want your immediate impressions."

I walk into the biting cold, my heels clicking against the concrete. The echo bounces off the parking structure's walls, mixing with the officers' murmur and the radios' crackle. Yellow crime scene tape flutters in the wind, marking our destination deeper in the structure.

My heart pounds faster with each step. The anticipation builds as we approach the scene, and I remind myself to maintain a professional demeanor. But inside, that familiar dark thrill rises. The one I've always tried to suppress, the one that makes me question everything I think I know about myself.

The stench of death hits me as we round the concrete pillar. Two bodies, positioned face-to-face, intertwined hands in a mockery of affection. Both wear matching white sweaters, now stained crimson. Their necks are twisted at impossible angles, heads tilted together like love birds.

"Christ," James breathes beside me.

Camera flashes strobe from behind the police line where news crews gather. Their excited chatter carries across the parking structure.

Through the concrete pillars, I catch snippets of reporters' breathless commentary.

"...second crime scene in two days... bodies arranged like turtle doves... Christmas Reaper claims two more victims..."

My stomach twists. The media has already crafted its narrative, complete with a catchy name: The Christmas Reaper. It'll be splashed across every headline by noon.

"They shouldn't be here." James waves uniformed officers to push the press line back. "This isn't some circus show."

But I understand the appeal. The spectacle. The way death draws people like moths to a flame. I force my attention back to the victims, fighting the urge to analyze how the killer positioned them with such... artistry.

A reporter's voice carries over the commotion. "Sources say the Christmas Reaper is recreating the twelve days of Christmas through murder. Is Evergreen Falls facing eleven more days of terror?"

"Vultures," James mutters.

I watch the cameras flash, each burst of light illuminating the grotesque tableau. The killer wants this attention—he craves it. Why else stage the scenes with such theatrical flair?

"We need to control the narrative." I turn to James. "The more they sensationalize this, the more it feeds into the killer's fantasy."

But it's too late. The Christmas Reaper is born, courtesy of morning news. The name will spread like wildfire through social media, inspiring hashtags and conspiracy theories. The killer's probably watching right now, savoring every moment of chaos they've created.

A chill that has nothing to do with the December air runs through me. Because beneath my professional concern, part of me understands the intoxicating power of that spotlight. The dark allure of becoming a legend.