7. Clara

7

CLARA

I stare at my phone for the hundredth time today, willing it to buzz with a message from Silas. The memory of last night burns my cheeks because I threw myself at him like some desperate teenager.

God, what was I thinking?

My fingers trace over my neck, where his mark lingers. The purple bruise in the mirror's reflection reminds me of my momentary loss of control.

"Get it together, Clara," I mutter, tossing the phone onto my couch.

The evening stretches endlessly before me. I pour a glass of wine, trying to drown out thoughts of Silas's hands on me, his lips against my skin. The silence of my apartment mocks me.

My phone lights up. My heart leaps.

But it's James's name on the screen, not Silas's.

Another body found. Need you here ASAP.

My stomach drops. I'd convinced myself the first two scenes were isolated incidents, that maybe we were all jumping to conclusions about a serial killer. But three victims? On the third day?

Where?

I text back, already grabbing my coat.

James sends the address. It's on the outskirts of town, near the old industrial district. As I grab my keys, reality crashes back. This isn't about my embarrassing date or Silas's radio silence. There's a killer out there, methodically working through his twisted Christmas carol.

And a family is about to get the worst news of their lives somewhere in town.

My phone buzzes again.

Three French hens. You're not going to like this one.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. As I head for the door, the wine glass sits abandoned on my counter. Whatever awaits at the crime scene will be far worse than my bruised ego.

I pull up to the abandoned warehouse, my headlights cutting through the darkness. Red and blue lights paint the crumbling brick walls in an eerie dance. James waits by the entrance, his face grim.

"You should prepare yourself," he says as I approach.

The metallic stench of blood hits me before I step inside. The warehouse floor is empty except for a grotesque display in the center. My stomach lurches.

A woman's body lies spread-eagle on the concrete, her blonde hair fanned out like a halo. Three dead hens circle her head, their necks twisted at impossible angles. Their feathers—dyed a garish French blue—are scattered across her naked torso.

"Victim's name is Leah Collins," James says. "Twenty-eight. Worked as a French teacher at the high school."

I move closer, forcing myself to study the scene clinically. The killer has positioned her arms to mimic wings. Her fingernails are painted the same shade of blue as the hens.

"Look at her throat." James points with his pen.

Three precise cuts mark her neck, parallel to each other. Clean. Surgical.

"Our killer is escalating," I say, crouching down. "The first victim had a partridge. The second was two turtle doves. Now this—three cuts, three hens, French blue dye, French teacher. He's becoming more... elaborate."

The victim's eyes stare upward, frozen in terror. I can't shake the feeling that there's something familiar about her features. Something that reminds me of?—

"She looks like you," James says quietly.

My hand instinctively goes to my neck. The warehouse suddenly feels colder.

"Similar age, build, hair color." James continues. "Could be coincidence, but?—"

"It's not," I cut him off. "He's sending a message."

The dead hens seem to watch me with their glassy eyes. Three days. Three murders. Nine more to go.

"We've got a full-scale psychotic serial killer on our hands." I turn to face James, my heels clicking against the concrete floor. "This isn't some amateur playing games anymore. The complexity, the attention to detail—our killer has been planning this for months, maybe years."

James runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "What are you thinking?"

"We need to implement a town curfew. Tonight." I gesture at Leah Collins' body. "The media's going to have a fucking field day with this. Four victims in three days, all following a Christmas theme? They'll eat it up. And you know what happens then?"

"Copycats."

"Exactly." I pull out my phone, scrolling through local news alerts. "Look—it's already trending. #ChristmasReaper is picking up steam on social media. Every true crime podcaster in the country will descend on Evergreen Falls by tomorrow."

"Chief won't like a curfew. Bad for holiday business."

"Better than dead bodies." I snap a few photos of the crime scene. "We need to get ahead of this. Control the narrative before it controls us. No leaked photos, no unofficial statements."

The forensics team bustles around us, cataloging evidence. One calls James over, pointing at something near the victim's hand.

"Tell the chief I'll back your play on this," I say as he walks away. "A psychopath who's this organized, this precise? He's not going to stop until he completes his song."

I pull out my phone and dial Chief Hawke's number, pacing the warehouse's perimeter while forensics continue their work. The call connects on the third ring.

"Chief, it's Clara Hart."

"Hart." His gruff voice carries the weight of too many sleepless nights. "James filled me in. Four victims now."

"That's why I'm calling. We need to implement a town-wide curfew immediately." I move away from the crime scene, lowering my voice. "This killer's methodical, organized. He's following a pattern we can't ignore."

"A curfew? During peak holiday season?" Chief Hawke scoffs. "The business council will have my head."

"Better your head than more bodies." I stop pacing, staring at Leah Collins's corpse. "Look at the escalation pattern. The first victim—simple staging. Second—two people dead and it’s more elaborate. Now this? The killer is getting bolder, more theatrical. The next scene will be worse."

Silence fills the line. I can picture him at his desk, rubbing his temples.

"The victim profiles are concerning," I continue. "This latest one... she could be my twin. He's sending messages and getting personal. We need to act now, before?—"

"Fine." Chief Hawke's chair creaks through the phone. "But you're helping me draft the press release. And you're speaking at the council meeting tomorrow morning."

"Done." Relief floods through me. "I'll have the initial report on your desk within the hour."

"This better work, Hart." He hangs up without waiting for my response.

I pocket my phone and catch James's eye across the warehouse. I give him a thumbs up—the chief is on board. Now, we have to convince an entire town to lock themselves inside during the busiest shopping season of the year.

The dead teacher's eyes follow me as I return to the scene. Nine more days. Nine more potential victims. The bruise on my neck throbs, a reminder of last night's moment of weakness with Silas.

I push thoughts of him aside. Right now, I need to focus on the Christmas Reaper. Everything else can wait.