30. Silas

30

SILAS

C lara's car disappears around the corner. My mind races with the endless details of our escape plan while I maintain perfect awareness of my surroundings. I can't afford mistakes—not now.

The burner phone buzzes. My contact confirms that our new passports are ready—Clara Evans and Simon Kane. Simple, forgettable names—perfect. I transfer the agreed amount through an untraceable offshore account.

My laptop screen flickers with police radio frequencies I've tapped into. Background chatter provides a soothing rhythm as I double check our trail of breadcrumbs: plane tickets to Paris under false names, hotel reservations in Rome, and a car rental in Madrid. Each step is designed to send law enforcement on a wild chase across Europe while we disappear into Canada.

A familiar voice cuts through the radio static. "Chief, DNA results are in from the Matthews scene."

My fingers are still on the keyboard. Something in the detective's tone makes my skin prickle with electricity.

"There were two distinct DNA profiles, sir. One matches our suspect, but..."

The pause stretches like a garrote wire.

"The second profile is female. And it's in our system."

Ice crystallizes in my veins. Impossible. I never leave DNA unless I want to. And I only left one profile of DNA to force Clara’s hand. My scenes are immaculate. Unless...

I slam my fist against the steering wheel. Clara's hair. It has to be. That night, she clung to me, and her golden strands must have transferred to my jacket. It was an amateur mistake, sloppy, the kind of error that gets people caught.

My phone lights up with a message from Clara.

James wants me to come in. Says it's urgent.

My jaw clenches. They'll take her DNA. Compare it. Question her. Break her.

The muscles in my neck tighten as I type back:

Don't go.

I have to. It'll look suspicious.

She's right. But the thought of Clara in an interrogation room makes my blood boil. I've watched enough suspects crack under pressure. Clara's strong, but she's not trained for this. One wrong word, one nervous tick, and everything falls apart.

I open up the police database which I hacked months ago. Clara's file appears—a complete psychological profile, background checks, and everything they have on her. Nothing ties her to the murders except that single strand of hair. But it's enough. It's always enough.

My fingers drum against the leather steering wheel as I calculate options. I could grab her now, force our escape ahead of schedule. But rushed plans fail. And failure means prison. Or death. For both of us.

Another message from Clara:

I'm heading in now.

The steering wheel creaks under my grip. I feel something dangerously close to fear for the first time in years. Not for myself—I've always known the risks. But for her. Clara. The woman who crawled under my skin and made me feel...things.

I start the engine. Whatever happens in that station, I need to be close. Ready. The gun under my seat feels heavier than usual.

Be careful. Remember who you are.

A killer's lover. My partner. My weakness.

I pull into traffic, driving toward the station. All my careful planning, every detail meticulously arranged, now hangs by a single strand of golden hair.

I pull up the video feed from Clara's broach on my phone, the sharp clarity of the precinct's interrogation room filling my screen. James sits across from her, a manila folder spread between them. My fingers grip the phone tighter as he slides out crime scene photos.

"We found your hair on Sarah Matthews' body, Clara."

Clara's heartbeat quickens—I can see it in the subtle flutter of her throat. "I was at the scene with you. It must have dropped then."

"That's impossible." James leans forward, his face hardening. "Forensics collected that hair sample before we ever arrived."

My jaw clenches. Stupid. So fucking stupid.

"I don't understand." Clara's voice stays steady, but I catch a slight tremor in her hands. "There must be some mistake."

"The DNA is conclusive." James pushes another document forward.

I watch through Clara's brooch camera as James shifts in his chair, his expression softening. My fingers curl around the steering wheel, knuckles white.

"Clara, I need to ask you about Silas."

My teeth grind together as I watch Clara's shoulders tense.

"What about him?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything." James leans back, adopting his casual pose to put suspects at ease. "But you've been seeing him, right? Intimately?"

Clara's silence speaks volumes. I can practically taste her anxiety through the video feed.

"Look," James continues, "could your hair have been transferred from his clothing? We know you've been... close to him."

The muscle in my jaw twitches. Of course. James gives her an out—a perfectly reasonable explanation for the evidence. But it's also a trap. If Clara takes this bait, she must explain her relationship with me. And that leads down a dangerous path.

I watch Clara's hands fold together on the table. "Yes, we've been seeing each other."

"How well do you know him, Clara? Really know him?" James's voice drops lower. "Because something about him doesn't sit right with me."

My lips curl into a snarl. Detective James Marsden—always the noble protector. Always trying to save Clara. If he only knew how she moans my name in the dark, how she begs for the very danger he's warning her about.

Clara shifts in her chair, and I hold my breath, waiting for her response. Everything hinges on what she says next. One wrong word and our carefully constructed plans crumble.

I've trained her well, though. Taught her how to lie with just enough truth to make it believable. Now, it's time to see if those lessons paid off.

"I don't know him that well, James." Her voice carries just the right amount of uncertainty. "We've only been seeing each other a couple weeks."

James leans forward, his protective instincts clearly kicking in. "The night Sarah Matthews was killed—where were you?"

"With Silas." Clara's cheeks flush, and I can't help but smirk at the memory. "We were... intimate. At my place."

The tension in James's shoulders eases slightly. "All night?"

"Yes." Clara looks down, playing embarrassed. "We fell asleep afterward. He didn't leave until morning."

I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, pride swelling in my chest. She's performing beautifully—the perfect mix of discomfort and honesty. Even I might believe her if I didn't know better.

"Clara," James's voice softens, "if there's anything you need to tell me about Silas—anything at all—you can trust me."

"There's nothing to tell." She meets his eyes steadily. "I barely know him, James. We've just been... having fun."

The lie rolls off her tongue so smoothly. My Clara, learning to dance with darkness. She's right—she barely knows me. But what she does know, she loves. The monster beneath my skin calls to hers, and no amount of Detective Marsden's concerned glances can change that.