I watched the blood run for thirteen minutes.
Each second was measured,not with a clock, but with the slow, rhythmic beat of the metronome I placed on the stool. Tick. Tick. Tick. It calmed me more than prayer ever did. God never answered when I screamed. But the tick… it listened. And in its silence, I became whole again.
He twitched twice after the final cut. Jared Linwood. That was his name, though it meant nothing to me beyond the letters I needed. He screamed at first, like they always do. But they all grow quiet once they understand that this...this...isn't just about death.
It's about order.
The way the blade slides beneath skin when there's no resistance. The way the arteries open like delicate blossoms. Artifacts of humanity's fragile design. I don't rush these moments. They are sacred.
I remember touching his cheek after he stopped moving. He wept without dignity, without restraint. The final seconds of life always reveal truth. Not the lie people wear in suits, or in church pews. But the raw, twitching truth that oozes from every pore once they know they're not leaving the room.
He called out for someone. Miranda? Melinda? It doesn't matter. No one came.
I carved the S into his abdomen slowly. Cleanly. My hand didn't shake. That matters. Precision is everything. His skin stretched like damp parchment, and I felt the same satisfaction I'd felt only once before ...years ago.
The first one.
But that's another memory.
I cleaned the space, like I always do. Took nothing. Left only what she needs to see.
Mara Veil.
The name tastes metallic in my mouth.
She is the reason I returned.
I watched her for months,through the lens, through newspaper clippings, through my own eyes. I watched her hold her badge like a blade. I watched her pretend not to flinch when the world showed her its rot. But I know her better than that. I know the nightmares that thread through her spine. I know the case she buried a decade ago. She calls it closed. I call it unfinished.
We were always unfinished.
I stood in the shadows as she descended the stairs into my chapel. I watched her pause, felt the shift in her breath as she saw the body. She knew. Maybe not the whole picture, not yet,but the thread tugged, didn't it, Mara?
Did your skin prickle when you saw the carving?
Did your pulse spike when you found the photo?
Did you recognize my voice in the silence?
I almost stepped out then. Almost let her see me. But it's too soon. The music hasn't reached its crescendo. And there are still letters to carve.
I left her the envelope. The first one. Inside: a poem. Not one I wrote, of course,no, I borrowed it from a child's diary. I doubt Mara will remember the girl. But I do. I remember every one of them.
It's not about revenge.
People always assume it's vengeance. They don't understand the design. This is evolution. Cleansing. A masterpiece written not in ink, but in sinew.
When I returned to the apartment,my day self,I scrubbed the red from beneath my fingernails with bleach. It burned. I smiled. The pain was a reminder. A tether.
I keep the metronome in my closet when I'm not using it. It's old, older than I am, with cracks in the wood and brass that sings under candlelight. It once belonged to a woman whose heartbeat I counted for fifteen minutes before she died. Her metronome was her only possession. She said it reminded her of time. I told her that was all any of us were made of.
Flesh and time.
And secrets.
I have them all cataloged now. Every victim. Every letter. The sequence is important. If done wrong, the message means nothing. But if done right...ah. Then she'll see.
Not just Mara. Everyone.
They'll understand that this isn't just murder. This is resonance.
I stood in front of the wall in my second space,the one I never enter unless I need to plan. It's behind a false panel, beneath a bookstore where no one reads anymore. I like the smell there: paper and ash.
The wall is covered in photos. Not just victims. Mara. Her colleagues. Her routines. I know what she eats for lunch,when she eats. I know what music she listens to in her car. She plays the same track twice if she's angry.
But there's more. There's a shadow in her. I see it.
It's the same shadow I carry.
She buried it after the Valentine case. Thought it would rot, disappear. But darkness doesn't rot, Mara. It festers. And it's alive.
I stare at her photo. Her eyes in it are cold. Focused. But I know they weren't always like that. There was a time they were soft. I have a photo of that, too.
A year before the killings began. A classroom. A hallway. A dropped book. Do you remember, Mara?
I do.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The next letter is E.
I know who it belongs to. She teaches dance now. Teaches children how to move. I watched her rehearse last week. Her name is Elise. She used to hum the same song Mara did in high school. I'm not sure if they remember each other.
But they will.
She will be the second confession.
I've already prepared the space.
I think I'll use mirrors this time.
I want Mara to see everything when she finds her.