Standing in front of the police station makes my stomach twist. I scrunch up my face in disgust, already regretting what I'm about to do. Sixteen years. Sixteen years since I last saw James. Sixteen years since he stole my childhood. Sixteen years since he touched me and walked away like nothing happened.
And now I'm about to walk into his workplace like I'm not shaking inside.
When I turned eighteen, I tracked down my family to see where they all ended up. The only one still in town was James. The rest left years ago. I never visited him. Why would I? He's a child molester. Even knowing he lived here, I avoided him like the plague.
But now I'm desperate.
And desperation makes you do disgusting things.
I walk inside and ask for Officer James. They tell me to wait in the lobby. The lobby smells like old coffee, sweat, and cheap disinfectant. A cop walks by and gives me a weird look, like I don't belong here. Maybe I don't.
A few minutes later, James comes out.
And the moment I see him, my breath catches.
He looks almost exactly the same.
Same big-ass Dumbo ears.
Same narrow face.
Same cold eyes — the same eyes that looked at me when I was six.
Same messy hair that looks like he rolled out of bed and didn't bother fixing it.
He's taller now, slim, wearing a police uniform that makes my stomach churn.
Sixteen years.
Sixteen years and he still looks like the monster I remember.
My chest tightens.
My throat burns.
My hands shake.
Part of me wants to run.
Part of me wants to scream.
Part of me wants to claw his face off.
I don't give him direct eye contact — if I did, I'd probably break down.
"How can I help you, miss?" he asks with a southern accent.
He doesn't recognize me.
Good.
Let him think I'm just another stranger.
"Do you have an office we can talk in? It's important," I say.
He nods and leads me down a hallway. Every step feels heavier. My legs feel like cement. My heart feels like it's trying to claw out of my chest.
He opens a door to a small office.
It's depressing.
The walls are a dull yellowish white, stained near the corners. A single buzzing fluorescent light flickers overhead. The desk is metal, scratched, with a cheap computer sitting on top. A stack of papers leans dangerously to one side. There's a chair for me — hard plastic, uncomfortable, probably older than me. The air smells like dust and stale sweat.
I sit down.
He closes the door.
The click of the lock makes my stomach drop.
He sits across from me, leaning back like he owns the room.
"What do you want, Molly?" he says.
My blood runs cold.
He remembers me.
"What the fuck?" I whisper under my breath.
"I asked you a question. Are you deaf?" he snaps. "What do you want? I haven't seen you in sixteen years. Why show up now? You need money? Or do you want more of me?"
My heart stops.
He said it so casually.
Like it was normal.
Like it was nothing.
I stare at him, disgusted and stunned. My throat tightens, but anger pushes through the fear.
"I don't need money, and I sure as hell don't want to fuck you. I was six years old when you touched me, you cunt‑sucking piece of shit!" I yell in his face and spit on him.
He wipes his cheek slowly, eyes narrowing.
"Little girl, you wanted that night," he says, leaning closer. "I'm sure you want it now too. Don't play dumb."
My skin crawls.
My stomach flips.
I want to claw his eyes out.
"Listen, James," I say, voice shaking with rage. "Three of my friends were murdered. I want to find out who did it, and I need your help. Unless you want me telling every cop in this building that you're a pedophile who loves little girls."
His jaw tightens.
"Fine. What do you need? I'm not a detective. I don't have much access. And I don't know anything about who killed your stripper friends."
I narrow my eyes.
How does he know they're strippers?
Whatever — not the priority right now.
I give him minimal details and tell him to check the computer for anything Detective Daniels knows.
He pulls up the files.
All three girls were stalked by a faceless man. Street cameras caught him standing in shadows, following them for about a week. He also tells me they were raped — but the killer used protection.
Their hands were tied with rope.
They were gagged.
He penetrated them with a knife first, then had sex with them.
Afterward, he killed each girl differently.
He wore full coverage — no hair, no fingerprints, nothing left behind.
Whoever killed them is a professional.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
Which is even scarier, because it means he could be anyone.
How the hell are the cops — or even me — supposed to find out who he is?
And who's next?
I leave the station feeling sick. When I get home, I shower. I scrub myself so hard I don't even realize I'm rubbing my skin raw. Everything feels dirty. Everything feels wrong.
The best thing I can do now is talk to the girls at work. Figure out who was following them. And follow them myself if I have to. I just have to be careful not to get caught.
Or I'm next.
When I get to work, I tell the girls to meet me in the bathroom — no cameras in there. I tell them everything I learned and ask if anyone has experienced the same thing.
Sunshine steps forward, shaking.
She says she noticed a man following her. And last night, he told her, "Your last day on earth will be coming to an end soon."
She was terrified.
She didn't want to go home.
She felt like there was nowhere to hide — like he could find her anywhere.
I hug her and tell her we'll find the bastard. That she doesn't have to worry.
I follow her for a few days, trying to catch him. But he's nowhere. Not a shadow. Not a glimpse. Nothing.
So I stop following, thinking he's hiding.
That night, Sunshine calls me.
"Molly… come to my apartment… he's here—"
A scream rips through the phone.
The call drops.
Fuck.
He got her.
I sprint out of my house and run to her place — thank God she lives close. Her door is broken open. I rush inside.
There's a trail of blood.
I follow it.
And then I see her.
Sunshine is on her kitchen floor, naked.
Her body twisted unnaturally.
Her eyes half‑open but empty.
Her mouth slack.
Her skin pale.
Her hair spread out like she fell fast and hard.
The man is on top of her.
His pants are pulled down.
He's fucking her like she's not even human.
Like she's just a thing.
Her hands are tied with rope.
Bruises circle her neck.
Her thighs are mottled with dark marks.
And on the floor next to her…
Her ear.
My stomach lurches.
My chest tightens.
My throat burns.
My thoughts spiral so fast I feel dizzy.
I feel guilt.
I feel rage.
I feel horror.
I feel helplessness.
I feel like I failed her.
I scream — loud, raw, desperate — hoping someone hears.
I run at him, fueled by pure adrenaline. I hit him, scratch him, claw at him. My nails dig into his sleeve — the fabric thick and rough — and I claw so hard I feel it tear. The sleeve rips open under my nails, exposing his arm.
He jerks back, surprised I'm fighting this hard.
I grab his arm again, digging my nails into his skin.
He grunts — the first sound he's made.
He shoves me, but I grab him again.
I claw deeper.
I feel skin.
I feel warmth.
I feel him flinch.
He punches me in the face so hard my ears ring.
I stumble but grab him again.
He yanks his arm away — the sleeve ripping even more.
And that's when I see it.
A scar.
Long.
Jagged.
Fresh enough to still look angry.
He sees me looking.
He freezes.
Then he grabs me by the hair, slams me against the fridge, and punches me again. My head hits the counter. I collapse to the floor.
My vision blurs.
Darkness creeps in.
My body feels heavy.
My thoughts scatter.
The last thing I see is that scar.
Burned into my memory.
Then everything goes black.
---
Darkness is quiet.
Darkness listens.
Darkness waits.
She fought harder than the others.
She clawed.
She screamed.
She touched me.
She saw the scar.
She shouldn't have.
But she won't remember everything when she wakes up.
Not yet.
I step over her body, calm, steady, patient.
She's next.
But not tonight.
Tonight…
I want her to wonder.
I want her to shake.
I want her to read the diaries again and again and again.
I want her to feel me in every shadow.
Soon.
Very soon.