25. SLEIGHT OF HAND

25

SLEIGHT OF HAND

YARA

H e’s spiraling. The news gave me a sense of urgency.

“The FBI is hot on his trail. They’re beefing up resources, and the BAU just rolled out a fresh profile on The Strangler with a detailed behavioral analysis. They sent that profile out to every local PD in the cities where this pinche pendejo had previously left bodies. We’re busting our tails, but damn, we’re still miles away from bagging him.” The detective’s jaw tightened, eyes burning with frustration.

Spiraling .

I had been wondering when my moment would come—when I would spin out of control until every mask I wore came undone. Every sickness came with an expiration date.

I just wanted to kill The Strangler before my time came. I had to feed Katelyn’s spirit with his blood to let her rest in peace. After I killed him, I’d tear off my masks and surrender to the ultimate fate.

“Did he make a mistake? Stray away from his patterns?” I asked.

Detective Rosario wasn’t always so forthcoming—he was stingy about sharing details of his cases. But in his current state of weariness and frustration, there was a chance he might reveal more.

“He did. That hijo de puta is going down.” The detective emphatically thumped the table, a vengeful glint in his eyes. Even at this moment, the animal in him was almost softer, kinder. He was not one of us.

“What did he…” I trailed off as Detective Rosario took in a deep breath. “What did he do?”

Erratic behavior and a small step away from the usual pattern were the first signs, which would then become more and more pronounced. I knew the psychology of it.

My fingers drummed against my thigh as I waited for the detective. He took his sweet time finishing his cup of coffee. I wanted to grab it away from him and hurl it against the wall.

“As I said, this isn’t for public knowledge, but you’re not the public. Agent Hayes believes he’ll kill again this month. The love letter he left—it was not a love letter. He made a mistake. The paper tied around the woman’s neck was a list. He must have misplaced the letter.”

My eyes narrowed in suspicion. It didn’t sound like The Strangler. Even though I didn’t know what he looked like, I knew who he was, exactly what he was. I knew the inside of his mind like it was my own.

He was intelligent and cunning. He had been playing for a long time.

“A list? A list of what?” I asked, anticipation coating my nerves.

“A list of what looks like titles. Titles of books? Songs? Something else? They didn’t know what it was when Agent Hayes called me. It could be any number of things.” The detective let out a weary sigh.

“That’s unlike him. What if it’s on purpose? What if he’s playing another one of his games because he’s bored with his old routine?”

“Baltimore PD and the FBI don’t think so. They’re sure he’s deteriorating.” Detective Rosario sounded convinced, but I couldn’t believe it.

A part of me knew that this could very well be a sleight of hand, a trick. The cops didn’t always see what was hidden.

“There was nothing else? No hard evidence?”

The detective shook his head as he studied the empty mug for a second. “No. He killed her and only that. He cleaned her using bleach like his other victims, and then he displayed her in front of the bus terminal. She looked like she went to sleep waiting for the bus.” He rubbed his hands together.

“Do you have the content of the list, Detective?”

“Not really. I do remember something. Ah, yes, the Sins of Holiness. Twelve, no, wait, it’s thirteen.”

My body went cold.

Thirteen was my father’s story.

Katelyn was the one who started the Hunters and Preys podcast. She created our second persona. K for Katelyn. Y for Yara. And she had some strange addiction to wolves, hence the name Wolff.

Not every story in the podcast was mine, but some of them were. The ones the detective listed were definitely mine.

I enjoyed doing it with her, talking about things, and recording it. When she died, I wanted to stop, to give up. It reminded me too much of her, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t kill what she had started. It was a part of her, and so it stayed.

If the cops find out… Kat whispered. I wasn’t worried about that. I had covered my tracks very well, but even if they came, what proof would they have?

It wasn’t criminal to record true crime podcasts.

“Oh, and The Crosses We Bear. Yes.”

The Crosses We Bear was my second story, my second kill. It was about a man who used the girls under his care for his sick games.

I was fifteen, in an orphanage, away from the remains of my shattered life. I was happier than I had ever been and then I was forced to realize that happiness was but an illusion.

I had friends. Girls I played with, girls I loved. Women who took care of me. I saw my mother’s smile in their kind, benevolent eyes.

The Convent for Sunflower Children. It was a beautiful place until he walked in. Robert Miller.

“Are you alright, Doctor West? You look pale.” Detective Rosario’s concerned tone interrupted my thoughts which were in a turbulent tailspin.

“Sorry. The news you just shared…” I faltered. “I just can’t…”

“I get it. I had the same reaction when I got the call,” Detective Rosario said, his eyes filled with kindness. “The world has gone raving mad.”

“I have seen so much in my work here that it shouldn’t faze me anymore, but it still does.”

“That’s what makes us different from them,” the detective said.

Little did he know, I was one of them. I was them, and they were me.

“You’re right,” I lied without blinking as the detective stood up from the chair and stretched.

“I’m going to meet with Doctor Kavya Metha.”

“For the second autopsy for Victor?”

Metha would not find anything I didn’t want her to find in Victor’s remains.

The detective grunted and stalked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts of Robert Miller and The Strangler.

Robert Miller laughed with us, he played with us, but behind his eyes… I saw it. He had my father’s eyes—wicked eyes.

One night, a few months after his arrival, when Tany came out of his room, eyes wide with fear, body shaking with revulsion, I knew the truth of what I had seen the moment our eyes locked—the animal within him.

Tany suddenly looked so much older, so broken. She was wincing with every step she took. I instantly knew what he had done.

She made me promise not to tell anyone, scared that he’d hurt me if I did. She had protected me, and in turn, I protected an animal instead of her.

She needed me to be brave then, but I was a coward. I kept her secrets, and I carried the shame of my cowardice buried within my anger and helplessness.

Tany, cheerful, vivacious Tany, was never the same again, and one night, she jumped from the top of the building, leaving the pain behind.

As I watched her bleeding body, my eyes streaming with tears, the shackles I had kept around my demons came undone. They broke free, screaming for blood and vengeance.

No matter how loud I screamed, it didn’t soften the blow of losing her. Two days. I waited for two days to catch him alone. Anger burned inside me like wildfire.

That night, when I saw him in the orphanage’s chapel, I knew what to do. He was praying.

Praying?

Men like him stained the floor they walked on. Their prayers would hurt God’s soul.

Anger washed over me as I plunged the knife into his spine. He stumbled up and grabbed me by my hair, but I was quicker. The next stab found his heart. Blood splattered across my white pajamas printed with little sunflowers.

I stood over him and smiled in satisfaction as he helplessly tried to stand back up. Pressing my shoes into his wound, I continued to watch as he struggled to find a way to stay alive.

“You’re the reason Tany died. You fucking…”

The Sisters would admonish me if they heard me curse in God’s house, but this monster hurt those girls in God’s house, as well. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I quickly wiped it away.

“Yo-you… Ya-Yara. Help. Ca-call for—”

“That is for Tany and the other girls, Mr. Miller.”

I bent down and pushed my knife into his cock. The scream that left him would have woken up even the sleeping God. I watched in satisfaction as he finally went still.

I was running out of the chapel, my demons finally free from their tiny cages and roaring, and that was when Sister Serena saw me. I was bathed in his sinful blood, but I felt baptized.

Born in blood. Once again.

“Oh, Jesus. What did you do, Yara? Child?” Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but with concern. “Oh, girl, what did you—”

I remembered my grandfather and what he did for me to give me a second chance. I had wasted the chance now, but I didn’t regret it. I was sure I would end up in prison, but I didn’t care.

“He hurt Tany. He was going to hurt the others. Tany died because I was a coward. He—” Broken words came out of me. I couldn’t stop.

“Oh, poor child. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sister Serena grabbed the knife from me and washed the blood away. From me and the knife. She hid the knife and made me sit in the pews, begging for forgiveness for the murder.

I did, even though a part of me knew God must be grateful for my service.

When everything was done, Sister Serena told me to stay quiet, and away from the murder investigation. To never say a word again to anyone. When the cops arrived, questions were met by answers from the girls like Tany.

The case was still open, but nobody bothered to close it. Robert Miller, the man who took the voice of little girls, didn’t deserve a voice.

He deserved to go the way he went. Voiceless. Cock-less.