Page 73 of Savagely Scarred

Those dreams never ended with her in them. The last time I had nightmares about her was months ago after she was taken from me. Tortured, panic inducing dreams that refused to fuck off. And now my subconscious wants to combine the two worst moments of my life.

Well, fuck me.

I pull her closer when my breathing and pulse slow down. She throws an arm and leg over me and sighs with contentment. Grazing her arm with a finger, I absentmindedly draw patterns on her soft skin.

I’m going to need some answers soon. About Kyle. About this serial killer—if it is him or someone completely new on the chess board. Olivia doesn’t believe it is, but I’m not convinced. It’s one of the reasons I chose this weekend to visit my parents. The murders keep happening on the weekends—the same days she runs in the park.

I hate putting her on a leash, but what else am I supposed to do to protect her? I failed her last time, as much as she argues that I didn’t. If I had been more cautious about her brother, I could have prevented the whole situation.

Memories come back of Liv and I in the hallway at my apartment. When I tried to help her through her grief. The ‘what ifs’ really do eat you alive. I need to take my own advice. Or I’m going to have a heart attack before I turn thirty-four. The same age my father was when he died. How poetic that would be.

I stare at the ceiling of my second childhood home for what feels like hours before giving up on sleep. Carefully, I slide out from under Liv and throw on a pair of gym shorts before creeping downstairs.

My mom is already awake and sitting in the breakfast nook. She looks up from her book and motions to the coffee pot with the mug in her other hand.

“Morning,” I greet, my voice still raspy.

“You look like shite,” she quips.

I laugh silently, pouring the creamer into my mug. After placing it back into the fridge, I sit down across from her at the table.

“Dreams still?”

I nod while sipping my coffee. “Liv was in it this time.”

She lays her book down and focuses all her attention on me. “How did she fare last night?”

Running my fingers through my hair, I scoff. “Better than me.”

“She’s a strong girl. But she also took the necessary steps to overcome it.” She gives me a pointed look.

I tap my fingers on my chest. “This pain… this guilt… it’s eating me alive. And I don’t think I can go through that again.”

“You can’t control the outcome to everything, Will. You’re stubborn, just like your father. You refuse to accept that some things are meant to tear you apart. Because somewhere along the way, you’ll get put back together into a better version of yourself. We’re human. We learn from our mistakes and we move on. You’re just struggling with that part.”

“I can’t move on until he’s dead. Prison won’t be good enough to give us peace either. He doesn’t even deserve Hell.” I set my mug down and stare into it. “I’m fucking scared.” I swallow hard and look back up at her. “I can’t live without her.”

She gives me a reassuring smile and squeezes my hand. “Then it’s a good thing you decided to keep her.” She winks at me before letting go.

Mom’s subtle reminder of what she gave me that hides inside the suitcase upstairs.

“Calloway. Sage.”

Commander Roberts jerks his chin toward his office door, and Liv closes it behind us. We sit in the chairs in front of his desk. He raises a brow at me and I nod, answering his silent question.

Yes, I told her that there’s a serial killer roaming the parks of the city and murdering people who look like her.

Roberts taps the manilla folder on his desk. “There was another one while you were away. This makes four now.”

Liv hesitantly reaches for the folder and pauses, her fingers hovering over it.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

She clenches her teeth and nods, sliding it in front of her and opening it. Her eyes scan over the report pages on top. My gaze meets Roberts’ briefly before we watch Liv flip to the crime scene photos.

Pausing at the first one, she lightly brushes her fingers over the face of the woman. She flips to the next, and her eyes shift frantically over the image. Her breathing picks up when she inspects the third picture. When she gets to the fourth of the woman from last week—the one whose face was smashed in, she slams the folder shut and leans back in her chair.

“Who knew I had so many doppelgangers,” she jokes, but her voice wavers.