Page 157 of Somno Slave

MERCY.

MERCY.

But I’m fixated on the robe. It is spotless. The only thing untouched by rage.

I check the notes unwillingly.

Father Lucien Marek.

Clergy.

I feel sick. I flip another page too quickly.

And freeze.

THERAPIST.

The word sits cleanly at the top of the report.

My body goes completely still. There’s no photograph attached yet, no crime scene. Just a missing person’s report paperclipped loosely to the file.

Dr Dahlia Reynes.

Clinical psychotherapist.

Last seen three days ago.

A cold wave moves slowly down my spine.

His victims were not random. They were doctors, historians, clergy.Therapists.

My breathing turns shallow. And suddenly I understand something so awful my stomach physically clenches around it.

He has been hunting people like me.

The room feels smaller now.

Hotter.

My eyes flick instinctively toward the blackened glass beyond the viewing room. Even knowing he cannot see me through it, something inside me still recoils like he somehow can.

A noise sounds behind me.

My heart nearly stops.

I jerk upright so fast the photographs slide half off the desk.

Footsteps. Coming closer.

My hands move desperately now, shoving photographs back into place, pulse hammering so violently I can barely breathe around it.

The folder slams shut.

The key—fuck—where is—

My fingers close around the cold metal just as the handle outside shifts slightly. I push the cabinet shut fast, other hand already sliding the key under the mat.

I stop breathing entirely. The footsteps pause outside the door.