The moment I step into the crime scene, I know something's different. It's not the usual chaos of flashing lights, the officers moving in and out, or the crime scene tape. It's the weight in the air. The palpable feeling that whatever's been left behind here isn't just for us to figure out—it's a message.
I kneel down beside Jack's body, my eyes scanning the familiar scene. The blood. The brutal mutilation. But it's the note that catches my attention—again, smeared across the pavement in Jack's own blood, like the killer was trying to communicate something too personal, too raw for anyone else to understand.
"I am not alone in my pain."
It's short, but it says so much. A confession, but not like the others. This one isn't just a statement about death or revenge. It's something more. There's a sense of longing here—like the killer is reaching out. Looking for something.
"Not alone in your pain..." I repeat the words under my breath, barely realizing Vera's standing beside me now, reading over my shoulder.
"Yeah, that's new," she says, her voice low and tense. "The other notes were all about the number, the Scarlet Confession. But this... this feels different. Like they're starting to talk to us."
I nod, trying to piece it together. "This killer's been pulling us in from the start. Every move, every step, has been like a twisted invitation. But now... it feels like they're not just sending us a message—they're trying to make us understand."
There's a moment of silence as I stare at the note, something gnawing at me. "I am not alone in my pain."
The killer is telling us they're not the only one suffering. That's the key. They want us to understand their pain. They want us to see that they've been hurt, and it's driving them to do this. It's not about random violence. It's about something deeper. Something personal.
The flashbacks come flooding in—my brother Damon, his loss, the pain I've carried all these years. I'd like to say I've buried it. That I've moved on. But in the quiet, when I'm alone with my thoughts, I realize I haven't. Maybe that's why this case feels so familiar. So damn close.
Vera watches me, like she can see the wheels turning in my head. "You okay, Miles?"
I don't answer at first. I need to get this right. I need to make this make sense.
Finally, I speak. "The trauma. The killer's not just acting out of rage—they're acting out of loss. I think what they're doing, the way they're killing, it's connected to someone who betrayed them. Someone close to them."
"Someone they loved," Vera adds quietly.
I don't look at her, but I feel the weight of her words. She's right. That's exactly it. The killer isn't just targeting random people at 25—they're searching for something. Someone. Something personal.
"This isn't about a number," I say, more to myself than to Vera. "It's about the pain. The feeling of being abandoned. Of being left behind by someone who was supposed to be there. The killer's not alone in their pain, and that's why they're doing this."
The more I think about it, the more I realize I'm close—so close—to figuring out what drives them. The connection is there. The loss. The betrayal. Whoever they were, whoever they loved, something happened to them at 25. A wound so deep that it's been festering ever since, guiding their every decision.
I stand up and wipe my hands on my jeans, suddenly feeling a sense of urgency. This is the clue we've been missing. The killer isn't just after revenge. They're after closure. They're looking for an answer to something they can't fix. And they believe that by killing people at this age, they're somehow reaching for redemption—or at the very least, to make the people they've lost feel the way they felt when they were betrayed.
I glance over at Vera, who's been quiet for a while now, absorbing what I've said.
"You think the killer had someone they loved who turned on them?" she asks.
"I think it's more than that," I reply, clenching my jaw. "I think they were betrayed. Someone close to them, someone they trusted... turned on them at 25. And now, the killer believes they can make it right by punishing others who are the same age. They want to relive that moment—whatever it was—and make it end differently."
Vera gives a small nod, like she's starting to understand. "And by killing these people, they're trying to get revenge for something that happened to them at 25. But they're also searching for redemption. Closure."
"Exactly," I mutter. "But it's twisted. It's like they think if they can make others suffer at 25, they can make the person who hurt them feel what they felt. Like they can rewrite their past."
A chill runs down my spine as I think about the killer's next move. The pattern is clear now, but it's still so elusive. This isn't just some random spree—this is a personal vendetta, a search for meaning in a world that's broken them.
And until I figure out who they're trying to make pay, this game is far from over.
I turn away from the scene, my mind racing. Whoever this person is, whatever they've been through—it's not over yet. I know the killer's out there, watching, waiting. And if I'm not careful, they'll find a way to make me feel that same pain.
Because that's what this is really about. They want us to understand. They want us to see it the way they do.
And right now, I'm not sure if I'm ready for that truth.