MRS. MURDER

MISS MURDER DUET

BOOK 2

ZIA RAYYAN

Copyright © 2025 by Zia Rayyan

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

1. Luna

2. Luna

3. Luna

4. Luna

5. Luna

6. Vincent

7. Luna

8. Luna

9. Vincent

10. Luna

11. Luna

12. Luna

13. Luna

14. Vincent

15. Luna

16. Luna

17. Luna

18. Vincent

19. Luna

20. Luna

21. Luna

22. Luna

23. Luna

24. Vincent

25. Luna

26. Luna

27. Luna

28. Luna

29. Vincent

30. Luna

31. Luna

32. Luna

33. Luna

34. Luna

35. Luna

36. Luna

Epilogue

Also by Zia Rayyan

About the Author

ONE

LUNA

"You've got the wrong guy."

Wait.

My fingers pause over the keys of the typewriter, the sudden silence in the basement leaving a void where the clicking had been. My face scrunches up in confusion. That wasn't right. Those weren't the words he'd said before Vincent caved his skull in.

I bring my finger to my mouth, chewing on my fingernail in concentration as I desperately try to remember his last words. There's a metallic taste, and it takes me a moment to realize that I'm not just tasting the blood in the air—there's a speck of it on my finger. It takes everything in me not to spit to the side. Don't want to leave evidence of DNA at a crime scene.

"Vincent?"

He looks up at me from where he's standing over the body, maintaining his position so I can perfectly capture the moment. "Yes?"

"What were the detective's last words?"

He pauses, his head tilting slightly like he's rewinding the memory. "’You've got it all wrong,’ I think."

I sigh. "No, that's not it either."

This is something I can come back to. I lean forward and make a small note in the margin of the page, then set my fingers back onto the typewriter, letting it to draw me back into the thrill of creation. The words flow easier when I don't overthink them. When I just let the violence and beauty of the moment guide my hands.

The detective's final words matter. They always matter. The last gasp of humanity before Vincent sends them into whatever comes next—it's the emotional center of my books. The thing that makes readers feel connected to the victim right before I shift their sympathy to the killer.

It's a delicate balance. One I've perfected.

I type faster.

The body slumped against the wall, eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the ceiling. One moment breathing, the next not. That's the thing about death—it doesn't announce itself with trumpets. It slips in quietly and takes what it wants.

Vincent moves behind me, his shadow stretching across the page as he wipes his hands clean. I don't stop typing. The words flow easier when the memory is still warm, still pulsing with an energy I can't quite name.

"Almost done?" he asks.

I nod, not looking up. The corrupt detective hadn't begged. I'll give him that much. He'd taken one look at Vincent's face and known exactly what was coming. Smart man. Not smart enough to avoid being racist and taking out his crowbar to beat a man to death, but smart in those final moments.

Vincent's hand rests on my shoulder, leaving a faint smudge on my cream-colored blouse. I should be disgusted. I should be terrified. Instead, I feel my pulse quicken with something dangerously close to excitement.

He leans in, his eyes dancing over my words. A beat later, he whispers against my ear. "Your writing has come such a long way."

He's right. Before him, my cursor blinked endlessly on empty documents. I was nothing but a fraud with a famous pen name. Now I'm something else entirely.

I finish the paragraph and glance at the man slumped in the corner. Detective Harris. That's what his badge says, anyway. I wonder if his family will miss him. I imagine not. The families of men like him usually knew what kind of man he really was, even if the rest of the world did not.

Vincent always chooses carefully. That's the agreement we've had since Val. Always someone who deserves it. Always someone whose absence might actually improve the world a little.

And most importantly, someone who couldn't be tied back to us.

"You know what I love about you, Luna?" Vincent asks, circling around to face me. "You don't flinch anymore. You used to."

He was being kind. I still flinch, but not so much from shock these days. It was always from the sudden rush of adrenaline pumping through my system.

I get how people can be addicted to sex and war and football. They’re all about conquering something with that adrenaline, and for me, I was conquering these words.

Each time, I was becoming more of a veteran. I could tell, because it was becoming easier. Each death brought new words, better ones. The paragraphs that flowed from my bloodspattered keys earned me more acclaim, more readers, more royalties.

It was as perfect a dream as I could ever have.

And it was all possible because of him. I look into Vincent's eyes, smiling at him as he kneels beside me and gazes upon me with something that can only be described as worship. He lifts his thumb and wipes away a droplet of blood from my cheek affectionately, sending a wave of warmth through my core.

Something about the look in his eyes spurs a moment of creation, and my mind fills with the click clack of the keys. My eyes shift from him back to the typewriter, wanting nothing more than to pull the words from my mind and cast it onto the page.

"I have something to ask you, Luna."

Silence.

The words disappear, the typewriter keys quieten, and all that I'm aware of is the sound of our breathing and the faint drip of something in the corner.

Vincent reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black velvet box. The top is stained with blood, from where it had soaked through his pants.

"I think you knew this was coming, but…" He opens the box. The diamond catches what little light exists down here, throwing prisms across the dead detective's face. "I think it's time we made this official."

I stare at the ring, then at Vincent, then at the cooling body three feet away. This twisted tableau should be enough to shock me back to sanity. Instead, I feel a dark thrill race through me.

"Would you be my Mrs. Murder?"

The whisper is soft, but it makes my heart pound in a way that it hasn’t for a long time.

Marriage to him, my partner in these murders, is stupid. And I know—I know—I should tell him no. There’s a reason they say to not date those you work with.

Instead, I grab his face and draw him into a deep kiss. I do it because deep down, I love him, and I know that just like I’d be willing to do anything for him, he’d do anything for me.

I can taste the promise of everything to come, all the life, death, and words we’ll share. It will be perfect. All of it.

I should have known then that the perfect things in life never last. That loving someone makes you vulnerable, weak to the world and all its cruel intentions. But in that moment, with blood on my blouse and him sliding the ring onto my finger, all I could think was: finally, I’m something more than just Miss Murder.

I’m Mrs. Murder.

I just didn’t realize that being a Mrs. meant more than loving, honoring, and cherishing.

I didn’t realize it meant killing.

TWO

LUNA

Unfortunately for me, aphantasia doesn't just go away.

That's why it's crucial I capture as much detail as possible at the murder site—every spray of blood, the expression on their faces, the things around them. I have to flesh out the scenes while they're still fresh, before they dissolve into fog.

No matter what anyone tells you, it's impossible to write an entire novel in one sitting.

The fastest I've ever heard of someone doing it was in three days—and they were drugged out of their mind. I like to imagine they weren't even writing at that point, just living inside the twisted world they'd built. The words simply spilled out as a side effect.

I don't do drugs. I like my body in working order.

But I do take photos—dozens of them—of the murders Vincent commits. They help me picture what I can't see. A whole series from our most recent kill, that crooked, retired detective, is splayed across my desk. Some, among them, have Vincent standing over the bodies, hands drenched in blood, a kind of dark light in his eyes.

I can’t help but think it’s beautiful, in its own macabre way.

My gaze catches on one photo, different from the rest. It’s the only one of me, taken just after Vincent proposed to me. I’m covered in blood spatter, my eyes are intense, filled with a certain look that I recognize as fascination. I’m sure someone else could argue it as fear or shock, but I know myself better than that.

This… it’s a side of me I’ve never seen before. More Miss Murder than any photo I’ve ever been in.

I should destroy it, I know it. But instead, I keep it for some future stroke of inspiration, and drop it into the bottom of my desk drawer rather than with the others.

Once that’s done, I return my attention to the others.

The images loosen something in me. They make the words fall like rain, heavy and fast. Hard to believe there was a time I couldn't get one word on the page. Now I find myself having to cut some.

After hours of writing, I lean back in my chair and exhale. My fingers throb. I lift my hands and flex them in front of my face. Typewriters fight you with every key. There’s no gentle gliding like on laptops.

I could switch to a laptop. It would be easier to handle around the murder sites. But something in me rebels at the idea. There's a purity to what I'm doing with the typewriter. The effort makes my words feel real. Earned.

I spin my leather chair toward the floor-to-ceiling window. Another perfect morning. The sky painted in soft blues and purples, a swan drifting lazily across my lake, like something out of a Disney movie.

A smile tugs at my lips as I remember how many times I'd stand here, nervously waiting for the words to arrive in their brown, enveloped package. Praying they'd come, dreading they wouldn't.

And all the while, the man behind the words lived just steps away. Well, not exactly. The words were Janice's. But Vincent directed them. Brought them to life. He was the blood and sweat behind the words, while Janice was the tears.

My smile fades. I try not to think about Janice—not because of what she did, but because thinking about her means thinking about Stephen.

My eyes drop to the table.

To my phone. All those missed calls and voicemails I still haven't opened.

Suddenly, I need to be away from here, from the suffocating draw of those notifications. I could block the number that keeps calling. I don't. Maybe because it feels somehow... wrong?

I shake my head, grab the scattered photos off the desk and lock them away in my new safe, hidden behind a bookshelf for exactly this purpose. Vincent and I don't often have guests, but the last thing I need is another Val situation—someone having power over not just my career, but my ability to provide for my mother.

Once they're safely tucked away, I walk down the hall toward the constant beep and drone coming from my mother's room. I push open the door gently. She's there, eyes fixed to the ceiling, as unmoving as the day I'd taken her home from the hospital.

"Morning, Mom. You're awake already?"

No answer. Never an answer.

I cross the room and take a seat next to her, glancing up at the bookshelf. All my old titles—the ones Janice wrote—replaced with new ones. Mine. A sense of pride swells in me now, knowing the words have come from my own fingers. I'd never gone as far as murdering for them, and I never would. That's what I have Vincent for.

My sweet, Mr. Murder.

"I have good news, you know." My smile broadens as I lift my finger, letting the diamond's sparkle dance across her face. So subtle I wonder if I'm imagining it, but I swear her breathing changes. Faster, like she's excited.

Or afraid.

I quiet, focusing on her breathing. But I'm getting in my head about it. There's no way my mother would be afraid of Vincent. He's been nothing but kind and loving toward her. Besides, he knows what she means to me.

He wouldn’t do anything to her.

“I know, I know, you probably want to hear all the details of how he did it. Where we were, what we were doing…” I lean in closer, tucking a straying strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, we were at this little restaurant—can’t remember the name. It was nice, but it wasn’t anything fancy.”

I lean forward enough for her to see me smiling, so that she can see the happiness on my face. I don’t have to force it. It’s genuine, despite the lie I’m spinning.

“We were halfway through dinner when he just stood up. Right there, in front of everyone. Got down on one knee.”

I pause, watching her face for any reaction. Nothing. I'm not sure why I expected any different. She has locked-in syndrome, and that isn't going to change.

“I almost said no. You know I’ve always hated the idea of public proposals, but… you should’ve seen his eyes. There was so much love in them.” That part was true, at least. “He leaned in and whispered something to me, something nobody else could hear.”

The only thing that would make these murders more beautiful is if we did it as husband and wife.

I clear my throat.

“He told me he’d love me til the day I die.”

The monitors beep steadily beside her bed.

I'm about to tell her more when my phone rings from the office. Not my regular ringtone. Not the one that’s been haunting me more and more frequently lately.

It’s the one I set for important calls.

I press a quick kiss to her forehead. "Sorry, Mom. I'll finish the story later."

I make my way back to the office at a brisk pace. The name on the screen flashes at me from across the room.

Alyssa Lake.

The ringing continues, insistent. Demanding.

I give a heavy sigh and groan. But I pick up the phone, because when Alyssa Lake calls, you don't ignore her.

"Luna Harrow. It has been such a long time."

Alyssa's voice bursts through the phone, sugary and bright in a way that grates against my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. It hasn't been that long. Seven months. I keep track by the number of bodies and books that have passed since her segment, The Truth About Miss Murder.

"Alyssa, it has been a while," I say while rolling my eyes. "What have you been up to?"

"Being my usual busy self, you know. I'm sure you've been watching me."

Unfortunately, there is some truth to that. Alyssa's shows are a great way to keep a pulse on the writing industry, seeing which authors are hot and which are not. She can be brutal, but she's useful in that way.

"Anyway, I'm not calling to waste either of our time. I just wanted to offer my sincerest congratulations!"

I blink, eyes flickering toward my diamond ring.

"Congratulations?" I ask.

How could she possibly know?

"Oh, come now, Luna. You haven't been on Momnt? You're trending again."

I put her on speaker and quickly open the app, seeing that #MissMurder is trending again. But thankfully, it's not for the same reason it trended last time—there's no big exposé from someone wanting to ruin me. Instead, it's trending because of a simple comment left on one of my book trailers.

I want to speak with you.

Dominic Reeves.

The director who's put out at least five box office best sellers this last decade alone. And they were all thrillers.

"Oh my god," I say, my body trembling with disbelief and excitement. Because for as big as I've gotten over the years, and for all the incredible heights I've reached in my career, there has been one thing that has always eluded me.

A book made into a movie.

Alyssa laughs from the other end. "That has been just about everyone’s reaction. We're all wondering... what book of yours will he choose?"

A sudden fear settles deep into me. I don't want him to choose one of the books that Janice wrote. It has to be one I wrote. The second I get off this phone, I have to reach out to him. Make sure that he doesn't have one of the old books in mind, and if he does, see if I can change his mind.

I pause.

"You know, don't you?"

I can feel her smirking from the other end. I hate her so much. But no matter how I felt that day of the The Truth About Miss Murder segment, I just can't bring myself to let her be my next inspiration. She's too high profile, and well, she's not really done anything to deserve it, as awful as she is.

"I might," she says, drawing out each word like she's savoring it. "But what matters is that Dominic knows. And I know Dominic."

Of course she does. Alyssa Lake knows everyone who matters.

"What exactly are you calling about, Alyssa?" I keep my voice level, trying to keep from convincing myself that she was someone I wanted Vincent to murder. "I doubt it's just to say congratulations."

She laughs, the sound crystalline and practiced. "You're right. I'm calling with an invitation. A proposition, really."

My fingers tighten around the phone. "I'm listening."

"The three of us—you, me, Dominic—we're going to create something unprecedented." Her voice drops to that confidential tone she uses when she wants viewers to lean in closer to their screens. "Not just a book-to-movie adaptation. A cultural phenomenon."

I say nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“Dominic’s vision is… expansive. But it’s something that will make you an icon, someone who will⁠—”

“You’re not going to tell me anything more over the phone, will you?”

If I thought that interrupting her would throw her off her game, then I’d be sorely disappointed. She doesn’t even hesitate, flowing into a response, like she expected it the whole time.

“And ruin the excitement Dominic has to tell you himself? You know me better than that, Luna. Anyway, this Saturday, there is going to be a literary gala at the Baxter Hotel. Very exclusive. Everyone who matters will be there.” She pauses for effect. “Including me. And Dominic.”

I roll my eyes again. “I can make that work.”

“Excellent.” She sounds genuinely pleased. Maybe even excited. “Wear something memorable. Bring some candy on your arm, if you know what I mean. This is just the beginning, Luna. We’re going to make history together.”

Before I can ask which of my books caught his eye, she's already saying, "I have to run. Another author to call, another segment to prepare for. See you Saturday!"

The line goes dead.

I set the phone down carefully, like it might explode if handled too roughly. My mind races with possibilities. A movie deal. A collaboration with Dominic Reeves.

And somehow... Alyssa Lake.

The price of fame, I suppose.

I hear Vincent's footsteps in the hallway before I see him. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with those dark, observant eyes. My eyes run over him, taking in the flexed forearms, and all I can think is how attractive he is. Warmth spreads like fire through my core, and I have to remind myself... this man is going to be my husband.

"Who was that?" he asks.

"Alyssa Lake."

A brow lifts. "What does she want?"

"It seems that I might be having a movie made."

Vincent's lips curve into that slow, dangerous smile I've come to love. He crosses the room and leans down, his mouth close to my ear.

"How perfect," he whispers. "We'll need to find just the right inspiration."

As his hand slides over mine, I know exactly what kind of inspiration he means.

Some stories demand blood. And Hollywood has always loved a killer ending.

THREE

LUNA

I check my reflection in the mirror. Piercing, cold blue eyes stare back at me. The eyes of a femme fatale, a woman who writes murder and knows it intimately.

Before Vincent, before the great revelation—as he so likes to call that day I wrote my first words—I'd always felt like a fraud when I came out in public like this. But now, I feel more Miss Murder than ever before.

Mrs. Murder.

I correct myself with a satisfied smile. I drop the handheld mirror, tucking it away in the black bag that matches my slim black dress, the fabric hugging my figure in a way that's both elegant and intimidating. Next to me, Vincent wears an expensive tuxedo, tailored specifically for this event.

Truth be told, I wasn't sure what to expect of a "literary gala." From previous experience, most author events I'd been to were full of people who'd rather shoot themselves than dress up. Many of them had spent a lifetime dreaming of giving up their suits so they could lounge about in sweats and oversized t-shirts.

But when our driver pulls up to the event, and I see the line of cameras and paparazzi outside the hotel, I know that this is the real deal. Vincent gets out, ignoring the sudden flash of cameras and the onrush of a thousand voices, all clamoring over one another to have their questions answered.

He rounds the car and opens my door, helping me out.

It occurs to me how much I've grown in these last seven months. The Luna Harrow before would have spent a few more minutes in the car, trying to pull on the mask of Miss Murder. But now, it seems that things are finally aligning. My two identities are merging, just as they should have been from the start.

I look over the crowd, letting them get pictures of me and Vincent. It takes them a moment to notice the diamond ring on my finger, but when they do, a flurry of flashes announces their excitement.

A woman steps up to my side, leaning in close enough for me to hear her over the crowd.

"Let's get you inside. It's about to rain."

I glance up, and sure enough, the night sky has darkened, clouds pressing down like a threat. I give her my thanks and follow her along the red carpet, Vincent's hand at the small of my back, warm and possessive.

The cameras keep flashing behind us, capturing the image they think matters—Miss Murder's glamorous arrival. They have no idea that the real story is the blood beneath my manicured nails, and the man whose hand guides me forward.

They have no idea what makes a real bestseller.

The Baxter Hotel's grand ballroom opens before us like something from another era. Crystal chandeliers scatter light across the room, a myriad of colors dancing across the marble below. The ceiling arches high overhead, painted with scenes from classic literature—a detail that doesn't escape me.

Inside, the crowd is different from the paparazzi frenzy outside. Here, the wealthy and influential move with practiced ease, champagne flutes dangling from manicured fingers, conversations flowing in carefully measured tones. Authors, publishers, social media influencers—all dressed in their finest, playing the part of royalty for one glittering night.

"This isn't what I expected," I murmur to Vincent.

Vincent chuckles, and as a waiter glides by with a silver tray of champagne, he plucks two glasses, handing one to me. I take a sip, letting the bubbles burst against my tongue as I scan the room.

That's when I see her.

The crowd parts for Alyssa Lake, her presence commanding their attention and respect without even trying. Maybe it's because they know that she can make or destroy their careers with something so simple as a five-minute spotlight. And perhaps the only one she'd ever failed to have that control over was me.

She's wearing a deep burgundy dress that clings to her body in ways that even I have to admit are impressive. Her caramel hair is swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck and the diamonds adorning her ears.

She spots us and her smile widens—that camera-ready, perfect smile that's made her famous.

"Luna!" She air-kisses both my cheeks in a way that if you didn't know better, we'd never been enemies at all. "You look absolutely stunning."

"Thank you," I say, fighting the urge to step back from the overwhelming floral perfume that's working its way up my nose in an attempt to choke me. "So do you."

Her eyes slide to Vincent, lingering a beat too long on the breadth of his shoulders and the sharp line of his jaw. Something possessive flares in me.

"I said bring eye candy, but I didn't know you'd be bringing this," she says with a sly smile, extending her hand to him.

Vincent looks at her hand, and bless my future-husband, he lets her hand hang in the air for a long moment. Long enough to let her know that he belongs to me.

Then, out of respect for the setting, he takes it. "The famous Alyssa Lake. A pleasure to meet you."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine." Her eyes don't leave his face, even as she speaks. There's something predatory in her gaze that I recognize all too well.

I step closer to Vincent, my arm brushing against his. "Vincent and I are engaged."

Alyssa's gaze finally breaks from him, dropping to my hand where the diamond catches the light. Her eyes widen slightly—genuine surprise, not the practiced kind she uses for the cameras.

"Well," she says, recovering quickly. "That's certainly news. I wasn't even aware that you were in a relationship. Congratulations to you both."

"Thank you," Vincent says, his hand finding the small of my back again. "It's recent."

Alyssa's smile tightens just a fraction. "I know the world is going to be so curious about the proposal story."

She gestures toward two influencers walking together, their phones out, but their voices hushed. And sure enough, their phones are trained on me. I look away so that the cameras don't capture my disappointed sigh.

"Maybe we find some time together for a quick spotlight: Becoming Mrs. Murder. My, it has a special ring to it, don't you think?"

"It'll be tough to do, given my tight book schedule. But maybe."

Alyssa's smile tightens just a fraction. "Of course. Well, more important things to focus on anyway. Dominic is waiting for us. Shall we?"

She leads us through the crowd, occasionally stopping to introduce us to names I recognize from bestseller lists. Vincent remains at my side, steady and watchful, his hand never leaving my back.

We approach a corner of the room where a man stands alone, gazing out a floor-to-ceiling window at the city lights below. Even from behind, there's something compelling about him. When he turns, I understand why Dominic Reeves is known for getting exactly what he wants.

He isn't traditionally handsome. His face has too many angles, his eyes set too deep. But there's an intensity to him that's magnetic—the look of someone who sees more than others, who creates worlds from nothing.

"Dominic," Alyssa says, her voice dropping to an intimate tone. "I'd like you to meet Luna Harrow and her fiancé, Vincent."

His dark eyes find mine, and for a moment, I feel like he can see right through me—past the dress, past the makeup, past the carefully constructed persona. It's unsettling.

Then he smiles, and the spell breaks.

"Miss Murder," he says, his voice surprisingly soft. "I've waited a long time for this meeting."

I blink in surprise. "You have?"

“Oh yes, I have been eyeing your work for a while now. And you never fail to draw me into your fascinating worlds. If you forgive my boldness, I like to think that we come from the same cut of cloth."

My lips spread in a genuine smile at the high compliment. Dominic Reeves is the most decorated film director to come along in a long time, and for him to think so highly of me, well... it's flattering.

"And Vincent, was it?" He extends his hand toward Vincent.

"That's right," Vincent says confidently. "You do great movies."

Dominic laughs, "I'm glad to hear you're a fan."

Vincent smiles back, before turning to me. "I'll leave you to discuss business. Dominic, Alyssa, it's been great meeting you. Hopefully I get to see you both again soon enough."

Vincent leaves us then, heading for the appetizers. I watch him go, feeling grateful that he knew this was my domain, just as I knew that the murders were his domain. That’s part of what makes us so good together. We know where the boundaries are, and we don’t make any attempt to blur them.

I turn back toward Dominic, taking another sip of my drink. "What kept you from reaching out then?"

His brow raises as his gaze flickers from me to Alyssa. "The infamous controversy. Truth be told, I wasn't sure you were going to survive it. But the fact that you did, and in the way you did, it only made me want to work with you all the more."

A waiter passes by and Dominic passes the man his glass, before clapping his hands. His eyes light up in excitement.

"Now, if you'll forgive my brevity, I'm eager to discuss. What has Alyssa shared with you?"

"Not much. Only that you wanted to adapt one of my books into a movie, and that you wanted to do it in a way that was... unprecedented?"

The corner of his mouth lifts, "Close, but not quite right."

I tilt my head, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I don't want to adapt one of your existing books, Luna," he says, leaning in slightly. "I want us to create something entirely new together."

My heart skips a beat. "New?"

"Yes. Something fresh. Something we build together from the ground up."

My pulse quickens, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Something that wouldn't have Janice's fingerprints all over it. An accomplishment that could be entirely my own.

"And what exactly is your role in this?" I ask Alyssa.

"I'll be documenting the entire process," she says, that polished smile never faltering. "Think about it, Luna—the creative journey of Miss Murder, from concept to screen. It's genius."

It sounds dangerously close to reality TV.

I hate the idea.

And it would never work. I couldn’t exactly have Alyssa and Dominic standing over my shoulder as I sit at my typewriter, with Vincent caving some bastard’s head in.

"This isn't what you're thinking," Dominic says, reading my expression. "This is a dark, visceral thriller unlike anything that's been done before. Alyssa is here to ensure the world knows exactly what they're getting—a collaboration that breaks all the rules."

His passion is infectious, his vision clear and compelling. But I want to hear more.

“Aside from the fact that I’m doing as well as I am, I want to know something.” I say. “Why me? There are, after all, other great thriller writers.”

"None with your... perspective," he says. "Your work has a raw authenticity to it. Especially your most recent books." He leans in closer. "It's like you're channeling something primal. Something real."

I swallow hard, fighting to maintain my composure. If only he knew how real it was.

"I want that energy," he continues. "That unflinching look into darkness. We could create something extraordinary together."

Before I can respond, Alyssa's phone chimes. She glances at it and sighs dramatically.

"I hate to do this, but I need to step away for a moment. Network emergency." She rolls her eyes as if to say, what can you do? "You two continue without me. I'll be back shortly."

She glides away, leaving me alone with Dominic. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I sip my champagne, watching him over the rim of my glass.

“If you’re worried about Alyssa’s contribution, then you should know she is here for marketing, and for that alone.”

I smile. “You’re incredibly perceptive, do you know that?”

“I know,” he smiles back. He nods toward my ring. “Congratulations on your engagement, by the way.”

"Thank you."

"Vincent seems... devoted."

Something about the way he says it makes me uneasy.

"He is," I reply, perhaps too quickly.

Dominic's gaze shifts to where Vincent stands across the room, charming a group of publishing executives with whatever story he's spinning. From here, I can see their rapt expressions, the way they lean in to catch his every word.

"It's an interesting dynamic," Dominic says casually. "The way he’s willing to support your career."

"What do you mean?"

He shrugs, the gesture almost too casual. "Just an observation. Some artists need that steady presence in their lives. Others find it... limiting."

"Vincent isn't limiting," I say, an edge creeping into my voice.

"Of course not," he says smoothly. "I didn't mean to imply that." He pauses. "It's just that I've seen it before. Success creates a certain tension. People cling to what's familiar, even when it might be holding them back."

"And you think Vincent is holding me back?" The words come out sharper than I intended.

He meets my gaze evenly. "I think sometimes success can feel like a cage, Luna. The higher you climb, the smaller the cage becomes. People expect certain things. They want you to stay within the lines they've drawn for you." He gestures around the room. "All this? It's just another set of bars."

I laugh dismissively, though the sound rings hollow even to my ears. "You make it sound like I'm a prisoner. I assure you, I'm doing exactly what I want to be doing."

"Are you?" He doesn't look convinced. "Or are you doing what's expected of you now? The books, the appearances, the marriage—all steps on a carefully constructed path."

"My relationship with Vincent has nothing to do with my work," I say, though the words taste like a lie.

Dominic's expression softens. "I'm not talking about just your relationship, Luna. I'm talking about all of it. The whole machinery that's built up around you since your first success." He leans in, his voice dropping. "When was the last time you wrote something purely for yourself? Something that scared you? Something you weren't sure would be accepted?"

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. The truth is, I've never written anything purely for myself. Not really. Before Vincent, before my strikes of inspiration, I couldn’t. But even now, I stick to the path Vincent paves with his murders. I write what sells. What my readers expect. What keeps the money flowing and my mother cared for.

"That's what I thought," Dominic says softly, not unkindly. "That's why I want to work with you, Luna. Not just to adapt what you've already done, but to help you break free. To create something that doesn't fit the mold."

I shake my head, covering my uncertainty with another laugh. "You make it sound like I'm trapped in some kind of creative prison. I can assure you, I'm quite happy with where I am."

"Of course you are," he says, but there's something in his eyes—a knowing look that makes me feel exposed. "All I'm saying is that there might be more for you beyond what you've settled for. Beyond what you've been told you can be."

His words strike a chord, touching something buried deep inside me—a question I've never allowed myself to ask. What if there is more? What if I could create something truly mine, without Vincent's "help"? What would that look like?

But the thought is too frightening, too destabilizing. I push it away.

"I appreciate your concern," I say, forcing a smile, "but I'm exactly where I want to be. Vincent supports my work completely."

And in more ways that Dominic will ever know.

Dominic studies me for a moment, then nods, accepting my deflection. "Well, if you ever change your mind, the offer stands. I think we could make something spectacular together."

I'm saved from responding by Alyssa's return. She sweeps back into our conversation with a flurry of apologies and exclamations about network executives who can't tie their own shoes without her.

"So," she says brightly, "have you two ironed out the details? When do we start?"

Dominic's gaze lingers on me, that unsettling perception still in his eyes. "We're still discussing possibilities. Luna needs time to consider."

"Consider?" Alyssa looks between us. "What's there to consider? This is the opportunity of a lifetime!"

"It's a big commitment," I say, grateful for the shift in focus. "I need to talk it over with Vincent, look at my schedule. After all, I’m getting married.”

"Of course, of course," Alyssa waves a hand dismissively. "But don't take too long. Offers like this don't come along every day, even for Miss Murder."

Her words are light, but the warning beneath them is clear. Say yes, or watch this chance disappear.

"Give me a week," I say, meeting Dominic's gaze again. "I'll have an answer for you then."

He smiles, a genuine smile that transforms his angular face into something almost beautiful. "Take all the time you need. This isn't something to rush into."

As if on cue, Vincent appears at my side, his hand finding its familiar place on my back. "Everything going well?"

"Just wrapping up," I say, leaning into him slightly. "Mr. Reeves was just telling me about his vision for a new collaboration. Something original, not based on any of my existing books."

Vincent's expression doesn't change, but I feel his hand tense against my back. "Is that so? Interesting."

Dominic extends his hand to Vincent. "It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope we'll be seeing more of each other soon."

"Likewise," Vincent says, his voice perfectly pleasant even as his grip on me tightens.

As we say our goodbyes and make our way toward the exit, I can feel Vincent's question burning between us, unspoken but pressing.

It isn't until we're in the car, the privacy screen up between us and the driver, that he finally asks.

"What exactly does he want you to write?"

I turn to face him, the diamond on my finger catching the passing streetlights. "Something new. Something raw and visceral, he said."

Vincent's expression darkens. "And what did you tell him?"

"That I needed time to think about it."

He nods slowly, his gaze turning to the window where raindrops have begun to slide down the glass, distorting the city lights beyond.

I study his profile, the sharp cut of his jaw, the careful blankness of his expression. I can feel how tense he is.

Dominic's words echo in my mind.

Sometimes success can feel like a cage.

But I push the thought away. Vincent isn't my cage. He's my partner. My inspiration. My future husband. And if his hand feels just a little too tight on mine as we drive through the rain-slicked streets, well, that's just his way of showing how much he cares.

Isn't it?

FOUR

LUNA

Nobody ever told me wedding planning would be this stressful.

The photos are splayed out in front of me, but this time, they’re not of blood or bodies or inspiration. They’re of wedding venues.

My fingers dig into my scalp as I lean over the table of my usual booth in my favorite café. The scent of coffee wraps around me. The low hum of chatter fades into the background, drowned out by the relentless drone in my head.

If I make the wrong choice, I’ll regret it forever. I know that.

With a sigh, I push aside two of the options, leaving three left to consider. None of them are cheap, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve got plenty of money. It’s the experience I’m unsure about.

Did I want a countryside wedding with barns and fairy lights, or something upscale and elegant, full of champagne flutes and string quartets? Then, of course, there’s the third option—one I think Vincent would like: a wedding abroad. Fly everyone out to a beautiful resort, say our vows by the sea.

It wouldn’t be hard. We didn’t exactly have many guests. Neither of us had much family—just my mother—and we were both a little too obsessed with our work to collect real friends.

That’s the thing about authors. Eventually, most of your friends end up being the ones living inside your head. They stick around until you’re ready to murder your darlings. Unfortunately, they don’t make great wedding guests.

“Excuse me?”

I jump, startled. A young boy, maybe eleven, stands beside my table, his mother behind him, her hands gently resting on his shoulders.

“Yes?”

He looks nervous, glancing up at his mom. She gives him an encouraging nod and a warm smile—the kind of smile that hurts to see. The kind that reminds me of the way my mother used to look before Locked-In Syndrome stole everything from her.

“Go on,” his mother urges gently.

He clears his throat. “Um… you’re Miss Murder, right?”

I smile and lean back. “I am.”

It’s like the clouds part in his expression. A grin breaks through. “I love your books!”

A surprised laugh escapes me. “Do you now?”

“He’s already read through all the YA stuff in his school library, and then he found you,” the mother says, pride softening her voice. “You’re a big reader, aren’t you?”

The boy nods enthusiastically up at her, then turns back to me with wide eyes. I smile.

“What’s your favorite book?” I ask.

“Keep Your Lies,” he says without hesitation.

That’s the one inspired by Val’s death. The book I released the night before Alyssa’s segment—The Truth About Miss Murder. My gaze shifts from the boy to his mother. I wonder if she knows her son might have the psychopathic gene. It’s a little unnerving, seeing someone so young obsessed with something so brutal.

“Um, can I get an autograph?”

“Of course,” I say, reaching for a pen. I usually keep one handy—for marking manuscripts or crossing out lines that don’t feel quite right. I still don’t understand how Janice managed to write these books with barely a grammatical error. Me, I always end up with a stray period, an extra space, or butchering the spelling of a word I’ve known since fifth grade.

It mostly happens when I’m in the thick of it—writing fast, adrenaline rushing, blood (fictional or otherwise) spattering everywhere. In that context, I think I’m doing pretty well for myself.

The boy pulls Keep Your Lies from his backpack and slides it onto the table. I smile, open the front cover, and begin to sign.

My phone lights up. A familiar number flashes across the screen.

“Shit.”

The boy flinches, and his mother frowns.

“Is everything okay?” she asks gently.

“Huh?” I glance up. They’re both watching me, brows creased with concern. I try to shake off the icy chill crawling up my spine, but the ringing pounds in my ears like a pickaxe. “Sorry. Just got distracted.”

I finish the signature, making sure to get the boy’s name and scribble my usual heartfelt message—one I’ve used for most signings lately. By the time I set the pen down, the call’s gone to voicemail.

The mother gives me a grateful smile, clearly about to go, until she notices the wedding venue photos on the table.

“Oh! I didn’t realize you were getting married. Congratulations,” she says brightly.

“Thanks,” I reply, offering a polite smile. But we both know she saw the ring the moment she walked over. She’s just making conversation now. This is the awkward part—where they should say goodbye, and I should go back to my overpriced cappuccino, my headache of a caller, and the impossible task of choosing a wedding venue.

I tap the cap back onto the pen and slide it into my bag, offering them both another smile. It’s gentle, professional, the kind that says thank you but also goodbye.

“Well,” I say, lifting my coffee with both hands, “enjoy the rest of your morning. And keep reading, okay?”

The boy nods like it’s a solemn vow. His mother beams, looping an arm around his shoulder.

“We will. Thank you again. And best of luck with the wedding. Any of these”—she gestures at the table—“would be stunning.”

“Thank you,” I echo, this time with a little more finality.

She gets the message.

With one last smile, they turn and head for the door, the boy clutching his signed copy like it’s his most prized possession. I wait until they're gone, watching their backs as they weave between tables toward the exit. The door chimes as they leave. The sound is cheerful, jarring against the cold dread that's settled in my stomach.

My phone sits face-up on the table. The screen has gone dark, but the voicemail notification pulses at the top. I already know who it is. I've been dodging her calls for months now.

I should delete it. That's what I've been doing with all the others, doing my best to pretend the others don’t exist. But something about seeing that kid makes my finger hesitate over the delete button.

Against my better judgment, I press play and lift the phone to my ear.

"Luna, it's Melissa again." Stephen’s sister’s voice sounds thinner than the last time I’d spoken to her, however long ago that was. It’s stretched taut over exhaustion and grief. "Please… please call me back. The police aren't… they're not doing enough. It's been so long since anyone's seen him. I’m guessing…” Her voice cracks. “They say he’s moved, but it’s not like him to just disappear. So please. If you know anything, anything at all..."

She trails off, and for a moment, there's just the sound of her breathing ragged, like she's trying not to cry.

"I'm not accusing you of anything," she continues, quieter now. "I just need to know what happened to my brother. Please, Luna."

The message ends. I let the phone fall onto the table, my finger hovering over the delete button again. I should erase it. Push it away like I've done with all the others. But my hand doesn't move.

Behind me, the barista calls out another customer's order. Outside, a car horn blares. Life goes on, oblivious to the weight crushing my chest.

I stare down at the wedding venues. I'd been so focused on picking the perfect place, making sure everything was flawless. Vincent deserves that—a perfect day. After everything he's done for me, everything he's given me.

My gaze drifts back to the phone. Stephen’s sister’s number glows on the screen.

I’ve lost count of how many times she’s called, trying to get me to say something. The first few times, before I started to ignore her calls, I always gave her the same answer.

I can’t help you.

I press delete. Not because I don’t want to help—I wish I could—but because I know the truth would destroy us both.

Some things… some bodies are better left buried.

FIVE

LUNA

I’m dead tired by the time I pull into the driveway, the tires of my new Range Rover crunching over gravel. The door slams shut behind me as I exhale and make my way inside.

“Vincent?” I call, my voice echoing through the entrance as I slip off my jacket and kick off my shoes.

“In here!”

I follow the sound to my mother’s room, where Vincent stands over her with a gentle smile, administering what looks like pain medication.

“Hi, Mom. Bad day?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. She never does. But her eyes are pinched in that subtle way I’ve come to recognize—one only visible if you’ve memorized her face for years.

“Yeah, me too,” I murmur.

Vincent’s smile falters. He glances over at me. “Everything okay?”

I take a deep breath and let out a long, weary sigh. “Yeah, it’s just… stressful, you know?”

“What is?”

My gaze flicks from him to my mother. “Wedding venues,” I say. “So many choices. I bet you nearly pulled your hair out, huh, Mom? I imagine Dad wasn’t much help. Vincent isn’t either. Men are kind of useless when it comes to this sort of thing, aren’t they?”

Her eyes pinch again—sharper this time—and then they fill with tears.

Real tears.

They slip silently down her cheeks, cutting tracks across her still face. I gasp and sink into the chair beside her, grabbing her hand.

I can’t remember the last time I saw her cry.

Did mentioning Dad upset her that much? Or was it something else?

“Mom?” I whisper.

God, I wish she could answer me. More than anything, I wish I could hear her voice.

Vincent lowers himself into the chair on the other side of the bed, his expression just as stricken. He takes her other hand, and after a moment, the tears stop falling.

I rest my head against her arm and press my lips to her fingers. “I love you, Mom. Please don’t cry.”

“I would’ve liked to meet him, Madeline,” Vincent says quietly. “I bet he was a good man.”

She doesn’t respond to him either. Just keeps staring at that same fixed point on the ceiling, her gaze locked on something far beyond it.

I don’t know how long we sit there in silence, holding her hands in our awkward, helpless attempts to comfort her. Moments like this remind me just how cruel life can be. I complain about stress, about choices, about trying to get everything right—but at least I can move. I can drive somewhere. I can order a cappuccino and pretend I’m fine.

I wonder how she copes.

Eventually, the tension in my mother's face eases. Her breathing slows, and her eyelids begin to droop until they finally close. The machine beside her bed continues its steady rhythm, the soft beeps punctuating the silence of the room.

I wait a few more minutes, my fingers still wrapped around hers, before I carefully set her hand back down on the blanket.

"She's asleep," I whisper, rising slowly from the chair.

Vincent nods, adjusting the blanket over her before following me out of the room. He leaves the door cracked open, just enough that we'd hear if anything changed.

In the hallway, he rolls his shoulders and runs a hand through his dark hair. "That was unexpected."

"I know," I say, leaning against the wall. "I haven't seen her cry in... I don't even know how long."

"Sometimes emotions find their way out, even when everything else is locked in." His voice is soft, thoughtful. He studies me for a moment. "I was thinking about your next book while you were out."

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

We move into the kitchen, and Vincent grabs two glasses from the cabinet, filling them with water. He slides one across the counter to me.

“But I know you’re thinking about the movie deal, with Dominic,” he says casually, but I don't miss the slight tension in his jaw.

I take a sip of water, avoiding his gaze. "I really haven’t been thinking about it much."

"Maybe you should." He leans against the counter, watching me. "I was thinking… what if we tried something different this time?"

There it is. I set the glass down, waiting.

"The single kills have worked well," he continues. "But for a movie? It might need more... scope."

"Scope," I repeat.

He nods, something eager flickering behind his eyes. "Multiple victims. A pattern. The kind of thing that would translate better to screen."

I know exactly what he's suggesting. Not just one murder for me to witness, but several. More death. More blood. More screams that will echo as I drown them out with the clacking of typewriter keys.

"What do you think?" he asks, reaching across the counter to take my hand.

I should protest. I should draw a line. But the thrill of pushing the fold is undeniable. I’ve been trapped by my own aphantasia for so long, that all I want to do is keep evolving. I never want to feel trapped again.

And when his fingers tighten around mine, and I can't help but remember how he gently held my mother's hand as she cried. How he's been there for both of us, when no one else was. How he's helped make me what I am.

"You're probably right. I bet Dominic would appreciate something more... cinematic."

Vincent's smile widens, his eyes lighting up with that look I've come to both love and fear. "I knew you'd understand. I've already got some ideas."

Of course he does.

“Don’t do anything just yet. I still need to sort through my own thoughts and stuff, okay?”

“Sure, of course.”

“Thanks, Vincent. We’ll talk more about this later. For now… I think I just need to get lost in my current book. Maybe try and wrap it up.”

He smiles. “I get it. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. I’m going to go for a run.”

He leans in, presses a warm kiss against my cheek, and leaves me. I watch him go, the sound of his footsteps trailing down the hallway toward our room.

I’m not sure how long I sit there. It’s long enough that my body starts to ache. Part of me yearns to just sit on the couch and lose myself in whatever trash TV I can find. It won’t help, though. All these thoughts in my head will go away for a while, piling up outside the gates of my mind, and when I open that door again, it’ll crush me.

So with a heavy heart, I retreated to my office, shutting the door behind me with a quiet click. For a moment, I just stand there, letting the silence wrap around me like a cocoon. Then I sink into my chair, pull out my phone, and open the Momnt app to check on the vibe surrounding my authorship; a habit I’ve picked up ever since the whole Val debacle.

My notifications are flooded, as usual, and it seems that the community is still happy with me. I scroll absently, not really absorbing anything, until a video catches my eye. It's from the literary gala—the one where Dominic Reeves first approached me about adapting my books.

The clip is going viral. Thousands of shares, tens of thousands of likes. I press play, and there I am, standing in my black dress, a champagne flute in one hand, nodding as Dominic gestures animatedly beside me.

A thrill of pleasure courses through me. Because of my books, and my work, Dominic Reeves wants to work with me and make a movie. I’m no longer a simple fraud, playing dress-up as a successful author. I’m a true one, and I’m better than Janice ever was.

Slowly, I begin to smile as the thought continues to linger. I’m not sure how the creative dynamic will work between me and Dominic and Vincent, let alone having to worry about Alyssa interfering, but I feel the urge to accept his offer. To see it through, so that one day, I can have the pleasure of sitting with a bucket of popcorn in my lap and watching my own book play out.

My phone buzzes as another notification draws my attention. Someone’s tagged me in the comments section of the video I was looking at, and not thinking twice, I tap to see it.

@DominicReeves and @MissMurder together? A movie’s coming!

OMG. What book you think they gonna do?

KEEP YOUR LIES! I’m calling it right now.

lol not the man staring

he’s one of us!

Probably wondering what book they doing

The man staring? I watch the video again, and this time, when the camera pans slightly, showing more of the crowd, I see him.

A man in a dark suit, standing near the bar. He’s not particularly tall or striking, nor is he really all that memorable, but something about the intensity of his gaze makes my skin prickle.

He’s staring directly at me.

In case it’s a fluke—a trick of the camera angle—I quickly search for more clips from other social media influencers, each trying to tap into the growing hype of the infamous Luna Harrow speaking with Dominic Reeves. They’re all from different angles, and in each one, I see the same man.

In every single one, he's there—never interacting, never shifting his attention away from me.

Just watching.

Waiting.

A cold sensation crawls up my spine. I rewind again, pausing on his face. I don't recognize him. I've never seen him before in my life. But he's looking at me like he knows exactly who I am.

And worse—like he knows exactly what I've done.

SIX

VINCENT

The rhythmic pounding of my feet against the pavement slows as I near the house. Sweat courses down my back, cooling in the evening air. My heart hammers against my ribs—not from exertion, but from the rush. The pure, clarifying high that comes with pushing my body to its limits.

Running is my substitute. A poor one, but it suffices when the urge to hunt burns too hot beneath my skin. In those times when I can't kill, when Luna needs me close, this is the closest approximation to that perfect high—that crystalline moment when adrenaline sharpens the world to a razor's edge. When I run, I can taste the air like copper on my tongue. I can hear every rustle of leaves, every distant car engine. Most importantly, I feel my own power, coiled and ready.

As the sun dips below the horizon, I cross the gravel driveway and enter the house. I pause inside the door, listening for movement. Nothing but silence greets me. Luna's either locked in her office or sleeping. She'd never admit it, but she's a workaholic—in the most beautiful way. Her dedication leaves me ample time to do as I please, which by now I assume she understands means stalking my future kills.

I move through the house like a shadow within shadows. Darkness has always belonged to me, ever since I was a boy. Ever since that girl under the stadium; the one whose "suicide" made the local papers for a week before fading into nothing. She fought, of course. They always do. But my curiosity—that burning need to watch the light drain from someone's eyes—won out. By dawn, she was swinging in the wind, and I was changed forever.

I've come a long way since then. My urges have a purpose now, a structure. And it's all because of her.

Luna.

My perfect, broken muse who gives my darkness meaning. She deserves everything. The world. The stars. The perfect wedding gift.

She thinks I'm like other men—uninterested in the planning, content to let her arrange every detail of the wedding as if I didn't care. But that couldn't be further from the truth. I’ve been focused on my wedding gift to her. Something that will change the entire trajectory of her life. Something that will bind us together more permanently than rings or vows ever could.

A gift that will make me the best husband she could ever have.

Speaking of which...

I push open the door to her mother's room. Madeline isn't sleeping, despite the late hour. Her eyes are fixed on the ceiling, as always, but there's tension in her body. It's subtle—the slight stiffness in her neck, the barely perceptible clench of her jaw. Luna might occasionally see these signs, but I've developed the ability to read people better than she could ever imagine. It's a necessary skill in my line of work. And I’m not talking about my work as a caretaker.

I close the door behind me with a soft click and approach the bed. Her breathing quickens—another almost imperceptible sign that she knows I'm here.

"Evening, Madeline," I say, keeping my voice light as I check her IV line. "Luna had a long day. Working on that next book, the wedding planning, you know how it is. But maybe she’s stopped by while I was out, had another conversation with you.”

I settle into the chair beside her bed, leaning forward so my face enters her field of vision. Her eyes widen slightly. Good. I want her to see me clearly for this.

“I wanted to have a conversation too, if you don’t mind,” I say, lowering my voice to a confidential whisper. “I've been thinking about how to give Luna my gift for our wedding. Do I give it to her before, or do I give it to her after? I’m still working that part out.”

I adjust her blanket, smoothing it carefully across her motionless form.

“I’ve known for a while what she’s needed. You see, your beautiful, wonderful, innocent daughter has been holding back. Playing at the edges of darkness without fully stepping in. My gift will fix that.”

I smile at her.

“Do you want to know what it is?”

She doesn’t respond, except for the tightness of her breathing. My smile widens, and I lean closer, my lips nearly brushing her ear.

"I'm going to help her cross that threshold she's never dared to cross. I'm going to make her a murderer, Madeline."

A tear forms in the corner of her eye, trembling before trailing down her temple.

“Oh, you are having a bad day. This is the second time you’ve cried now, but don't worry," I say, wiping the tear away with my thumb. "I've chosen the perfect victims. It'll be artful. Transformative. The books she writes afterward will be absolute masterpieces.”

I rise, checking her monitors with practiced efficiency.

"I know you're afraid for her," I say matter-of-factly. "That's why you cried earlier. You see it, don't you? The way she defers to me, the way she's letting herself be guided deeper and deeper into my world."

I adjust her pillow, the perfect caretaker.

"But what you don’t understand is that I want the same thing you want. I want her to be independent, to be free from ever needing help again. That's why I’m perfect for her. I push, she yields. I suggest, she accepts. And soon—very soon—I'll help her take that final step, and to become the true Mrs. Murder."

I stand over her bed, studying her face—the fear in her eyes, the helpless rage.

"The beauty of it all, Madeline, is that you're the only one who knows. You're the only one who's heard the truth. And you can't tell a soul." I smile down at her, genuine warmth in my expression. "It's our little secret."

As I turn to leave, I pause at the door.

"I'm going to be the perfect husband for your daughter. I promise you that."

Madeline's tears continue to fall, silent witnesses to a truth she cannot speak, as I close the door behind me.

SEVEN

LUNA

To say I'm tired would be the understatement of the century. I didn't manage to get a single wink of sleep. All night, that strange man was all I could think about, his eyes following me through every angle of every video I could find, watching, waiting.

More specifically, I've been consumed by the worry that comes with yet another person knowing the truth behind what I've done. Having just survived Val Felder, I'm not sure that my career—or anything really—could survive another accusation.

Thankfully, I had Vincent to distract me when he came to bed. But even that was only a temporary release.

You'd think that with my aphantasia, my inability to picture his face in my head, it would be easy to move past the man in the video. But that couldn't be further from the truth. Even without a mental image, the knowledge of being watched haunts me in a way I can't shake off.

I still haven't told Vincent about what I saw. Something held me back; a nagging voice warning me that his solution to problems tends to be permanent. And bloody. Another body would just escalate everything, draw more attention to us. But keeping secrets from Vincent feels like swallowing glass.

Especially given that we're involved now, walking through a wedding hall.

The heels of the saleswoman clack ahead of us as we trail behind. The windows must be twenty feet high, and the stained glass transforms the sunlight into pools of sapphire, ruby, and emerald across the marble floors. Even without music, food, guests, or decorations, the place is stunning. Vaulted ceilings with intricate moldings dance overhead, supported by fluted columns that rise like sentinels on either side of the central aisle. Ornate chandeliers hang suspended, their crystal pendants throwing light in a thousand different directions.

It's far better than where we'd just come from, the country hall. Don't get me wrong, it was fine enough—all rustic beams and fairy lights—but neither Vincent nor I really liked it. It felt too... innocent. Too disconnected from who we really are.

The saleswoman glances over her shoulder at me, gauging my reaction. She knows I'm bankrolling this whole thing rather than Vincent. I wonder how she figured that out. Maybe she's a fan.

"What do you think?" she asks, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

"It's very beautiful," I say, looking up at the corners, following the incredible architectural work everywhere. "But how many people did you say minimum?"

"About one hundred and fifty," she replies with a practiced smile.

"Oh, okay." I don't have one hundred and fifty people to invite. I doubt I could scrape together thirty who genuinely care whether I live or die—and most of those would be fans, not friends.

Kind of sad, isn't it?

I tug on Vincent's hand, and he tells the woman we're going to look around. We walk away from her, and he turns to me, his eyes catching the concern etched across my face. I know I should tell him everything, show him the clip of the man and just let him do his thing, hunting down someone who might be after me. But something in me holds back.

"You alright?" he asks.

I bite my lip, still struggling with whether I should say anything. The debate has been raging in my head all night.

Do I tell Vincent about the stalker? He might hunt him down, "solve" the problem in the only way he knows how. That would just bring more attention, more danger. But ignoring it? If this man decided to go public with whatever he knows...

I draw a deep breath to settle myself, trying to remind myself that there was no possible way the man knew anything. I had never even seen him before.

It was more likely that he was obsessed with me than he was suspicious.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Vincent draws me to a stop with his hands on my shoulders, his touch gentle but firm.

"I just..." The words catch in my throat. I can't tell him. Not yet. There was no point yet. Right now, it was just a strange man in a video.

"This place is too big," I say instead. "I don't know a hundred and fifty people. I don't even know fifty people who'd come to our wedding."

Vincent's expression softens. "We could do something smaller. Maybe a destination wedding. Just us, your mother, and a handful of others."

"Maybe." The idea has merit. Fewer witnesses meant less chances of something going wrong. "An island resort somewhere could work. I did see one when I was looking into all this."

"Or we could just reserve a small chapel," he suggests. "Something intimate but still beautiful. After all, it's just a few of us. Quality over quantity, right?"

I nod, but my mind is still split between wedding venues and the man from the video. Despite my best attempt to push him away from my mind, I can't help but wonder... what if he's following me right now?

The chill that runs down my spine has nothing to do with the air conditioning in the hall.

What if that man somehow puts Dominic's movie deal at risk? Now, more than ever, I feel like I need that deal. I need the validation it would bring. And stopping Vincent's and my... arrangement would mean no new book. No new inspiration.

And no movie.

"I think we should go," I say. "This place isn't right for us."

Vincent searches my face, and for a terrifying moment, I think he can see right through me.

"Alright," he says finally. "We'll find somewhere better."

The ride home is tense, at least for me. Vincent seems relaxed enough, discussing possible venues for a smaller ceremony, but my mind is racing. Every car that stays behind us for more than a few turns makes my heart skip. Every man dressed in a dark suit has me looking twice. I can feel the walls closing in, the carefully constructed life we've built starting to crack at its foundations.

The car crunches over the gravel as we pull into our driveway. The house looms ahead, silent and still against the darkening sky. But something's wrong. Even from here, I can see that the front door is ajar, swinging slightly in the evening breeze.

Vincent's entire body tenses. "Did you leave the door open?"

I shake my head, my throat suddenly dry. "No."

He parks the car and is out before I can say another word, moving toward the house with a speed I can't match. I follow more slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Stay behind me," he orders as we approach the door.

It's been forced. The wood around the lock is splintered, the deadbolt bent at an unnatural angle. Someone broke in. Someone was inside our home.

And somehow... just somehow I know it's that same man.

Vincent pushes the door open wider, stepping cautiously into the foyer. Nothing seems disturbed at first glance—no overturned furniture, no scattered belongings. But the silence feels wrong, like the house is holding its breath.

"Check on your mother," Vincent says. "I'll look around down here."

I nod, moving toward the stairs, my feet barely making a sound on the hardwood. The door to my mother's room is closed, just as we left it this morning. I push it open slowly, bracing myself for what I might find.

Relief washes over me like a wave when I see her, still in bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as always. The machines beside her beep steadily, undisturbed.

"It's okay, Mom," I whisper, crossing to her side. "Everything's fine."

But even as I say the words, I know they're a lie. Someone broke into our house. Nothing is fine.

I check the rest of the upstairs rooms quickly, finding nothing out of place until I reach my office door. It's closed, but I distinctly remember leaving it open this morning.

My hand trembles as I reach for the doorknob. Something cold and heavy settles in my stomach as I push it open.

The scene inside stops me cold. At first glance, it looks like a standard break-in. A few drawers pulled open, papers scattered across the floor, books knocked from shelves. Nothing that would raise alarm beyond the usual violation of a home invasion.

But I know better.

My legs carry me to my desk with mechanical steps. The bottom drawer is halfway open, the contents jumbled. My hand shakes as I stare down into it, seeing what's no longer there.

It's gone.

The photograph is gone.

I sink into my chair, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin. That photo was the only one I'd ever accepted of Vincent taking of me standing over a victim. I'd kept it as something to inspire me for some future piece of work.

But now someone else has it.

"Luna?" Vincent calls from downstairs. "Everything okay up there?"

"Fine," I call back, my voice remarkably steady despite the panic clawing at my throat. "Just checking my office."

I quickly straighten a few papers, making it look like I'm assessing the damage. But my mind is racing. This wasn't a random break-in. The intruder knew exactly what they were looking for. Or maybe they didn't, and they just stumbled upon the only thing that mattered—proof that could destroy me.

Vincent can't know.

"They took a few things," I say as I descend the stairs, the lie slipping out smoothly. "Nothing important. Probably just looking for cash or jewelry."

Vincent nods, but he doesn't look convinced.

"Maybe an unpublished manuscript," I say, making an attempt at a joke.

He glances at me, his gaze lingering for a long moment that leaves my knees shaking. But then he cracks a smile, then a laugh. He starts to talk about putting some cameras in around the house, but I don't hear him.

All I can hear is the roar of blood in my ears.

Someone is hunting us now.

And now they've got proof.

EIGHT

LUNA

The garden is nothing like it was seven months ago when I nearly broke under the weight of Val Felder's accusations. Instead of overgrown grass, choking weeds, and dying flowers, it flourishes with life, meticulously tended by a new gardener who hasn't missed a single day of work.

I hate it.

My mother would have loved this version of the garden—pristine, perfect, every flower positioned exactly where it should be. I remember how she'd take me out with her tiny trowel and worn gloves, showing me how to coax life from the soil.

"Plants know when you care," she used to say, her fingers working the earth with a gentleness I could never quite replicate. Now her hands lie still, and I'm left kneeling in dirt without her guidance.

The satisfaction of ripping those weeds, of losing myself in the toil of hard work... it helped me before. The gardens were my sanctuary when everything felt like it was collapsing, and when the beeping of my mother's machines seemed to sync with the pounding in my head.

Now I'm on my knees again, desperately seeking that escape, fingers digging into the soil, tearing up anything that even remotely resembles the beginning of a weed. I'm not ashamed to admit there were probably a few bulb stems included in my rampage.

The air is cool and damp, like it was that day I'd found temporary peace here, before Vincent found me and everything changed, with the rain picking up and washing away my tears. Before I discovered what I was truly capable of.

This time, my mind isn't stuck on a clear, known threat like Val. It's consumed by the missing photo, which is infinitely worse. I know nothing about my enemy except that he's a bald man with a penchant for staring and wearing cheap, worn suits. I don't know his name, where he came from, or what he wants.

Truth be told, when I woke this morning, I expected the police banging on my door. But to my confusion—and relief—nobody waited on my doorstep. Which means whoever this man is, he knows he has leverage over me and intends to use it.

I pause my crawl along the flowerbed, pressing dirt-stained gloves to my forehead in frustration. Why hadn't I just locked that stupid photo away with the others, where they'd be safe?

With a heavy sigh, I force myself to resume, more likely damaging my garden than helping it. But hey, I have to do something, and worst-case scenario, the gardener I pay an obscene amount can work his magic again and fix my destruction.

My mother would be appalled at how I'm treating her precious flowers, but then again, she'd be appalled by so many things I've done.

I have two options now.

First, I could confess everything to Vincent, admitting the random stranger isn't just some obsessed fan but likely our burglar. The catch? It not only exposes Vincent to whatever threat this man poses, but Vincent would inevitably take control of the situation. And quite frankly, I might lose my shit if that happens.

I still remember how Vincent took it upon himself to murder Stephen after I said I wanted him gone. No, telling Vincent would be like lighting a match and tossing it into a pool of gasoline.

The destruction would be swift, absolute, and I wouldn't be able to control where the flames spread. I can almost picture him now, slipping out at night, returning with blood-specked cuffs and that eerily satisfied look in his eyes. And the last thing I need is to endanger my potential movie deal with Dominic.

Which leads me to the second option, something far more palatable.

Pretend nothing happened, proceed with Dominic and the movie deal, and in doing so, be okay with the risk of Vincent killing someone else. The perfect mask of willful ignorance: Luna Harrow, bestselling author, attending galas and signing books while Vincent selects the next muse for my creative endeavors.

My stomach churns as I reach deeper into the soil, my fingers wrapping around the root of a particularly stubborn dandelion. With a sharp tug, I pull it free, dirt showering onto my jeans.

Vincent keeps talking about wanting to try something "different" for the next one. A multi-kill that would push my writing even further. The thought both terrifies and thrills me, and that duality is becoming harder to reconcile.

I suppose there is a third option, but it makes me physically sick.

Stop the murders entirely, which means no more inspiration, no more of those beautiful words that spill onto the page like the lifeblood of my career. Without that, I'd have nothing to offer Dominic but hollow imitations of the work that made him approach me in the first place.

Could I do it?

Could I sit at my desk and summon words from nothing, staring at that blank document until the cursor's blink matches my pulse?

No. That emptiness—that void where images should form—it's still there. Vincent's "inspiration" is the only thing that's ever broken through.

I think about the rush of adrenaline when I watch Vincent strike, the way my mind fills with colors and textures I can't otherwise conjure. The way the words pour out afterward, so powerful and perfect that even Dominic Reeves, Hollywood's most discerning director, wants to capture them on film.

I sit back on my heels, the dirt cool beneath me. The wind picks up, sending a chill across my sweat-dampened neck. I close my eyes and try to recall the feeling—that electric rush when Vincent cracked that detective’s skull with a crowbar. The way my fingers tingled, desperate to fly across the keys of my typewriter and capture that terrible beauty of it all.

My addiction to that feeling has grown stronger with each kill. Like a junkie chasing their next high, I know that I need the violence, the visceral reality of it, to feed my creativity.

Without it, I might as well be blind, stumbling in darkness, groping for words that won't come.

With it, I'm Miss Murder, the literary phenomenon that has readers and critics alike mesmerized, along with the most decorated director of our time.

My phone rings, pulling me from the spiral of my thoughts. I wipe my gloved hands on my jeans and fish it from my pocket.

It’s Alyssa Lake.

With a grimace, I lift the phone to my ear and answer. “Hello?”

"There you are!" Alyssa's voice is polished, precise, like every syllable costs money. "I was beginning to think you were ghosting us.”

I frown, brushing dirt from my knees. “Ghost you? I haven’t ghosted anyone.”

“Well, you haven’t talked to Dominic or myself. But hey, look, I’m not here to get into the minutia. I’m on a tight schedule. You understand opportunities like this don’t come twice, right, Luna?”

“Yeah, I know." I stand, brushing the rest of the soil from my clothes as I pace along the garden's edge.

“So where’s your head at? Be honest.”

A beat passes as I think on my next words, knowing I won’t be able to take them back.

But then I answer. “I’ll do it.”

I hear the near squeal of excitement on the other side of the phone. I’m guessing that this represents not just a level up for myself, but for her too.

“But,” I say, cutting into her excitement and silencing her. “I have to have complete control over the creative direction of the novel. I’ll share materials with him when I’m done, and he can use them for the production.”

The line goes quiet, and for a moment, I think she's hung up. Then she sighs, the sound heavy with disappointment. "You're making a mistake, excluding Dominic from the creative process. He’s good at what he does, Luna.”

I bite my lip before drawing a deep breath. “Okay, fine, I’ll let him consult. But the end decision is actually mine to make, and I’ll write it the way I want.”

“I’ll let him know, but I can’t promise you he’s going to be okay with that.”

Before I can respond, she hangs up, not even saying goodbye. I slip the phone back into my pocket, my resolve hardening. The work, everything from Vincent's kills to my words, belong to me. I'm not letting Dominic or anyone else dictate how they unfold. And it’s not just because of what it all means to me. It’s because I can’t afford to let someone else find out what’s going on.

Just as I’m about to start pulling things out of the ground again, my phone rings.

I answer. “What else is it, Alyssa?”

"Oh, I'm sorry." The voice on the other end is unfamiliar. It’s elderly, and hesitant. "Is this Luna Harrow?"

I pause, my finger hovering over the end call button. "Yes, it is. Who's this?"

"Martha Dawson." There's a tremor in her voice that has nothing to do with age. "Janice's mother."

My blood turns to ice. I haven't heard Janice's name spoken aloud in months, not since she disappeared, not since Vincent...

"Mrs. Dawson," I manage. "I... wasn't expecting to hear from you."

"I know this is unusual, but we haven't heard from Janice in quite some time." A man's voice mumbles something in the background. "Her father and I are worried. You worked with her, didn't you? Do you have any idea where she might be?"

The garden around me seems to darken, the flowers wilting under the weight of my guilt. I think of Janice's letter, her desperate attempt to warn me, to save me from Vincent.

From myself.

"No," I lie, the word bitter on my tongue. "I haven't heard from her."

"Oh." The disappointment in her voice is palpable. "Well, if you do..."

"I'll let you know right away," I promise, knowing it's a promise I'll never keep.

"She spoke so highly of you, you know," Martha continues, each word stabbing like a needle under my skin.

My throat constricts. Janice had been more than my editor. She’d been Vincent's first victim that I truly knew, the first face I could put to the violence that fueled my writing.

"That's... very kind," I stammer. "I'm sorry I can't be more help."

"If you think of anything," Martha pleads, "anything at all. We're not getting any younger, and Janice is all we have."

The guilt is a physical weight on my chest. "Of course. I understand."

When the call ends, I sink back to my knees, but not to garden. Something inside me crumbles, a wall I'd carefully constructed between the before and after. Between the Luna who published other people's words and the Luna who now writes her own, fueled by the darkest kind of inspiration.

I trace my finger through the soil, drawing a jagged line that could be a river or a wound. The choice isn't really a choice at all. I need the words. I need the rush.

My hands tremble as I pull my gloves back on. The breeze picks up, scattering loose petals across the garden. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks—once, twice, then silence. I freeze, listening for footsteps, for some sign that someone’s nearby.

Nothing.

But as I gather my gardening tools and head back toward the house, I can't shake the feeling that someone is watching. The shadow of paranoia stretches long across the lawn.

“Everything okay?”

I jump, my heart pounding in my chest.

Vincent stands in the doorway, his silhouette dark against the light spilling from inside. He smiles as I approach, and for a heartbeat, I consider telling him everything, about the burglar, the missing photo, and my fears.

Instead, I smile back and take his hand, letting him pull me inside.

"You've been out there for hours," he says, his voice soft with concern. "I was starting to worry."

I lean into him, breathing in his familiar scent. "Just needed to clear my head."

His fingers brush a smudge of dirt from my cheek, the touch gentle but possessive. "And did you? Clear your head?"

I meet his gaze, letting him see just enough of what lurks beneath my surface. "I did.” I pause, biting my lip. “I think I know what the next book needs."

His smile widens, his eyes lighting with excitement.

"Tell me."

NINE

VINCENT

So my soon-to-be wife wants to plan the murder.

The thought brings a smile to my face when she tells me, and it's still there two hours later as I walk through the department store. Children scream and run away from their mothers while fathers linger by the hunting section, examining rifles they'll use to either take down a buck or blow their own brains out.

I’ve used a rifle or two before. Not to shoot bucks, of course. But I’ve always found them to be so impersonal. When you look at how the greatest sculptors formed the bodies of men and women, they used their hands. To me, it only makes sense that the undoing of them should be done in the same way.

I push the thought aside, and think of Luna. She wants to select the victim herself, choose the location, even purchase signal jammers to disrupt any technology nearby. I'm not entirely sure why she feels the need to be so meticulous about all this. The truth is, even when bystanders catch glimpses of these things, they tend to misremember the critical details; the ones that might matter to a detective or in court.

I force myself to step into her shoes, and suddenly, I understand her precision.

She's worried.

Worried we'll be caught, that our carefully constructed world will crumble, that everything she's built as a bestselling author will come crashing down. It's understandable. The best inspiration has never come without risk or danger, and that's doubly true here, where the line between life and art blurs until it's dangerously impossible to see.

But she doesn't need to worry. She can handle the planning, the strategizing, and I'll remain in the background ensuring everything unfolds exactly as it should. As things stand, we're progressing beautifully. She's one step closer to crossing that threshold I've prepared for her.

There.

I pause by the display of kitchen knives mounted on the wall. There were hunting and skinning blades back near the guns, but those would be too much for her first time. First kills are much like losing your virginity—the partner matters. Choose poorly, and you might find yourself forever put off by the experience.

A simple kitchen knife feels right. I'll sharpen the edge, of course, hone it until it parts skin like warm butter. But the weight and feel of it will be familiar to her hand, comfortable. And for her first time, comfort is everything.

I grab one of the larger knives off the wall, encased in thick plastic. To keep desperate mothers from silencing those awful screaming children, I imagine.

A pulse of excitement courses through me, and I shiver with anticipation. I can see it now: Luna with that dark glint in her eye, the same one that appears when she's bent over her bloodied typewriter, only this time standing over a writhing victim, knife raised high.

Such a beautiful image. One I hold close.

I wish I could see it now, during this next kill we've planned. Wish I could witness it transformed into words on a page, into another bestseller, into a film even that pretentious Dominic Reeves would beg to direct. But unfortunately, that won't be the case.

I head for the registers, nodding at a man who watches his family with hollow eyes. We exchange a glance, and I see in him what he cannot—the recognition of a man who's close to reaching his breaking point.

No, this knife won't be used on just anyone. It's being saved for someone special, someone who truly matters. This will be just one part of my wedding gift to Luna, and I have no doubts that when it's all said and done, she'll become what she was always meant to be.

Mrs. Murder.

TEN

LUNA

You'd think I'd be good at selecting murderable people, considering how many books I've published with victims in them. I keep a long list of characters dying in increasingly gruesome ways. Reviews talk about how "authentic" my death scenes feel, how I "capture the raw essence of mortality."

If they only knew.

But here I am, notepad in hand, scrolling through social media with the self-important intensity of a college student writing their thesis. Except my research subject is "Who deserves to die next?"

I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all. And I would, if I didn’t still feel that chill crawling down the back of my spine.

My office feels different now. Ever since the house was broken into, I can't shake the feeling of being exposed, like they’ve stolen all my clothes so that the world could see the truth of me.

I glance for what must be the twentieth time today at the desk drawer where that incriminating photo used to be. I know it won't magically reappear, but that doesn't stop me from checking.

Habit and paranoia make excellent bedfellows.

The house feels safe enough with Vincent here. But there's still something off, like when you return home and find your furniture shifted an inch to the left. Everything appears normal, but you keep bumping into corners that shouldn't be there.

I tap my pen against my teeth, chewing the cap as I click on yet another article of the man who’s had multiple cases of domestic violence charged against him. The charges never stick, for whatever reason. And coincidentally enough, he’s a particularly harsh critic of my books. I saw that much on his social media.

That alone should keep him at the top of my list of people I’m considering. But even though I’ve mapped how he’d die, I’m not convinced he’s the right choice. Not for my first…

I stop myself, the reality of what I'm doing hitting me all over again. My first orchestrated murder. My first victim.

A laugh escapes me, high and brittle, before I clamp a hand over my mouth. This is what I've been reduced to—shopping for victims like they’re produce at a farmer's market. Squeeze this one, check that one for bruises, find the perfect specimen.

My stomach twists, but it's not just with disgust. There's something else there too. A thrill, a dark excitement I can't deny. I've been the observer for so long, watching Vincent break bones and cut into flesh, witnessing that moment when life drains from someone's eyes. But now I'm taking charge, and I can't help but wonder if this is what party planners feel like: giddy with the power of orchestrating a perfect event.

Location. Timing. Victim selection. Security measures. Those might be the most crucial of all, especially with that strange man stalking me. It's like trying to solve a puzzle where one misplaced piece sends the whole thing tumbling down. One careless decision, one overlooked detail, and everything I've built collapses around me. And I refuse to let that happen.

I pull up a map on my laptop and start marking potential locations. Somewhere isolated enough to avoid witnesses, but not so remote that it would seem suspicious for the victim to be there. Time of day matters too. Darkness provides cover, but too late and the streets empty, making any remaining witnesses more likely to notice us.

The details consume me, and I lose track of time, jotting notes and crossing out options. This is nothing like watching Vincent work. This is another form of creation. I'm doing more than just planning a murder. I’m spinning a story, just like I do when I’m writing my books.

“Something to drink?”

Vincent's voice startles me so badly I jump and hit my knee against the side of my desk. A curse slips out from beneath my breath as my heart hammers against my ribs.

He stands in the doorway, two steaming mugs in his hands, eyebrows raised at my reaction. “You okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, smoothing hair back from my face. "I was focused."

He smiles, setting a mug on my desk before perching on the edge, his eyes drifting to my notebook. I resist the urge to cover it. "Working on the new book?"

He knows I don’t like to outright discuss the murders. It feels… wrong. So anything related to that or my writing in general is always referred to as simply “the new book.”

"Something like that." The tea smells like chamomile and honey, my favorite. I take the mug from him with a sigh. "Just... brainstorming."

He nods, watching me with that steady, comforting gaze. “How’s the new book going?”

“Okay. I’ve got a few ideas," I say carefully. “I've been considering a few... characters.”

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper though we're alone in the house, except for my mother. And there was no chance of her getting up to come eavesdrop. "Anyone specific?"

I hesitate, then open my Momnt app and point to the man I’d been looking at most recently. Not my stalker, but the domestic violence guy.

"Him," I say, turning the screen toward Vincent. "Gregory Palmer."

Vincent studies the man’s face, his expression calculating. "Why him?"

“He’s a wife beater. He’s hurt his two sons, too. They’re five and twelve years old.” I try to keep my voice steady, casual. “He also doesn’t like my books.”

He laughs, the sound warming the cold office. "I like how your mind works, Luna.”

The praise shouldn't make me feel good, but it does. It settles around my shoulders like a warm blanket, chasing away the lingering chill of doubt. This is what I wanted, isn't it? To take control, to be the one making decisions instead of just following Vincent's lead?

"We'll need to know his routine," Vincent says, his tone shifting to business-like efficiency. "When he's alone, when he's vulnerable."

"I'm already on it." I flip to a page in my notebook where I've jotted down what little I could find online. "He teaches a night class on Thursdays at the community college downtown. Gets out around 9:30."

Vincent's eyebrows lift, impressed. "You have been busy."

He reaches out, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the notebook, studying my notes with the focus of a surgeon reviewing charts before an operation. "What about security cameras at the college?"

"Mostly concentrated at the entrances. The faculty parking lot has blind spots.”

Vincent nods slowly. "Good. Very good." He hands the notebook back, his fingers lingering against mine. "When were you thinking?"

“I’m not sure yet.”

He studies me for a long moment, like he can see all the worry and doubt beneath the stoicism. I resist the urge to squirm under his gaze.

"Luna," he says finally, his voice gentler than before. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Am I? The question bounces around my skull like a pinball. Am I ready to cross this line, to move from observer to participant? I have no doubt the manuscript I’m creating for Dominic will benefit from this—the power of directing the scene instead of just documenting it for my story. But I know that this isn’t about that. It’s about the control, knowing that I’m not just a passive player in my own life, and that I can handle whatever danger the stalker represents.

I should tell Vincent about him, a voice in my head insists. But telling Vincent would mean surrendering that control to him, watching him escalate things like he did with killing Stephen.

No, this has to be my show. My production. My control.

"I'm sure," I tell him, and somehow, it's not a lie.

He smiles, and this time it reaches his eyes, warming them to the color of honey. “Good. Let me know when you’re ready.”

My phone rings. I glance at the screen and my stomach drops from nervousness. Dominic Reeves.

Vincent sees the name. Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone in an instant. He stands, gathering his mug. "I'll leave you to it."

I nod, waiting until he's closed the door behind him before answering. "Hello?"

"Luna, Luna, Luna,” Dominic's voice slithers through the speaker. "Alyssa tells me you’ve got some conditions to joining our little cinematic adventure after all.”

I wince at the framing of it, but nod, “That's right."

“Complete control over the creative direction? I have to say, I’m disappointed you don’t want me involved.”

“I told Alyssa that you’d be able to consult on it, once it’s finished. But the end decision is mine to make.”

There’s a long pause on the other side of the phone, leaving me suddenly wondering if I’m making a mistake in being so bold and brash about control.

Control.

That seems to be such a big thing for me right now. I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe it’s because of how close to ruin I’d come at the hands of Val Felder and Alyssa and everyone before? Or maybe it’s because I’d never had it, between Vincent and Janice.

Then he speaks with a confidence that leaves me wondering if this was something he had in mind all along. “Excellent, excellent. Then I believe we are partners in crime, so to speak.”

Oh, the irony.

“The question remains, when will I be able to get my hands on your next manuscript?”

That's the question, isn't it? When will I have something to give him—something worthy of the Luna Harrow name, something that will cement my legacy as Miss Murder?

“Soon,” I say, my eyes drifting to the notebook, honing in on Gregory Palmer’s name. Maybe he was the perfect person to go after here.

“Soon,” he laughs. “So I take it that the manuscript is not yet started. Excellent. If I may… consult here?”

“Sure,” I say, settling back into my chair, resting my head against the leather. “What is it you’re looking for?”

“Your books have historically been great foundations for any typical murder thriller. But what I want is something that will set itself apart from your other books. Do you understand?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you doing tomorrow evening?”

I blink at the sudden shift in conversation. “Why?”

“I’d like to take you to dinner. Some things are better discussed in person.”

My face goes flat. “You want to tell me what to write.”

“No, I don’t. I want to discuss your inspiration.”

I tense. Does he know something? My eyes drift back to the drawer, and where the missing photo should be. Was he the one who hired the stalker?

“I sense some hesitation. That’s quite alright. I expected as much. It’s the nature of us, the creators and artists in this world. But as partners, I want us to create something that elevates us both. Something that will cement our status forever. I think that means a dinner or two together, even just to discuss our inspirations and aspirations, is well worth the time, no?”

If he is the one that’s behind the stalker, and has my photo, then I have to take the dinner with him and find out what he’s up to.

“Okay.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you at Farrogans, around seven?” Dominic asks.

“I’ll be there.”

“I’m looking forward to it. See you soon, Miss Murder.”

The call ends, and I sit in silence, staring at the notebook in front of me. I trace my finger over Gregory Palmer's name, circling it once, twice.

There’s a chance that Dominic’s name might be in place of it. But I sincerely hope I’m wrong. Because if I’m not, I’m afraid my movie dream will never happen.

ELEVEN

LUNA

Farrogans isn't just exclusive. It’s where rich people go when they want to feel better than other rich people. The kind of place that requires a month's notice for reservations and possibly a family crest. But Dominic Reeves clearly plays by different rules, conjuring a private table on the balcony with a single phone call.

The maître d' leads me through the main dining room with that special brand of condescension reserved for guests who might be important but aren't regulars. Chandeliers hang overhead like frozen fireworks, casting just enough light to make everyone look ten years younger. The room hums with the sound of people who have too much money discussing people who have slightly less.

We take a spiral staircase tucked in the corner where no one important would accidentally see you climbing it. The marble steps are worn in the middle, smooth from years of designer shoes. As we climb, the noise fades, replaced by the gentle sound of classical music.

The balcony has three tables, far enough apart that you could discuss murder and no one would hear you. Which is fitting, all things considered.

Dominic sits at the furthest one, a book in his hand, wearing a suit that probably costs more than my Range Rover. He looks up when we approach, and something about his smile reminds me of Vincent. I’m not sure why.

"Luna, you made it."

"I did," I say, letting the waiter take my jacket. Despite being outside, the balcony is weirdly warm. Hidden heaters, I realize, spotting the glow beneath copper fixtures along the railing. Beyond them, the city spreads out like a crime scene, building lights blinking on as darkness falls.

He stands to help me into my chair. The book on the table catches my eye.

It's one of mine.

I raise an eyebrow.

"Keep Your Lies," he says, noticing my expression. "I'm rereading it. The internet is buzzing that this should be our film."

"You think they'll be disappointed when they find out it’s not?" I ask.

He leans forward, and the candlelight turns his face into something almost predatory. "Quite the opposite. I think they'll be thrilled."

"So why reread it?"

"I want to know what makes it special," he taps the cover, leaving a fingerprint on the glossy surface. "What has people obsessed. There's something here beyond just the murders and your killers getting away. I'm drawn to it, but I can't figure out why. What is it?"

I study him, wondering if he's fishing. If he knows more than he's letting on. The crystal glasses on the table catch the light, scattering it across the tablecloth like evidence markers.

"The killer is you," I say finally. "It's me. It's that everyday person we all recognize, finally doing what we secretly want to do ourselves."

His mouth quirks up at the corner, and I get the feeling he's just confirmed something about me. He sits back, studying me like I'm a specimen under glass.

A waiter appears beside us, dressed in funeral black. He takes our orders with robotic efficiency, pours water, presents champagne I have no intention of drinking. Tonight, I need clarity. I need to know if the man across from me is something more than a director.

"So... Alyssa?" I ask, running my finger along the water glass.

"What about her?"

"When does she get involved in all this?"

He shrugs like we're discussing the weather and not a major career move. "I don't care much about her. She serves a purpose, that's all."

"Like me? Am I serving a purpose too?"

"Luna," he says, my name oddly intimate on his lips, "you should know by now that you are the purpose. You and I both."

A thrill runs through me despite my suspicions. While the restaurant below us continues its expensive pantomime of fine dining, Dominic and I sit apart from it all, like we're in on a secret no one else knows.

“Now, I do apologize for my eagerness,” he says, “but I prefer to get business out of the way before the food arrives. Shall we?"

"Excellent." Dominic leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. "Now, before we get back to what we discussed on the phone—the inspiration behind everything—I want to set some expectations first." He holds my gaze, something hungry flickering behind his eyes. "You've already touched on what makes your books outstanding. This perception into the version of you that everyone wants to be."

I nod and take another sip, the water cool against my throat. His intensity is both familiar and unsettling. It’s like looking at Vincent through a funhouse mirror.

"But for this movie, we have to do something that truly elevates the experience." He taps his finger on the cover of Keep Your Lies. "We have to do something that sets the story apart from this."

My brow furrows, the wheels in my head turning. "You want... a different kind of killer?"

"Yes!" The word bursts from him, his hands coming together in a sharp clap that makes the silverware jump. A grin splits his face, the kind that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I want a different kind of killer. One that will be a version of us that is... future-focused."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're saying." A lie. I understand perfectly. I just don't want to admit it.

His voice drops lower, almost a whisper, forcing me to lean in. "I want to give your fans an insight into a version of us that has gone too far, someone that breaks all the rules." His eyes are fever-bright now. "I want them to walk out of the theaters with horror, and to go home and really think about who they are." He reaches across, his fingers stopping just short of mine. "I want this movie to be in their minds a week past when they've watched it. I want this movie to be an obsession."

I study him, something cold slithering down my spine. It's not just Dominic that intimidates me now. It’s the scope of what he's asking for. He wants someone who goes too far, who shatters boundaries, but to deliver that, I'd need inspiration darker than anything before.

The risk pulses in my temples. With a stalker who's already broken into my house and has a photo of me at a crime scene, what Dominic wants isn't just ambitious. It’s suicide. Playing with matches in a room already filling with gas.

And worse? If I want this movie deal—and God help me, I do—I'll have to figure it out anyway.

"Is that possible for you?" he asks, the question hanging between us like a blade.

I look past him, out over the balcony to where the city fades into darkness. It's impossible to tell where buildings end and sky begins, all of it melting into the same empty black. For all I know, my stalker is out there right now, studying me through binoculars. Maybe even on Dominic's orders.

"Maybe," I say quietly, the word barely making it past my lips. "Vincent has been talking about doing a story with multiple kills. I know that historically, I've painted the image of a serial killer, but in my stories they only ever usually do one kill. I suppose it’s possible I could do a multi-kill story?”

I turn back to Dominic, caught off guard by the sudden look of disappointment in his face.

"Vincent, huh? Is he your source of inspiration?"

The question lands like a slap. Vincent isn’t my source of inspiration. He is so much more than that. He’s the man behind the bloodshed, the one who delivers me my inspiration.

"Vincent is a lot of things, but he isn't my muse," I say, the lie sliding easily from my tongue. "He just happens to have ideas."

His eyes narrow, just slightly, a crack in his polished veneer. "And you trust his ideas?"

"Should I not?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches into his suit jacket, the expensive fabric barely creasing as he moves, and pulls out a manila folder. It's thin, unassuming, the kind you'd use for utility bills or medical records. He places it on the table between us, his fingertips resting on its edge.

My throat tightens. "What is that?"

"Inspiration."

The word hangs in the air, heavy and loaded. My heart stutters, sending a cold rush through my limbs. I know what it is.

It’s the photo.

My photo.

The one that disappeared from my desk drawer, the one showing me at the scene of Vincent's handiwork. The one piece of evidence that could destroy everything.

My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "A photo?"

Dominic stares at me, and slowly, his lips curl. “Open the envelope, Miss Murder.”

My mind tries to work through it all, tries to piece together what kind of possible motivation Dominic might have in holding a piece of blackmail against me—and that’s exactly what it is. Blackmail. There’s no other reason he would have lured me here.

Does he want someone killed?

Maybe he has someone in mind, and that’s how he wants to “elevate” the experience for readers.

God, I feel like I’m going to be sick.

He leans forward, his eyes darker than before. “Are you not going to open the envelope?”

I don't move to take it. I can't. If Dominic is the man behind the stalker—if he's the one who had him break into my house, who's been watching me—then everything I thought I knew about this meeting is wrong. This isn't about a movie. It's about leverage.

“Then I will do it for you.”

His fingers work the fold, and slowly, not one, but three photos come out. Along with a single folded slip of paper. I can tell there’s more stuff in the envelope, but he stops there, dropping the photos on the table.

Something predatory slips into his expression. “Go ahead. Look.”

My fingers are numb as I reach forward. The photos are cool to the touch. Slowly, I turn them over, bracing myself for what I’ll see.

But it's not me in these photos.

It's carnage. Blood-spattered walls. A body slumped in a bathtub, limbs twisted at impossible angles. Another sprawled across what looks like a kitchen floor, skull caved in, brain matter mixing with spilled cereal. A third, hanging from a ceiling beam, eyes bulging, skin mottled purple.

Crime scene photos. Real ones.

My stomach lurches. Not because I'm disgusted. I've seen worse, been part of worse. Now, my stomach lurches because I'm relieved. He doesn't have my photo. This isn't about me.

"What is this?" I manage with a strained voice, looking up at him.

Dominic leans back, swirling his water glass like it's fine wine. "Creative fodder," he says simply. "True crime. Unsolved cases. Fascinating psychological profiles."

He points to the folded sheet of paper. “There’s more than just photos. I have psychological evaluations of the suspects, of witnesses. Comments from detectives on the case, from media clips and more. This? This is the kind of raw material that can fuel something truly extraordinary."

I flip through the contents, my pulse not slowing, but quickening in a way that I recognize. That familiar thrill stirs deep inside me. Creation, my mind bursting with words, begging to be typed.

My tongue darts across my lips as I realize what he's offering. Not blackmail. Not exposure.

Freedom.

"You want me to use real murders," I say slowly, "as inspiration."

Dominic's smile widens. “Don’t pretend like you don’t already, Luna. That woman, Val Felder, might have retracted her accusations, but it was enough for me to see the similarities between your work and real works of crime.”

My breathing is tight. “So what is it you want me to do with these then?”

“I want you to create something authentic without needing to... invent so much."

The implication hangs between us like a knife. Does he know? Can he possibly suspect what Vincent and I have done? Or is this just the famous Dominic Reeves intuition, the thing that's made him Hollywood's most sought-after director?

"The industry talks," he continues, casually now, as if we're discussing dinner options and not brutal homicides. "They say I push too hard, that I drive people to extremes for authenticity. What they don't understand is that I just recognize when someone's capable of more." He leans forward again. "You're capable of more, Luna. Of so much more. And you don’t need to rely on anyone. Not even—I forgot his name. Vincent?”

My fingers tighten around the photos and the sheet of paper. For Dominic, this is about making the best movie possible, but for me… this is a way to keep writing, to keep creating, without needing to actually murder. I can feel the truth of that in the urge to run back to my typewriter with these photos in hand.

"What happened to the last author you’d worked with?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Something cold flashes across his face, there and gone in an instant. "Creative differences," he says smoothly. "She wasn't as adaptable as I'd hoped."

I stare at him, my mind racing. There's more to that story. I can feel it. But I don’t particularly care at this moment, because right now, all I can think about is what these contents mean. A new direction. A chance to give my readers what they crave without putting myself at risk of losing everything.

“How did you get these?” I ask. I knew that the internet was full of horrible photos like these, even videos. But those were just small pieces of the overarching story. You couldn’t see or tell much of a person’s character from a photo of a body, but paired together with psychological evaluations and everything else, it brought them to life.

"Don’t worry about that," Dominic says. He nods toward the folder. “Take it. Study it. Let it speak to you. Call me if you get some ideas from it that you want to make a story out of it all.”

I close the folder, putting it to the side. I wonder, for a moment, about what Vincent would think. If I chose to take this path to working with Dominic, would Vincent be upset that I didn’t take another victim with him? Or would he be supportive of me, as he’d always been?

I really don’t know.

The food arrives then, saving me from saying anything else. It seems Dominic had said all he’d intended to say, because his attention turns fully to his order, and much lighter conversation takes place.

As the plates are set down, I find myself wondering if this is how it feels to stand at a crossroads: one path stained with blood, and the other waiting for it to spill.

I’m not sure which is better for me.

And worse, I realize that though there was still the possibility that Dominic hired the stalker, I had no idea who or what that man wanted.

TWELVE

LUNA

The drive home is quiet. Too quiet.

Vincent calls twice, but I let it go to voicemail both times. I need the silence. Need to think about what Dominic's photos mean, what they could do for me.

A quick glance reveals the folder still sitting on the passenger seat like a loaded gun. Every few minutes, I look to see if it’s still there, half expecting it to vanish or burst into flames. Evidence of a path I never had the resources to access. A way to write without washing blood from under my fingernails first.

When I pull into the driveway, the house lights are off. I slip the folder into my bag and head inside. It’s only when I get in that I see that the TV is on, and Vincent’s seated in front of it in a pair of jogging shorts. He’s got a murder mystery on, ironically enough.

“You’re late,” he says without looking in my direction.

“Dinner ran long.”

"How was Dominic?" The way he says the name is like he's tasting something unfamiliar and doesn't quite trust it.

I set my bag down on the couch, making sure the zipper is closed. "Fine. Just wanted to talk concepts."

He grunts, and I can tell that something’s bothering him. But I don't pay any attention to it. My mind's still stuck on the folder and what's inside of it.

I force a smile, kick off my heels, and collapse onto the couch next to him. With a long sigh, I lean into him, breathing him in. His strength and comfort seep into me, soothing my mind.

“Want to tell me more?” he asks, gently prodding me.

I look up at him and see his smile. For a moment I almost forget what he is. What we are.

“It was most of the usual director stuff. Pretentious, vague, lots of hand-waving about ‘elevating the medium.’”

He chuckles, seemingly pleased about the idea of Dominic not being very useful. I think that he prefers it this way, where it’s just me and him.

“Well, at least he’s making your movie,” he says, his finger tracing an idle pattern on my knee. “That’s all that matters, right?”

“Right.”

The lie slips out easily. I find myself studying him, wondering what he'd do if he knew about the folder in my bag. About the choice Dominic has unwittingly laid before me.

"You look tired," Vincent says, breaking the silence. "Come to bed."

I shake my head. "I think I'll stay up a bit. Wind down."

His eyes narrow slightly, but his expression remains pleasant. Perfect. "Don't stay up too late. We still have some planning to do, remember?”

For a moment, I don’t. But then I remember our conversation about that abuser, Gregory Palmer, and how I assured him that I was ready for this.

Ready.

Funny how fast things can change.

He kisses my forehead, his lips lingering a second too long, before disappearing down the hall. I count his footsteps, listening for the soft click of our bedroom door.

When it comes, I reach for my bag. The folder feels heavier now. I pull it out slowly, careful not to bend the edges. Inside are the photos Dominic showed me at dinner, and more. Much more.

If I'm going to do this, I need to do it right.

I head into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine. Then, quietly, I grab the typewriter from my office, and set myself up at the coffee table.

The folder is open, crime scene photos spread out in a grotesque fan.

I pick up the first one. A woman, maybe thirty, her body crumpled in a bathtub. Blood has turned the water pink, almost beautiful in a sickening way. According to the notes, she was strangled first, then placed in the water to make it look like a suicide. But there was so much more to the story of her, like the evidence of an angry boyfriend in her text messages.

I close my eyes, trying to picture it. The killer entering her apartment. The sound of her breath catching when she realizes she's not alone. The struggle, brief but violent.

Nothing.

Just the familiar void, the darkness where images should be. My aphantasia, the curse I've lived with my entire life, refuses to yield even now. Without Vincent, without the visceral reality of standing at the edge of death, the scenes won't come.

I open my eyes, frustrated. I felt the urge to write before. So this should work. It has to work.

I press my fingers to the keys of the typewriter, willing the words to flow.

The killer watches her from the doorway. She doesn't notice him at first, too busy with the mundane ritual of her evening bath. Steam rises around her, clouding the mirrors, making the world soft and blurry.

The words come. Slowly. Painfully. But they come.

He steps into the bathroom. The floor creaks. Her eyes snap open, but it's too late. His hands are already reaching for her throat.

I stop, reading what I've written. It's... fine. Competent, even. But it doesn't sing. Doesn't have that raw edge that makes my readers unable to stop turning pages.

It feels hollow, second-hand.

Maybe because it is.

I could hear the scream in my head now, but it sounded like someone else's story, not mine. It sounded like Dominic’s story.

I force myself to keep typing, grinding out one word after another. The stack of pages grows, but with each paragraph, the doubt grows too.

Am I doing this wrong? Maybe I need more details, more psychological insight. I read deeper into the psychological profiles, focusing on the suspect. The violence suggests something deeper. A personal grudge. Maybe something she did to him?

I try again, the minutes ticking past slowly. It’s better, admittedly, but it’s still not right. It’s still not mine. I just know that if I published this, my readers and fans would think that I used a ghostwriter or that I crumpled under the pressure of the movie deal.

I’m not sure how that’s something you can recover from.

It’s only when I glance up at the clock that I realize how late it is. It's nearly three in the morning, my eyes feel like pins and needles, and despite the work I put in, I barely have two pages.

Shit.

I bury my hands in my face, digging my fingers into my skull, trying to ease the pounding headache that has formed overnight. But as much as I want to sit and rest, I can’t afford to. Vincent will be up soon, and if he sees all the photos and all the confidential notes and reports, then he'll have a whole lot of questions.

Putting away the typewriter and hiding the folder and its contents in my bag, I head for the bedroom and climb into the sheets. Thankfully, Vincent’s breathing is deep and steady, one arm flung across my pillow like he fell asleep waiting for me.

A moment of deja vu hits me.

How many times had I come back from the office just to see Stephen like this?

The thought is interrupted by Vincent’s arm suddenly reaching and curling around my waist, pulling me closer.

“You smell nice,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice thick with sleep.

“What?”

His eyes are still closed, but there’s the faintest smile on his lips. “Ink. You’ve been writing.”

“Not very well,” I say quietly.

He hums and interlaces his fingers with mine. His breath warm against my face, he whispers one last thing before he falls back asleep.

“It’s okay. You just need fresh inspiration.”

THIRTEEN

LUNA

It's nearly noon by the time I get up. One look in the mirror tells me everything I need to know about last night, and for a fleeting second, I wonder if a shower might help. But even that moment of hope doesn't last. I already know it won't.

With a heavy sigh, I leave the bedroom. The house is quiet, save for the steady hum and beeping of my mother's medical equipment. I follow the sound to her room, where she lies in bed, eyes locked on the same invisible point on the ceiling, as always.

"Morning, Mom. Sleep okay?"

No response. Of course not.

"Yeah. Me either."

I cross the room and sit beside her, curling my fingers around her hand. When I was little, she always had a knack for sensing my mood no matter how hard I tried to hide it, no matter how much I practiced schooling my expression. She just knew.

Years have passed and a lot has changed between us, but I like to think that instinct's still there. And maybe that's why I talk to her now. Because the idea of her being stuck like this, unable to understand what's making her daughter sad—it gets to me. It opens me up.

"I don't know if I told you," I say, "but there's this guy who wants to turn one of my books into a movie. Sounds great, right? Only catch is… it has to be something new. Bigger. Better. More inspired than everything before. And that's the one they'll make."

Even if I didn't have aphantasia, even if I could imagine her smiling back at me with pride, the rhythmic blips and mechanical breathing of her machines keep me grounded in reality.

I frown as I notice a tear slipping from her eyes. “Mom?”

Something in me breaks a little when I realize that she isn’t going to be able to tell me what’s wrong. All I can do is lean forward, give her a kiss, and wipe her tears away.

“I know. Everything’s so stressful. I’m dealing with it, though.”

I pause, wanting to tell her about the man I saw stalking me at the literary gala. But then I’d have to tell her that he broke into the house. She's already trapped in her body. The last thing I want to do is make her feel unsafe, when there's absolutely nothing she can do about it.

So quietly, I think about the fact that cops haven't shown up on the doorstep yet. That meant he wants something. But the question is what?

I let out a bitter sigh. He probably wants to blackmail me. Honestly, I wish he'd just do it already. Ask for the money and let me pay him off and be done with all this so that I could focus on more important things. Like Dominic and this movie deal.

But the part of me that still clings to instinct, the part that's survived everything, whispers the truth.

Guys like him? They don't just go away.

I glance down at my mother's face. I don't tell her the thought that pops into my mind: I might have to tell Vincent.

Instead, I plant a kiss on her forehead and whisper that I'll see her later.

By the time I reach my office, that knot in my chest hasn’t loosened. I sit at my desk, boot up my laptop, and take another look at the screenshot I took of the bald man with the heavy brow and empty eyes from the viral video.

I know what I need to do. I've put it off for too long.

The list of private investigators I'd compiled sits in the top drawer of my desk, hidden beneath stacks of meaningless paperwork. I'd researched them carefully, looking for someone discreet, someone who wouldn't ask too many questions. Out of everyone, the name that came up as the most reputable and most expensive was Carl Worthy.

I dial his number, half-expecting voicemail. Instead, a gruff voice answers on the second ring.

“Worthy.”

"Mr. Worthy,” I say, keeping my voice steady, professional. "My name is Luna Harrow. I’m looking for a PI, but need some special… discretion.”

A pause. "The author?"

I expect him to sound surprised, or even impressed, that a famous author wanted his services. That's how it had been with the gardeners I'd contacted. But instead, he just sounds like he’s checking off a bingo list.

"Yes."

I hear a scratch of pen and paper, and I wonder if he really is checking off a bingo card.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Harrow?"

I take a deep breath. "I need you to identify someone for me. Discreetly."

“Yes, you said." The way he says it, it’s as if it's something he's proven a thousand times.

I explain the situation in broad strokes. The gala and the man watching me. I let him know that I feel like I’m being stalked, but I don’t go as far as to say that my home has been broken into, and certainly not as far as to tell him about the missing photo.

“I’ve got a picture of him,” I say. “Can you find out who he is?”

“That’s all you want from me? A name and a number?”

“Yeah, that’s all.”

“You don’t want me to go the extra step and… discourage him?”

“You do that?”

“For discretionary clients, yes.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good to know, but no, I don’t need you to go that far. Actually, just make sure he doesn’t even know you exist. It’s important to me.”

“Okay. Send over the picture. I’ll see what I can find.”

I send the photo in a text message, then wait, phone pressed to my ear, as I hear him opening the image.

"Huh," he says after a moment. "He looks familiar."

My heart skips. "You know him?"

"Not personally. But I've seen him around. Let me work my contacts, see what I can dig up."

"How long will that take?"

"With a face like this? A day, maybe two at most." He pauses. "I'll call you as soon as I have something solid."

We hang up, and for the first time in days, I feel like I'm doing something productive. Taking control instead of just reacting. It's a good feeling, even if probably temporary.

I tuck the phone away and head back to the living room, already planning what I'll tell Vincent if he asks where I've been. But the excuse dies on my lips when I see him.

He's sitting at the coffee table with the folder from Dominic open in front of him. The crime scene photos are spread out, his fingers tracing the edge of the most brutal one: the man with his skull caved in.

My stomach drops.

"Vincent."

He looks up slowly, his expression unreadable. "These are interesting."

My mind races, searching for an explanation, a story, anything I can say. “They're for research.”

My words come too quickly, and sound too defensive.

"Research." He turns the word over, testing it like an unfamiliar flavor. "From Dominic?"

I nod, moving closer, trying to gauge his mood. "He thought they might help with the movie."

Vincent picks up one of the photos, studying it with an expert's eye. The woman in the bathtub. "And this inspires you."

It's not a question. More like an accusation.

"I'm trying something different," I say, settling on the couch beside him. Not too close, but not distant enough to be obvious. "For the movie."

His gaze shifts from the photo to me, his eyes dark and piercing. “What we do doesn’t inspire you anymore?”

The question hangs in the air between us, heavy and dangerous. I feel like I'm balancing on a knife's edge, one wrong word away from blood being drawn.

"Of course it does," I say, forcing a smile. "This is just... an experiment. Something I wanted to see if I could do."

Vincent sets the photo down, his movements careful, deliberate. Then he reaches for my hand, his touch gentle as his fingers intertwine with mine.

"If that's what you need." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. There's something there I can't read, something cold and calculating that makes my skin crawl. "As long as you're still writing. That's all that matters, right?"

"Right," I echo, the word tasting like ash on my tongue.

We sit in silence for a moment, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. I need to get out of here, need to put some distance between us before I say something I'll regret.

"I think I'm going to go for a drive," I say, untangling my fingers from his. "Clear my head a bit."

Vincent nods, the perfect picture of understanding. "Take all the time you need."

I grab my keys and my phone, not bothering to change out of the sweats I slept in. I just need to be gone, to be somewhere he isn't, even if it's just for an hour.

The Range Rover feels like a sanctuary as I pull out of the driveway, the engine's purr drowning out the thoughts spinning in my head. I drive aimlessly, taking turns at random, letting the distance grow between me and the house. Between me and Vincent.

It's only when I'm about ten miles out that I notice the car behind me. Dark blue sedan, nondescript. The kind that blends in anywhere. I wouldn't have noticed it at all except it's made the same three turns I have.

Coincidence, maybe. Or maybe not.

I take a sharp right at the next intersection, cutting off another driver who honks angrily. The sedan follows, maintaining a careful distance.

My pulse quickens. I speed up, pushing the Range Rover faster than I should on these residential streets. At the next light, I hang a sudden left. But the sedan is still there, two cars back now. Definitely following me.

It has to be him. The man from the gala.

I throw on my hazard lights and veer off to the side of the road, slamming the car into park. I get out and stare at the car, waiting for the car to pass.

But it doesn’t.

Instead, it pulls into a nearby McDonald’s and calmly gets into the drive-through line.

My breathing is tight, with short, quick breaths. Trembling, I wait, ignoring the cars passing by and honking their horns at me. There’s no way that the car wasn’t following me. Absolutely no⁠—

The car exits the line, pulls into a parking space, and a teenage girl gets out, heading inside.

It’s not him.

I breathe out, shuddering with relief. A laugh escapes me as I climb back into my vehicle and start back off down the road. I drive another fifteen minutes, taking a winding route back toward home, watching carefully for any sign of another car, just in case someone is following me. But there’s nothing. Nobody’s following me.

My phone buzzes as I pull back into the driveway. I don’t need to check to know it’s Stephen’s sister. Again. I let it go to voicemail, too wound up from the drive to deal with that right now.

But the voicemail is hooked up to the Range Rover’s bluetooth, and the voicemail plays for me anyway.

"Luna, it's Melissa again. I know you're there. I know you're getting these messages. Stephen wouldn't just abandon the family like this. He wouldn't just disappear. Call me back. Don’t make me keep calling.”

There’s no mistaking the tone in her voice. She’s threatening me. I nearly laugh with disbelief as I delete the voicemail. Another problem, another threat, another thing to add onto the weight on my shoulders.

I rest my head against the steering wheel, suddenly exhausted. Between Vincent, Dominic and the movie deal, the stalker who won’t go away, and now Melissa with the threats… it feels like the walls are closing in.

And I’m running out of room to breathe.

FOURTEEN

VINCENT

I listen to the rhythm of my footsteps pounding against pavement as I run. My heart hammers in my chest, sweat dripping down my brow, sticking my dark hair to my forehead. The wind roars in my ears, but not nearly as loudly as my blood.

Those photos still burn in my mind—broken people, limbs twisted at impossible angles, faces frozen in final terror. The psychological reports, the detective's scribbled notes, the cold transcripts from interviews. Dominic hadn’t gotten them legally. That much was obvious. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that Luna had them now.

And more importantly, she'd put words to paper. They were better than she realized, but nowhere near what she was capable of. Nowhere near what we could create together.

Dominic, whether he knew it or not, was close to ruining everything I'd built these past few years. Taking the blazing fire that was my soon-to-be wife and reducing her to a smoldering chunk of coal. A mediocre writer pulling from second-hand horror instead of a real author who’d witnessed the real thing.

My blood burns hot in my veins. I want nothing more than to run straight to where Dominic lives—and yes, I know exactly where the bastard lives. I've checked—and murder him. Maybe bash the raw tapes of his awful films into his skull until he makes the same squelching sounds as the pitiful actors in his movies.

But I don't.

I don't because he matters to her, and that means, insufferable as it sounds, he matters to me.

For now.

Besides, there are ways to correct the path Luna's unknowingly stumbling down. And I, being the ever-faithful pilot, will steer her in the right direction. My scowl softens as I slow to a jog, then to a walk, a smile spreading across my face.

The buildings ahead come into view, and among them, I spot the entrance to the storage facility. I check my watch. I have enough time to check on my wedding present to my lovely fiancée and get back before she suspects anything.

The attendant’s desk is empty as I pass, same as always. The concrete hallways are silent except for the echo of my footsteps and the distant hum of fluorescent lights. The cold metal of the key feels right in my hand as I approach unit 237.

The lock clicks open.

I slide the door up.

And I’m greeted by the echo of sweet, muffled screams.

FIFTEEN

LUNA

The sound of the shower stops, leaving behind an eerie silence broken only by the muffled drips of water hitting tile. Vincent's done. I should care more about this, but my attention is locked on the TV screen, where another woman makes the worst decision of her life on camera.

I'm nestled in the couch, wrapped in a blanket that's seen better days, wearing sweats with a coffee stain I've been pretending isn't there. The Newlywed plays out its predictable but addicting drama—beautiful strangers marrying each other at first sight.

I shake my head in disbelief as I watch. The men are attractive and wealthy, sure, but the women must be certifiably crazy to commit to something like that. To sign their lives away to someone they don't know. I mean, their chosen partners could be murderers or something, and they would never know.

The irony isn't lost on me.

"Hey."

I glance toward the hallway. Vincent stands there, hair still damp, dressed in black jeans and a maroon shirt that clings to his shoulders in all the right ways. He looks good. Too good for a night in.

"Where are you going?" I ask, already knowing I won't like the answer.

He smiles, that practiced, perfect smile that never quite reaches his eyes. His fingers ruffle his wet hair back into position with practiced ease. "You mean, where are we going."

I frown, eyes flickering from him to the TV and back. On screen, a bride is crying. Happy tears, she claims. The mascara tracks down her cheeks suggest otherwise. “What? We're going somewhere?"

"Of course." Vincent leans against the doorframe, casual and confident. "I think it's time we got out of the house. How do you feel about a late night date?"

My heart lifts, and for a moment, just a moment, all the troubles lingering in the back of my mind disappear. My lips curl into a genuine smile, the first one in what felt like forever.

"Late night date, huh?"

This is the thing about Vincent. He always knows what I need, usually before even I know.

“Come on, get up." He nods toward the TV where another bride is signing her life away. "You can find out who regrets their decision later."

"Where are we going?"

He shrugs. "Chinese?"

Perfect. I don't even have to change. Vincent knows what I'm thinking—he always does—because a soft chuckle escapes him and he shakes his head ruefully. I abandon my nest of blankets and join him, leaving the TV couples to their manufactured destinies.

Together, we head outside. The night air is crisp against my skin, the stars obscured by wisps of clouds that look like pulled cotton. Vincent opens the Range Rover door for me, a gesture so normal it almost hurts.

He starts driving, and somehow I find myself telling him all about The Newlywed. The words pour out of me, details I didn't even realize I'd noticed: the bride's nervous tick, the groom's wandering eyes, all of it.

It must be fifteen or twenty minutes before the rhythm of the road changes, the smooth asphalt giving way to something rougher. I glance out the window, finally noticing the unfamiliar surroundings. We're not on the way to any Chinese restaurant I know.

"Did you take a wrong turn?"

"Hmm?" Vincent's voice is casual, distracted, but his knuckles are white against the steering wheel.

"I think Golden Dragon is over on Broadway." I scan the empty street, dark buildings looming on either side. "We're on Chester Road. This doesn't go anywhere except—" My voice trails off as realization hits me like ice water.

The community college. Where Gregory Palmer teaches his Thursday night class.

Slowly, Vincent turns to look at me, the passing streetlights casting his face in flickering shadows and harsh yellow glows. His eyes gleam with that familiar, dark glint.

"Vincent?" My voice sounds small, even to me.

"Yes, Luna?" His smile widens, all teeth now.

My stomach drops as we pull into the far corner of the faculty parking lot, where my research showed the cameras have blind spots. The clock on the dashboard reads 9:15 PM. Palmer’s evening class ends in fifteen minutes.

"What are we doing here?" I ask, though some part of me already knows. Already understands that this was never about Chinese food or date night.

Vincent kills the engine, and the sudden silence is deafening. "I thought we could congratulate Professor Palmer on his teaching career." He reaches beneath his seat, pulling out a small black bag. "Give him a proper send-off."

He unzips the bag just enough for me to see what's inside. Gloves. Duct tape. A knife that catches the dim light coming through the windshield.

"After all," he whispers, "you picked him yourself. He hurts his wife. His children. And…” his smile turns razor-sharp, “he doesn't like your books."

A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the night air. This is what I wanted, isn't it? To take control? To make the decisions?

So why does it suddenly feel like I'm not in control at all?

"Vincent!" I hiss, leaning toward him over the console. “I didn’t want to do this.”

“Didn’t you?” His voice is soft but cutting. "The notes were thorough, Luna. They surprised me, taking into account nearly everything. The blind spots. His schedule. Even the mention of his drinking habits."

I hate to admit it, but a thrill passes through me at the fact that I surprised Vincent with my capabilities. The idea that he, a seasoned murderer, could be impressed by me—someone who's never even held the knife—is frustratingly satisfying. Like praise from a teacher I despise but secretly want to impress.

"Look, is this about the stuff that Dominic gave me?"

His smile sours, an ugly sneer etching itself into his expression. "You mean his attempt at inspiring you?" He spits the word like it's poison. "It's good, I'll give him that. Lots of wonderful details there that you wouldn't have with this. But the heart and soul of your books isn't in quotes and reports and snapshots of the scenes."

He leans closer, his voice dropping. "It's not taken from the viewpoint of the survivors. It's always taken from the viewpoint of the killer. Your words are found in the warm blood pooling beneath the bodies, in the splatter of it across your face." His eyes are fever-bright now. "That's where your best work comes from."

Everything in me wants to fight him, to reach across this center console and slap him. Maybe it's because I know how right he is. The experience of my attempt to write with Dominic’s materials at hand was horrendous, and truth be told, the idea of a future writing in that way sounded... miserable. Like trying to capture the ocean after only seeing photos of it. But it wasn't lost on me how these murders put so much of my life at risk.

Without these murders, a stalker who is after me wouldn't have a photo of me standing over a body.

Vincent's face softens as he reaches across the divide between us and takes my hand. I see the dark glint in his eyes begin to devolve, that obsession with me starting to fade. It's replaced by something else, something far more human, and yet no less monstrous.

Love.

"Listen." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "If you want me to turn this car on and drive away, then I will." The words sound genuine, his voice stripped of its earlier edge. "Everything I do is for you. I hope you know that."

I chew on the inside of my lip as I stare back into his eyes. Inside, I'm warring, logic clawing against desire, and it's beginning to lose the fight. With a deep, heavy sigh, I close my eyes. I don't say anything, but Vincent's gotten to know me well enough that he doesn't need words.

We'll stay.

The soft chatter of voices interrupts us, and we both look out through the windshield. Students start to leave the building, making their way toward their cars. Most of them seem like they’re older, working professionals who are trying to get their degrees after a full day of work.

Quietly, we wait for them to all leave, until the only two cars that remain in the parking lot is ours and an old, beaten Honda Civic parked in the far corner.

It doesn’t take long for a pot-bellied man with slicked-back hair to exit the building and start to cross the parking lot, keys jingling in his hand. It’s Palmer. He looks worn, tired, like he's disappointed that this is his life now. His shoulders sag under the weight of his cheap blazer, his face set in permanent lines of contempt.

He's probably already thinking about that drink he'll get before he goes home, where he'll find his wife and children asking where he's been, like they don't know that he's out slaving his life away teaching useless people about psychology. A topic that none of them will ever use, because they could never understand the human mind the way he does.

The way we do.

Vincent's hand slips from mine as he reaches for the door handle. "Ready?"

I nod, though my heart hammers against my ribs like it wants to escape what's coming. What I've chosen.

This is what I wanted. My choice, my victim, my story.

As we step out into the cool night air, I can already feel the words forming, waiting to spill onto the page. Can already imagine the reviews: Miss Murder's most intense work yet.

Normally, Vincent is the one who takes the lead, knowing that I'd prefer to sit back and watch. But for some reason, I don't want him to this time.

"Mr. Palmer!" My voice rings out across the parking lot, startling the professor. He looks back, his gaze flickering between us and his vehicle, calculating the distance like prey assessing an escape route.

"I'm afraid class is over. I'll have to answer any questions next time." He starts to turn away from us, keys clutched tightly in his fist.

I exchange a glance with Vincent, noticing something tucked into the back of his pants. It looks like a blunt object of some kind, but I can't make out what it is. He nods, giving me the chance to take back the control I so desperately crave over my life.

"Hang on, we don't have questions."

Palmer pauses, his shoulders sagging like this is the last thing he wants to deal with. But he turns back toward us, not realizing that it will be the last thing he deals with.

"It's late. I really need to be going." His voice is clipped, impatient. The voice of a man who thinks his time is worth more than yours.

We cross the distance until we're standing only a foot away. While Vincent scans the area to make sure we're alone, I raise my hands to draw the professor's attention.

"We understand. But there was an opportunity we wanted to offer you."

He frowns at me, eyes narrowing beneath bushy brows. "Hang on, you're not one of my students, are you? I don't think I've ever seen you before."

A beat passes, and then his expression shifts. "You look familiar though. Aren't you that author? What's her name? Miss M⁠—"

He stops mid-sentence. His eyes go wide, his gaze slowly shifting from me to Vincent, like he's finally realizing which of us is the real threat. But it's too late. Vincent's smile spreads wide as he pulls the object from the back of his pants—a short metal pipe wrapped in electrical tape—and smashes it into the side of Palmer’s face.

The professor doesn't even have a chance to cry out before he crumples onto the black pavement, his body landing with a heavy, muted thud. A single drop of blood splashes against my shoe.

Though I wasn't the one who swung the blow, I'm panting, suddenly breathless. Words are bursting forward in my mind, stronger than ever. They're filled with colors and emotion and desperate desires. Desires that I could put to page and know my readers would sit and not move until they'd finished my book. Desires that I know would make for an Academy Award-winning movie too, the likes of which Dominic could only dream of.

"Quick, grab his legs."

Vincent's voice snaps me out of my reverie, and I do as he says. It's awkward and heavier than I expected, but Vincent and I manage to carry his limp body back to the Range Rover, where Vincent opens the trunk to reveal a tarp-covered area. We roll him into the tarp, and Vincent quickly and efficiently binds him with duct tape, sealing his mouth shut.

He pats the professor's pockets down, searching for weapons, but there are none. The only weapon Palmer ever had were the weight of his meaty fists, and the only people who'd ever suffered them were his wife and children. They'd be free from that now. They'd never have to worry about him again.

A sobering thought cuts through the dark thrill of it all.

The wife never worked. She was a stay-at-home mom. I had no idea if she was a good person or not, but the thing about not having money is, it tends to make bad out of good. Maybe there was some way I could anonymously donate money to her, so she would have enough to live on until she got her life sorted. Call it her proceeds for contribution toward my novel.

I make a note in the back of my mind and push it all away as we slam the trunk shut. The sound echoes across the empty parking lot. I wipe my hands on my coffee-stained sweats, though there’s nothing on them. Not yet.

Vincent looks at me, a strange mix of pride and hunger in his expression. I can tell there’s so much he wants to say, but instead, he reaches for me and presses his lips against mine. It’s the kind of strong, forceful kind of kiss that when he pulls away, I’m left breathless and wanting for more.

He points toward the Civic. “Take the car, follow me. I’ve got a place where we can finish this.”

I frown, glancing back toward the ugly Civic and shaking my head. “I don’t want to drive that. You drive it.”

He gives me an exasperated sigh. “Luna. I’ll be leading the way, and I’m going to need the GPS. That Civic doesn’t have that. The Range Rover does.”

“Why don’t you just use your phone?”

“Because I left it at home. I always do when I go out like this.”

Shit.

My phone. I didn’t even think about the fact that it could be traced back to this location if the authorities ever suspected me. I make a mental note of that too; it’s a good detail to include in the book.

Finally, I look back at the Civic and do as Vincent says. I cross the parking lot to where the professor's body had dropped. His keys glint under the harsh lot lights, and his bag lay half open. I gather both and approach his car.

It's strange.

A sudden prickle dances along the back of my neck, like I'm being watched. My gaze snaps up, scanning the entirety of the parking lot and the nearby building. The windows stare back, dark and empty. A lamppost flickers once, throwing momentary shadows that make my heart stutter.

Goosebumps crawl over my skin, drawing my attention to the shaded woods at the far end of the parking lot. It's too dark to see clearly, but I think I see a silhouette. An outline of someone standing perfectly still among the trees.

My blood freezes.

I narrow my gaze and lean forward, trying to make sense of it. But when I do, there's no one there. Just dark trees and shadows playing tricks on my already frayed nerves.

The Range Rover's engine turns to life, and Vincent drives across the parking lot, stopping beside me. He lowers the window, the soft hum of the car breaking the eerie silence.

"What is it?" he asks, noticing my expression.

My tongue darts across my lips, licking a nervous bead of sweat that tastes of fear and excitement.

"The key not working?" he asks.

I look away and quickly jam the key into the keyhole, turning it to the click of the lock. The door opens easily enough, and the stench of alcohol comes out in a nauseating wave—whiskey and desperation, the perfume of a man who hates himself almost as much as he hates everyone else.

"Everything okay?" Vincent asks, his eyes sharper now, studying me.

I look back at the woods, unable to stop from scanning the darkness one more time. I can't help but feel that the stalker is out there, watching. Waiting.

But there’s no way he is. Just paranoia, turning shadows into monsters.

"Yeah," I say, forcing the tremor from my voice. "Everything's okay."

He follows my gaze toward the woods, not seeing anything, and looks back at me. "Okay. Follow me."

A muffled groan sounds from the trunk, and Vincent looks back at it, lips curling into a predatory grin.

I push the creepy feeling away and hone in on the dark, almost erotic thrill passing through me. I smile back at Vincent, feeling something shift inside me. Something breaking free. And as I climb into the driver's seat of Palmer's car, gripping the steering wheel where his hands were just minutes ago, I realize Dominic was wrong. This isn't about elevating my work.

It's about owning it.

SIXTEEN

LUNA

It takes about thirty minutes to get to wherever Vincent is taking us. He's taken a winding path, and I'm not sure if it's because he felt that same sensation I did of being watched or if it's because it's his habit to shake anybody who's following. But by the time we pull in front of an abandoned house, I have all the confidence that we're alone.

That eerie feeling of being stalked is finally gone.

By the time I'm out of the Civic, Vincent has opened the trunk and carried a once-again unconscious Palmer into the house. I glance around, checking to make sure that none of the other house lights are on. The last thing we need is for someone to see my car and Palmer's, and make note of my license plate. That wouldn't be any good for me if the body were ever found.

Making a snap decision, I get back into the driver's seat, drive the car around the block, and park it on the lawn of another abandoned house. The walk back is eerie, and without a jacket, I'm left feeling a chill that seeps through the sweats I'm wearing. I quicken my pace until I'm back.

I knock on the door.

It creaks as Vincent opens it. "Come in."

His voice seems loud in the quiet night, and I glance around nervously.

He smiles. "These homes are all empty. They've been forced out by the city."

"Why?"

"They said there was some road planning, but nothing's happened in the past five years. My guess is someone needed to make some money disappear, and this was their way of doing it."

I shake my head. "That's messed up."

"That's politics," he says with a shrug. He turns back into the house.

The interior is a skeleton of what was once a home. Wallpaper peels from the walls like dead skin, revealing the rotting drywall beneath. Water stains map the ceiling in brown archipelagos, and the floorboards creak with each step, threatening to give way. In the corner, a child's broken toy—a plastic truck missing two wheels—sits abandoned, a reminder of the life that once filled these rooms before the city's empty promises chased it away.

Vincent opens another door, the hinges squealing in protest. He flicks on a flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness like a knife, and leads the way downstairs. The basement is even colder than the outside, and the stench of damp causes me to hold a hand over my nose.

To my surprise, there's a desk set up, with my typewriter case waiting for me to open it. Across from it is Palmer, his body sagging against the chains hammered into the concrete walls.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins with such force that my hands shake with anticipation. I take my seat at the desk, unclip the latches on the side of the typewriter case, and open it, drawing a deep breath and a smile at the sight of my black typewriter. With practiced hands, I slide the carriage back and feed a crisp sheet of paper into the platen, securing it with a satisfying click.

"Ready?" Vincent asks, standing over Palmer with something that gleams dully in the flashlight's beam.

I nod, fingers poised over the keys.

This is it. The typewriter keys wait beneath my fingertips, cold and patient. Ready to transform blood into ink, death into art.

Ready to tell the truth in a way that only Miss Murder can.

Vincent sets down the flashlight, positioning it to cast long shadows across the basement. He approaches Palmer, whose head lolls forward against his chest. With casual cruelty, Vincent grabs a bucket from the corner and splashes cold water taken from who knows where across the professor's face.

Palmer sputters awake, coughing and gasping. His eyes dart wildly around the basement before landing on Vincent, then me, then back on Vincent. Confusion clouds his expression, then fear, then understanding.

"Wha-what is this?" His voice cracks, lips red and swollen from the duct tape that had sealed his mouth. "Why am I here? Is this about money? I don't have much, but⁠—“

"It's not about money," Vincent says, his voice eerily gentle. He stands back, regarding Palmer like he's an interesting specimen pinned to a board. "It's about inspiration."

Palmer's gaze shifts to me, recognition dawning in his eyes. "You're that author. The one they call Miss Murder."

A thrill shoots through me at the sound of my name on his lips. The way he says it—half accusation, half prayer—makes my fingers press instinctively against the typewriter keys.

"Please," Palmer whimpers, pulling against the chains. "I have kids."

"Kids you beat," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "A wife you terrorize."

His eyes widen, then narrow. "You don't know anything about my life."

"I know enough," I reply, surprised by the coldness in my voice. I can feel it happening—the transformation, the revelation. The walls of my mind cracking open, letting something dark and hungry seep through.

Vincent turns to me, his head tilted slightly, a curious smile playing at his lips. "Luna," he says, and the sound of my real name in this context feels strangely intimate. "I think you should choose."

"Choose?"

He steps aside, revealing the array of weapons laid out on a small table. A hammer. A screwdriver. A hunting knife with a serrated edge. A thin wire garrote.

"What would you like me to use?"

Palmer begins to scream, the sound muffled by the thick basement walls but piercing in the enclosed space. His chains rattle as he thrashes against them, the metal links biting into his wrists.

I stare at the weapons, my body frozen in place. This wasn't part of the plan. At least, not my plan. I was supposed to watch, to witness, to absorb the scene and transform it through words. But choosing? That makes me a participant in a way I've never been before.

"I don't…" I start, my voice barely audible. "I can't…”

"You can," Vincent encourages softly. "You picked him, Luna. Finish what you started."

I stand, legs trembling slightly as I approach the table. My hand hovers over the weapons, not quite touching any of them. The hammer looks too brutal. The wire too cold, too calculated. The screwdriver too… ordinary.

Palmer's pleas grow more desperate. "Please, I'll do anything. I have money in a safe at home. I'll change, I swear I'll change⁠—"

My fingers twitch toward the knife, then pull back. The serrated edge gleams under the flashlight beam, promising something both quick and lingering.

"I..." I look back at Vincent, uncertainty crawling through me.

"It's okay," he says, his voice gentle but insistent. "You don't have to use it. Just choose it."

I reach out again, my hand trembling. This time, my fingers close around the handle of the knife. The weight of it surprises me. It’s heavier than it looks. The serrated edge catches the light, the teeth hungry for flesh.

"This one," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Vincent smiles, a flash of pride in his eyes as he takes the knife from me. "Perfect choice."

I return to my seat at the typewriter, fingers finding their position as Vincent approaches Palmer, who's still screaming, begging now, his words tumbling over each other in desperation.

Vincent moves with practiced efficiency, and I don't look away. I can't. The scene unfolds before me like it's being projected directly into my mind, bypassing my aphantasia completely.

Blood blooms across Palmer's shirt, a dark flower opening in the night.

The words flow now, faster than they ever have before. My fingers fly across the keys, the mechanical clack-clack a heartbeat beneath the sounds of Palmer's fading cries.

And then silence.

Vincent's hands are red, but his face is serene. "Come here," he says, his voice low and urgent.

I rise from my seat, drawn toward him like a moth to flame. He takes my hand, pulls me to where Palmer slumps, eyes half-open but seeing nothing.

Vincent guides my fingers to Palmer's wrist. "Feel it," he whispers against my ear. "Feel the life draining away."

I press my fingers against the pulse point. It's barely there, a ghost of a rhythm beneath cooling skin.

I close my eyes.

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

The beat grows fainter, and my brow furrows as I try to keep hold on the feel of his pulse. It takes a second, but I feel it, at the very edge of recognition.

Beat.

Beat.

Beat…

Then nothing.

He’s dead.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?" Vincent murmurs.

It is. The power of it hits me like a drug, sharp and sweet and terrible.

He reaches for my hand again, drawing it toward the knife still buried in Palmer's chest.

"Touch it," he urges. "Complete the circle."

I recoil, pulling back instinctively as the thrill threatens to leave me entirely. This is different. This crosses a line.

"It's okay," Vincent says, letting me go, his smile understanding but disappointed. "Next time."

I breathe a sigh of relief, thankful that Vincent didn’t force it on me. With trembling hands, I sit back down in front of my typewriter, and the thrill of creation returns.

The words are right there, crystal clear and perfect. I type furiously, trying to capture the moment before it fades—the exact sensation of feeling a life slip away beneath my fingertips.

The diamond on my engagement ring catches the flashlight beam, casting tiny rainbows across the page.

I've never written like this before. The words aren't just flowing; they're pouring out of me, violent and beautiful. This is what I've been missing. This is what Dominic's crime scene photos could never give me.

This is real.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, the sound jarring against the typewriter's steady rhythm. I ignore it, lost in the world I'm creating.

It buzzes again. And again. Insistent.

Vincent glances over. "You should check that."

With a frustrated sigh, I pull the phone out.

It’s an unknown number.

SEVENTEEN

LUNA

"Hello?" My voice sounds hollow in the basement's damp air.

"Ms. Harrow? Carl Worthy. Sorry for the early hour."

I blink, momentarily confused. Early hour? My eyes find Vincent, who's washing his hands in a rusted utility sink in the corner, the water running pink.

"What time is it?" I ask.

"Just past six in the morning."

Six? I quickly glance at my phone, unbelieving. The screen confirms it: 6:08 AM. We've been here all night.

I put the phone back to my ear.

"Ms. Harrow?"

"I'm here," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. Vincent turns toward me, eyebrows raised in silent question. I wave him off, mouthing "book stuff" before turning away. "Do you have something for me?"

"I do." His voice is all business, no hint that he's aware he's interrupted something. "Got your guy's name. Guy from the photo."

My heart skips. I glance nervously at Vincent, who's still watching me. "Yes, the, uh... character research," I say, forcing a casual tone. "You found a good reference?"

Vincent's interest seems to wane. He turns back to the sink.

"Marcus Reed," Worthy says, oblivious to my coded language. "Ex-detective. Left the force under... interesting circumstances. These days he works private, but off the books. Not registered."

"That's perfect for what I need," I say carefully, keeping my voice neutral. "Is there a way I can incorporate these details you've found?"

Worthy pauses. "Are you speaking in code right now?"

"Yes, exactly," I murmur, turning away from Vincent. "I'll need that resource for the manuscript."

"I'll send his contact info with my invoice," Worthy continues, catching on. “Do you want me to keep digging into him? I could always deter him, if you like.”

"No," I say quickly. "This is enough. Thank you. I’ll let you know if there’s anything else I need.”

The last thing I need is for another person to find out about the photo of me. I hang up before he can ask any more questions. When I turn, Vincent is still watching me, his gaze curious but not suspicious.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"Fine," I lie. “Just someone I’ve paid to help me out a little bit with some character research.”

He glances toward Palmer. “Character research?”

“Yeah, a uh… scientist.”

A scientist?

He studies me with a curious expression. “A scientist? What kind?”

I blink. “An epidemiologist.”

He pauses, then asks. “That’s interesting. So you’re thinking something along the lines of… what, a pandemic for the movie?”

I clutch onto the idea, pleased that Vincent came up with something that made some kind of sense. “Exactly.”

Vincent looks at Palmer and chuckles. “I wonder if he’d be happy with the change of career.” He looks back at me. “Strange time for them to be calling you though.”

“Yeah, you know, it’s one of the virtual assistants you can hire from overseas. I don’t know. Anyway, what about…” I gesture vaguely toward Palmer’s body, still slumped against the wall, the knife buried to the hilt in his chest.

“Him? I’ll clean up,” Vincent's voice is calm, matter-of-fact. He's done this before. Many times. "You head home. Get some rest. You've had quite a night."

I breathe a sigh of relief that Vincent wasn’t pursuing the topic anymore. After all that he’s done for me, I’m still not entirely sure as to why I haven’t told him about the stalker. Correction, the PI who’s actively investigating me, which is so much worse.

I nod, gathering my things: the typewriter, my pages filled with fresh, vivid words born from Palmer's death. I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs, looking back. Vincent is already working, methodical and focused, dismantling the evidence of what we've done.

What I helped him do.

"How will you get back?" I ask, suddenly realizing I'll be taking the Range Rover. "You're covered in..."

I don't finish the sentence. Don't need to.

Vincent smiles, that easy, charming smile that made me trust him in the first place. "I'll find a way. I always do."

He motions to a small duffel bag in the corner that I hadn't noticed before. "Change of clothes. Cleaning supplies. I’m prepared."

Of course he did. Vincent is nothing if not thorough.

"Get going," he says gently. "I'll see you at home in a few hours."

Before I go, I take the polaroid camera and snap a few shots, stuffing the photos in my bag. These will go straight into the safe. I’d learned my lesson about keeping them anywhere else.

The morning air hits me like a slap as I step outside, the first hints of dawn streaking the sky. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs, trying to clear the damp, coppery scent of the basement from my nose.

In the Range Rover, I sit for a moment, hands on the wheel, staring at nothing. My phone buzzes with a text: Worthy, sending Reed’s contact information and a surprisingly reasonable invoice. I save both, my mind already spinning.

Marcus Reed. Ex-detective turned unlicensed PI.

Which means someone hired him. But who?

I start the engine and pull away from the abandoned house, mind racing as the empty streets blur past my windows. The thin morning light casts everything in shades of gray. Not quite night, not quite day. It’s that in-between hour when the world feels like it's holding its breath.

It could be Alyssa Lake. The thought settles in my chest like a stone. She's been suspiciously quiet lately, especially with the movie deal in play. You'd think America's most ambitious talk show host would be all over that, trying to keep herself from being excluded. Her silence makes no sense.

Unless she's waiting. Building a case. Looking for leverage.

And now she has it—a photo of me at a crime scene, evidence that could destroy everything I've built. The perfect ammunition for her ruthless brand of work.

Or maybe it's Dominic. I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles turning white. He'd mentioned other writers who'd been "less adaptable." Maybe his research goes deeper than just learning about potential collaborators. Maybe he digs for dirt, insurance to keep people in line.

No. My gut says Alyssa. She's got a personality like a vulture, the kind that circles the dying for the best opportunities. This would be her style—patient, calculating, waiting for the perfect moment to drag me back into another segment. The only thing I can imagine being bigger than the movie deal would be the catastrophe that would come from Miss Murder actually being a murderer, after all the claims against her had been supposedly debunked.

My phone buzzes again. I glance down, half-expecting to see Alyssa's name. Instead, it's another text from Worthy with an address for Reed. I swallow hard, the reality of my situation settling over me like a shroud.

The stalker, Marcus Reed, is a professional. He knows what he's doing. And whoever hired him won't stop until they get what they want.

I pull onto my street as the sun finally crests the horizon, bathing everything in a deceptively warm glow. The gravel crunches under my tires as I come to a stop in the driveway. The house looks peaceful, untouched. Like nothing has happened. Like I didn't just help kill a man.

Palmer's dead, his body cooling in that basement while Vincent methodically erases all traces of his existence. In a weird way, he's free now. Free from the traps of his own making: his rage, his cruelty, the pathetic small-mindedness of his life.

I’m almost envious, trapped in this exhausting fight to keep my head above water. I rest my head against the steering wheel, realizing what I have to do in order to keep swimming against this tide.

The driver’s door shuts behind me as I head inside. The steady drone and beep of my mother’s equipment makes me pause in the hallway. Part of me whispers to go to her, to lay next to her and to find comfort in her presence. But I know I can’t do that. I don’t think she’d be happy to see me covered in blood. She’d probably be worried.

I pull myself away from the hallway, from the temptation to seek comfort from someone who can't give it anymore. Instead, I head to the office and add my new photos to the safe. Then, I go straight for the bathroom, stripping off my clothes as I go. I leave them in a heap on the floor—evidence that would need to be destroyed, but that's a problem for later.

The shower sprays over me and I watch as the water at my feet turns pink, then clear. Specks of Palmer's blood, washing away down the drain. So easy. So final. If only everything else could be rinsed away that simply.

As the water heats up, my mind clears. The panic that's been clinging to me since that phone call recedes, replaced by a clear thought.

Marcus Reed. Ex-detective. Unlicensed PI.

A man for hire.

I run my fingers through my hair, working shampoo into a lather that smells like lavender and nothing like that basement. The solution is obvious, isn't it? If Marcus is the type to work outside the system, to cut corners, then he's probably the type who can be bought. Everyone has a price. I just need to figure out his.

A price high enough to get me that photo back into my hands. Back and straight into the fire so that this would never happen again.

I could reach out to Marcus directly. Meet him somewhere public. Make an offer. Simple, clean, maybe even bloodless.

And if that doesn't work?

The water runs over my face, hot now, almost too hot. I don't adjust it. I need the burn, the clarity it brings.

If buying him off doesn’t work, I’ll have to tell Vincent. It would be a last resort, but I'm not naive enough to think I won't use it if necessary. After all, I'm already an accomplice to murder. What's one more step down that path if it means protecting everything I've built, if it means protecting my mother?

I shut off the water and step out, wrapping myself in a towel. The bathroom mirror is fogged, showing only a blurry outline of my face. Just as well. I'm not sure I want to see myself clearly right now.

Back in my bedroom, I pull on clean clothes and open my laptop. I bang out a quick outline for the manuscript I thought of back in that basement. It’s a story darker than anything I've done before. Something that would excite Dominic. I even use a few ideas from his materials, though the bulk of it is still inspired by Gregory Palmer’s unfortunate demise.

By the time I finish, the sun is fully up. I read through what I've outlined, and for the first time in days, I smile. It's good.

I feel balanced. In control. Almost whole.

But it's an illusion, and I know it. I won't truly have control until I deal with the PI. Until I eliminate the threat he poses.

I didn’t come this far, didn’t risk this much, to lose it all now. My mother depends on me. My readers depend on me. And in some strange way, I think Vincent depends on me too.

Once I email the outline to Dominic, I close the laptop and crawl into bed, dropping onto my pillow with a groan of exhaustion. The last thought I have is a simple one.

First, sleep.

Then, Marcus Reed.

As my eyes close, I realize something strange. When Val was a threat, I was terrified. Paralyzed. But now, with Marcus holding photographic evidence that could destroy everything? I’m… calmer.

Don't get me wrong, the thought of him having a photo of me standing over a body still terrifies me. But I'm no longer the meek little lamb I was. I'm not a killer either, like Vincent.

Maybe I'm something worse.

And that, more than anybody that’s hired a PI or a missing photo, is what should really keep me up at night.

EIGHTEEN

VINCENT

Oh, Luna is making such wonderful progress. I nearly pushed her too far by trying to convince her to hold the murder weapon, but that's okay. She felt Palmer's life wisp away, and that would be enough. It's an addictive sensation, one that can only be had in one way: that precious moment when a life fades beneath your fingers.

Perhaps on the next kill we could try her holding the weapon. After all, it seems there will be quite a few for that fool’s movie. I get the sense that she finally has her head wrapped around what kind of plot she wants, and that, more than anything, pleases me. She should be in the driver's seat. Not me. And certainly not him.

The head of my shovel strikes the ground, a muffled thud echoing into the morning light. The dirt out here is tough and sturdy. Not like elsewhere, where the ground seems happy to give way and accept whatever offerings I might bring. Here, the world is resistant to change, like it's bitter that this city moved all its people away and now it feels abandoned. But it doesn't need to feel that way for much longer. I have a body to return to it.

One more body, I correct myself, my eyes shifting to where I know the others lie.

This patch of earth holds secrets that would destroy Luna if she knew. Not just Palmer. Not just nameless victims who fueled her books. But others. Special ones. The ones I chose just for me.

I shake my head and force myself to focus. Though there's more chance of my being struck by lightning than being caught out here with a body, I have places to be, things to do. And I've already spent too long without sleep. I don't like to be tired. Tired people make mistakes, and me, I don't make mistakes.

Once the hole is dug deep enough, I turn to the barrel. Palmer is already inside, his body folded unnaturally to fit the confines, soaking in a mixture of hydrofluoric acid and lye—a combination that breaks down tissue and bone, obscures identity, and confuses those expensive cadaver dogs the police are so proud of. With straining veins bulging from my neck, I slowly maneuver the heavy barrel and its grim contents into the ground.

I pop open the lid one last time, checking that Palmer's remains are properly submerged, then strip myself of the bloodied top, pants, and gloves, and toss them all into the caustic mixture with him. The fabric hisses as it makes contact, already beginning to dissolve, just like the professor himself.

I change into my jogging shorts and pull on a tank top, before checking to make sure I don't have blood visibly covering me. Once I see that I’m clean, I hop out of the hole.

I'm drenched with sweat, but with that done, the hard part is over. I grip the wooden shaft of my shovel and start filling the hole, taking pleasure in the rhythmic sound of dirt against the barrel. It's a special kind of sound that only comes when a job is done right. When another piece of evidence disappears forever.

Storing the shovel back in its hiding place, I start jogging back home. It's a few miles, but the distance doesn't bother me. The rhythm of my feet against the pavement settles my mind, clears away the remnants of the night's work.

My thoughts drift to Luna again. She's evolving, becoming something magnificent. But I need to be careful. She still has her limits, her hesitations. Push too hard, too fast, and I could mess everything up.

I smile as the rising sun warms my face. One day soon, she'll hold the knife herself. And when she does, she'll finally understand what I've known all along.

We were made for this. Together.

NINETEEN

LUNA

I stare at my phone, Marcus Reed's number glowing accusingly on the screen. It's been sitting there for the last thirty minutes while I try to convince myself to dial. My fingers drum against the desk in a frantic rhythm matching my pulse.

This is what responsible adults do, I tell myself. They face their problems. They don't wait for serial killers to step in and handle things for them.

I've rehearsed what I'll say. How much I'll offer. The threats I'll make if money isn't enough. The way I'll ensure this photo is returned to me and destroyed, along with any suspicions about me and Vincent.

With a deep breath, I press call before I can talk myself out of it.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

"Reed." His voice is gruff, cautious.

"Marcus Reed?" I keep my voice steady, professional. "This is Luna Harrow."

A pause.

"Miss Murder herself. I'm surprised you have this number. And that you know who I am.”

I tense. The way he says my pen name—not like a fan, but like someone who knows exactly what those words really mean.

“Who gave it to you?” he asks.

“Does it matter?”

“Was it Carl Worthy?”

I hesitate, and that’s confirmation enough for him.

“Damn. I’d heard he was asking around about me.” He pauses again. “Didn’t realize it was on your behalf.”

I make a mental note: never work with Carl Worthy again. So much for discretion.

"Yes, well, I think we have something to discuss." I swallow hard. "I'd like to meet."

He chuckles, a sound like gravel shifting. “Cornerstone Coffee on Maple Street. You know it?”

"I can find it."

"Thirty minutes."

The line goes dead before I can respond. I sit there, phone in hand, wondering if I've just made the biggest mistake of my life.

But it's too late to back out now.

I slip into my mother's room, press a kiss to her forehead. The corner of her eyes seem to crinkle, just a fraction. I swear there’s understanding there. Concern, even.

"I'll be back soon," I promise. "Just going out for a bit."

To someone else, her eyes might seem the same as ever. But when I look into them, there’s a strange sort of… intensity, like she wants to tell me something.

I frown, and press another kiss to her head, running my hand over her hair before I turn to go. And though she can't turn to look at me, it feels like her stare follows me out of the room.

Vincent is in the living room, stretched out on the couch. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. He must have gotten back late from… doing whatever it is he does with the bodies. I try not to think about that part.

"Headed out?" he asks, not opening his eyes.

"Just need some fresh air. I'll be back in an hour or so."

He makes a noncommittal sound. "Take your time. I'm going to nap."

I hesitate at the door, suddenly wanting to tell him everything. About the photo. About Reed. But something stops me—a whisper of doubt I can't quite silence.

"See you soon," I say instead, and slip out.

Cornerstone Coffee is one of those places that tries too hard to be authentic. Exposed brick, reclaimed wood tables, baristas with more tattoos than sense. It's busy enough that I won't stand out, quiet enough that we can talk.

I scan the room, and there he is—sitting at a back table, nursing a black coffee. Up close, he’s taller than I expected. His face is weathered, lines etched deeply around his eyes, but his gaze is sharp as it lands on me.

He doesn't stand as I approach, just motions to the empty chair across from him.

“Curious. How do you even know about me?” he asks, studying me with a scrutinizing gaze.

“A video of Dominic Reeves and me went viral. You were in the background, and you were staring.”

His lip curls, like he’s disgusted. “Damn social media. It’s an infestation in today’s society. Anyway, I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but we both know that would be a lie.”

My carefully rehearsed script flies out the window. "How much?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"For the photo," I clarify, keeping my voice low. "How much do you want for it?"

Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe even amusement. “What makes you think I got it?”

“I’m not stupid, Marcus. Nobody else has any reason to break into my house.”

“Not even for specially autographed books?”

I stare at him.

He chuckles. “Okay, I have it. But why do you think I want money?” His chuckle dies out, and he looks at me again. “Oh, I see. You think I’m blackmailing you.”

It's not a question. I sit back slightly, suddenly unsure. “Aren’t you?”

Reed takes a long sip of his coffee, studying me over the rim of his mug. "Ms. Harrow, I'm not here for your money."

My heart skips. If not money, then what? What else could he possibly want from me?

"Then why have you been following me? Why break into my house? Why take that photo?"

Reed sets his mug down with careful precision, and the air seems to thicken around us. I find it suddenly hard to breathe.

"What do you want?" I ask again, voice barely above a whisper.

"I was hired by the Mitchell family."

The name doesn't register at first. Then it clicks—Mitchell. Stephen's last name. My blood runs cold.

"Stephen's family?"

Reed nods. "His sister Melissa reached out first. Said her brother disappeared, and the last person he'd been with was you."

"That's not⁠—"

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. "But here's the interesting part. Before he disappeared, Stephen Mitchell contacted me himself."

The world tilts suddenly, the café’s ambient noise fading to a distant buzz. "What?"

"He was scared. Said his girlfriend—that's you—had gotten involved with a dangerous man. Said he was worried about your safety."

I swallow, forcing down the surge of panic. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" Reed's eyes bore into mine.

The way he says that last word makes my skin crawl.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I say, but the words sound hollow even to me.

"I know Vincent is behind your books," Reed says quietly.

My lips part in shock, and my mouth goes dry.

“I know they're based on real murders,” he says.

My blood turns to ice. This is worse than I thought. Much worse.

"That's absurd," I manage, though my voice shakes.

Reed pulls a small notebook from his jacket pocket. “Not much proof, but you’ve got quite a few books matching the details of some real crime scenes out there.”

“You’re talking about that accusation Val Felder made? You should do a little more research. She took back what she said.”

He grunts. “Stephen said you were working with someone else. A woman named Janice?”

Janice. The name hits me like a physical blow. Janice, who Vincent killed. Janice, who typed out the manuscripts that made me famous.

“Funny thing about that… I can’t seem find Janice at all. Her parents are very concerned too. Between that and, well, Stephen's sudden disappearance, a lot of people seem to be going missing around you.”

I don’t say anything. Because I know that any words that come out of my mouth will likely only dig this hole deeper. And it was big enough as it is.

Reed’s voice softens. “Let’s cut to the chase. I think you know exactly what Vincent is. What he’s done. And I think you’re trapped.”

"I'm not trapped." But aren't I? Bound to Vincent by my own success, by blood, by my mother's care and my own complicity?

“I don’t doubt you’re a great author, Ms. Harrow. I can’t prove it yet, but I think Vincent is forcing you to include details about his murders. I think he’s even forcing you to help him with them, on occasion. And that’s why that photo matters.”

My breathing is tight, and it feels like my heart’s jumped up into my throat. I want nothing more than to turn around and leave this place, but Marcus knows too much.

I should have told Vincent about him.

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

"The truth." He says it simply. "I want to know what happened to Stephen and Janice. I want you to help me put that monster, Vincent, away.”

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. I realize that this is not a scenario I ever imagined happening to me. Someone thinking that I am not the culprit behind the murders, and that I was a victim myself?

“Help me, and I’ll help you get away from him. Before you end up like Stephen. Or like Val."

I freeze. "Val?"

“Yes, her. Funny enough, she’s gone missing too.”

My stomach twists.

“You’re wrong about Vincent," I say, but the words feel like ash in my mouth.

Reed’s hard expression softens, and he puts his notebook away. “I’ve met a lot of women like you over the course of my career, Ms. Harrow. Women who were good people stuck in bad situations. Most of them really were stuck. But you? You’ve got the chance to get out from under his thumb.” He reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine. Not in a creepy way, but in a way that tells me he actually… cares. “Let me help you.”

I shake my head, panic rising. “I can’t.”

"Even if it means more people die? More murders for more books?" His tone hardens. "How many deaths are you willing to let him get away with?”

The question lands like a slap. We look at each other, the people around us unaware of the tension boiling between us.

"I should go," I say, standing abruptly.

Reed doesn't try to stop me, just watches with those knowing eyes. "I'll be around. When you're ready to talk—really talk—you can find me."

"I won't be calling."

"Yes, you will." He sounds so certain it makes my teeth ache. "Because deep down, you know I'm your only chance.”

He slides a business card across the table. Plain white, just his name and number.

"In case you lose my number. Call me before I get enough proof to put him away. Otherwise... it might be too late for you."

I snatch the card, shove it into my pocket, and stride toward the door. My mind is reeling, fragments of thoughts colliding like broken glass.

It seemed that Stephen's sister, Melissa, had made good on her threat. Marcus Reed was closer to undoing me and Vincent than Val ever could have been. And worse, I still didn't have the photo in hand.

By the time I reach my car, I'm shaking. Not from fear, but from something worse—the certainty that my carefully constructed house of cards is about to collapse.

I sit there, engine idling, staring at nothing. A hollow laugh escapes me. Marcus Reed thinks I'm a victim. Some poor, trapped woman forced to participate in Vincent's madness.

If only it were that simple.

The truth churns in my gut like acid. I didn't just stand by and watch Vincent kill. I didn't just publish the books. I chose this life. I agreed to every murder, savored the inspiration each one brought me.

The words might have been Janice’s at first, but the words that flowed after her were beautiful and dark and mine.

I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. When I pulled into the parking lot, I thought I was coming to deal with blackmail.

But this was so much worse. This was a rescue attempt for a woman who doesn't need or deserve saving.

Marcus Reed thinks he's offering me salvation. But he doesn't understand. If Vincent is exposed, I go down with him.

I've built my career on bodies, and there's no escaping that now. If Marcus succeeds, I lose everything—my success, my freedom, my mother's care. My life. This threat is so much bigger than blackmail. This is extinction.

And for the first time since I became Miss Murder, I don't see a way out.

TWENTY

LUNA

I sit in the car for several more minutes, the conversation with Reed playing on a loop in my head. But no matter how long I spend there, I can’t think of a way out of this nightmare.

When I finally drag myself inside, Vincent is waiting. I thought he’d still be sleeping, but instead, he’s in the kitchen with two glasses of wine sitting on the counter.

"You look like hell," he says, his voice gentle with concern that feels both genuine and terrifying. He holds out a glass.

“You’re awake.” I sink onto the barstool and motion for water instead. Some people like to drown out their worries in alcohol, but I know that if I let that happen, everything will continue to spiral. I need to keep my mind sharp.

He pours me a glass of water and winks. “I had a power nap. They work wonders, you know.”

I sip from the glass, my eyes drifting to the wine in Vincent’s hands. The liquid is deep red, almost black. Like Palmer's blood pooling beneath him. Like the stain of Stephen's death that I can never wash away.

"Where were you?"

Reed's business card suddenly feels like it’s burning a hole in my pocket. "Just driving. Thinking."

He watches me for a beat too long before nodding. “The idea of the wedding stressing you out?”

I shrug, too tired to lie.

“What if we’re overthinking it?”

"What do you mean?"

"We don't need a big venue or a hundred guests pretending to care. We have each other. Your mother." He reaches for my hand, his thumb tracing the veins at my wrist like he's counting my heartbeats. "I told you about the idea of a small chapel. But I actually found a place. It’s about two hours north, near the lake. Private. Secluded. It could be just us."

My pulse quickens. Something about the way he says "secluded" makes my skin crawl, but the practicality appeals to me. No witnesses. No explanations. No questions about where all our friends are.

It's the kind of place where no one would hear me scream. Where no one would find me if I disappeared.

But it's also the kind of place where I won't have to play the role of socialite author. Where I won't have to smile and pretend I'm normal for a hundred guests who don't know that my wedding dress might be speckled with blood that isn't mine.

And maybe, just maybe, the kind of place where I could escape from Marcus Reed and the dangerous threat he poses.

"When?" I ask, setting down my glass.

His smile widens, revealing teeth that look too sharp in the shadows. "Two weeks. I've already taken care of everything."

Of course he has. Vincent is nothing if not thorough.

It's strange, this reversal. Just days ago, I stood over Palmer's body, drunk on the thrill of his murder, my mind bursting with creation while I felt his pulse die out. Now Vincent is back in control, quietly arranging my life, our wedding, our future, while I sit powerless, too exhausted to fight.

"What about a dress?" The question slips out before I can stop it, some vestige of normalcy clinging to the edges of my mind.

"There's a boutique in town. I made an appointment for tomorrow." He pulls out his phone, showing me the confirmation. "They've set aside several options already. I sent your measurements."

I stare at him, my stomach twisting with both gratitude and terror. He knows my measurements. Of course he does.

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Want something to cheer you up?”

“Sure.”

He smiles, love and affection shining through his dark eyes. “After the wedding, I have a special gift planned for you. Something you’ll love. But don’t ask me about it, because I can’t tell you. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

I shake my head, drawing a deep breath. Life could be so perfect with him, if a man like Reed weren’t standing over it.

“It sounds perfect,” I say.

He kisses me, sending warm feelings of comfort through me. I close my eyes and bury my face in the palm of his hand.

My phone buzzes. Then again. And again. Like an angry wasp trapped in my bag.

Vincent raises an eyebrow. "You’re popular today.”

I pull it out to silence it and freeze when I see Dominic's name flashing on the screen. Vincent sees it too, his expression hardening just slightly before smoothing back into that perfect mask.

"You should answer," he says. "It could be about the movie."

I nod, rising from the barstool. "I'll take it in my office."

His eyes follow me as I walk away, the weight of his gaze pressing between my shoulder blades like a knife.

Once the door is shut, I press the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"Luna." Dominic's voice is surprisingly cold. "I've just looked at your outline."

I sink into my chair. "And?"

"It's shit."

The bluntness of it makes me flinch. "I⁠—"

"No, don't waste my time with excuses. You know as well as I do that it's nowhere near the level it needs to be." He pauses, and I can picture him running a hand through his hair with irritation. "This isn't the work I approached you for. This isn't Miss Murder."

The irony of it makes me want to laugh. If anything, this was more Miss Murder than anything else he’d seen.

I try to keep my voice steady as I answer. “I’m not one for outlining, but⁠—”

“I can tell. It’s awful. The plot line is all over the place. You’re talking about epidemiology? About killing some scientist? That’ll go over our audience’s head.”

My lips purse. “It doesn’t have to be a scientist, but⁠—”

“You have no idea how close I am to pulling the plug on the whole project.”

"What? You can't⁠—"

"I can, and I will." His voice drops, becoming something almost dangerous. “I passed you everything you needed to construct a story that would blow people’s minds. I know you’re capable of something more, Luna. Something that’ll elevate this into something beyond just another murder thriller.”

“And I’ve got that. You just need to see my work, and I’ll⁠—”

“Is that so? You’ve got two weeks. I want a finished manuscript, and if it isn’t on the level that I thought you could reach, then, well, I suppose I’ll have to admit that I was wrong about you.”

Two weeks. The same as Vincent's wedding timeline. The timing can't be a coincidence.

"I need more time," I plead, hating the weakness in my voice.

“You wanted complete creative control. You wanted me to just consult. Well, this is what you’ve asked for. Two weeks,” he repeats. “Or the deal is dead.”

The line goes silent. I stare at the phone, seconds stretching into long, painful minutes as my stomach churns. I’m not sure how long I sit there. Everything is beginning to spiral. I have to figure out how to get⁠—

The phone buzzes again. The screen flashes with another name.

Alyssa Lake.

Perfect.

I answer, bracing myself.

"Luna, darling, what's this I hear about you tanking the deal with Dominic?" No preamble, just attack. Her voice is sugar-sweet poison.

"I'm not tanking anything," I say, tension creeping into my tone. "There's just been a small creative disagreement."

"Small?" She laughs, the sound like breaking glass. "He just called me to say he's considering walking. That's not small, Luna. That's catastrophic."

I close my eyes, pressing my fingers against my temple. "I'll fix it."

"You'd better. Because if you think the Val Felder controversy was bad, just wait until I start talking about how Luna Harrow, the great Miss Murder, couldn't hack it when Hollywood came calling." The threat hangs in the air, sharp and unmistakable. "Fix this. Now."

She hangs up, and I resist the urge to throw my phone across the room.

It buzzes again almost immediately, except this time, it’s Melissa Mitchell's number flashing on the screen—Stephen's sister, who won't stop calling, won't stop looking for her brother, won't stop believing that I know something.

My hands squeeze my phone so hard that you’d think the screen would crack, like it does in all those cartoons. But it doesn’t. I’m powerless.

I let the call go to voicemail, then delete it without listening. I can’t bear to hear her desperation, her grief, knowing I’m responsible for it. Because she's right, of course. I do know something. I know that Vincent killed him, just like he killed Val, just like he killed Janice. Just like he's killed so many others whose names I'll never know.

The phone buzzes again. I want to let out a scream and pull out my hair. It’s an unknown number, and with everything going on, I can’t afford to not answer.

"Hello?" My voice cracks.

"Ms. Harrow?" An older woman's voice, trembling with emotion. "This is Martha Dawson. Janice's mother. We spoke before.”

My blood freezes. "Mrs. Dawson."

"They found Janice's car. Abandoned. Just some miles away from your house."

The room spins. "I... I don't know what that has to do with me."

"She was scared the last time we spoke. Do you know that? She told us that she was having to do things she didn’t want to do. Write things.” She pauses. “Your things.”

My throat closes. The accusations pile up, mounting pressure from all sides. Reed. Dominic. Alyssa. Melissa. And now Janice's parents, circling closer and closer to the truth.

"I'm sorry," I manage. "I don't know where Janice is. I wish I could help you."

"I think you do know," Mrs. Dawson says quietly. "And I think you're going to have to live with that for the rest of your life."

The line goes dead, and the walls of my office suddenly feel like they're closing in. I can't breathe. Can't think. Everyone is coming for me, and there's nowhere to hide.

A soft knock makes me jump. Vincent stands in the doorway, his expression concerned.

"Everything okay?"

I look at him. Really look at him. This is the man who's given me everything. The man who's ruined everything. The man who's standing between me and the world that's falling apart around us.

"Fine," I lie, swallowing hard. "Just... work stuff."

He studies me for a moment, his eyes drifting to my shaking hands, and I know he sees through my lie. But instead of confronting me about it, he nods and asks, “How about we finish that wine?”

Two weeks until the wedding. Two weeks until Dominic's deadline. Two weeks until my entire life implodes.

Vincent holds out his hand, and I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. His palm is warm against mine, the heat of it bleeding into my icy skin.

"Things are going to get better," he promises, leading me back toward the kitchen. "I'm going to take care of everything."

That's what I'm afraid of.

TWENTY-ONE

LUNA

It's been twenty-four hours since my world started cracking at the seams. Twenty-four hours of jamming my fingers into the keys of my typewriter, trying to spin out my best book yet.

It wasn’t exactly easy with all the stress on my shoulders. Before Val and writing my first words, I’d always thought that words came to authors easily. After all, all they had to do was think and imagine some stuff, then put it down to words on a paper. But nobody ever talked about how your mind seems to suddenly not work when you’ve got stressors all around you. And I didn’t even have kids yet.

I’m staring at the page, the smell of ink drifting up around me, begging me to spin a masterwork of a story as though it, too, realized how close we were standing to the edge of the cliff.

But as much as I hate to say it, I’m beginning to lose inspiration. For a story like this, for a story that deserves Dominic as a director, I need more than just one kill.

A sudden rap against the front door echoes through the house, and I glance up. After yesterday’s barrage—Reed, then Dominic, then Alyssa, and even freaking Martha Dawson—I’d hoped for just one day of peace. Just one day to breathe, to figure out my next move.

I ignore it, fingers hovering over my typewriter. If I can just finish this chapter, just get the words down while they're still fresh from Palmer's death, maybe I can salvage something from this spiraling disaster. Twenty minutes, that's all I need. Twenty minutes of peace.

The knocking comes again. Harder this time, like whoever's doing it is putting their weight into it. The sound hammers into my skull, turning my half-formed sentences into fraying threads. I'd slept maybe three hours last night, plagued by nightmares where Reed and Melissa stood over my bed, watching me with dead eyes while Vincent slept peacefully beside me, oblivious to the danger.

I slam my hands against the desk. Fine. If the universe won't give me twenty minutes, I'll deal with whatever fresh hell is waiting at my door. I'll get rid of them, and then I'll get back to work. I refuse to let Dominic's deadline crush me. I refuse to let Reed win.

But as I head downstairs, each step heavier than the last, I’m reminded of the night I had dinner with Stephen, and Val showed up at the door.

This wasn’t that. This was probably just a new mailman, eager to make an impression on me, delivering my fan mail by hand.

But somehow, a deep part of me knows that isn’t true. Maybe that’s why I’m slow in reaching the door. Because I know that my one day of peace, my one day to write and plan my next move, was about to be ruined.

And sure enough, when I open my door, ready to tell whoever it is to go away, the words die in my throat.

It's a woman, about my age but looking older. Her face is hollowed out, dark circles beneath red-rimmed eyes. Brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Clothes that hang off her frame like she's lost weight quickly. But it's her eyes that hit me hardest.

They’re Stephen's eyes. That same warm brown that used to look at me with such affection.

"Melissa," I manage, the name coming out like gravel.

“You remember who I am.” It's not a question. “I wondered, since you seemed to be ignoring my calls.”

She doesn't wait for an invitation. She pushes past me into the house, her shoulder bumping mine with enough force that I know it's deliberate. I close the door slowly, trying to gather my thoughts and find the lie that will get me out of this.

"I know. I'm sorry. I've been busy." The excuse sounds pathetic even to my ears.

She scans the foyer, taking in the high ceilings, the expensive furnishings. “I’m sure you have been.”

One hand wrings the other as I try to work out what to do.

“Is Vincent here?” she asks suddenly, a hard look in her eyes.

My head snaps up, my gaze locking onto hers. “What? Why?”

“How about you answer me just one damn time?”

A beat passes. “No. He’s not.”

She nods, and I notice she lets out a soft sigh of relief. Does she know about Vincent? What did Reed tell her?

A curse slips out beneath my breath, because I know that now I can’t just simply turn her away. I have to find out what she knows. I lead her to the living room, and she sits on the edge of the couch like she might need to run at any moment. I remain standing, arms crossed over my chest.

“What can I help you with?” I ask, slipping into the polite author persona I use at book signings. It's easier than being real.

Melissa laughs, a bitter sound with no humor in it. "Help? Is that what you think this is about? After ignoring my calls for months?"

"I didn't know what to say," I admit. It's the first true thing I've said since opening the door. “I’ve already told you, I don't know where Stephen is."

That was true too. I really didn’t know where his body was.

"Bullshit." The word cracks like a whip.

“Excuse me? I⁠—”

She waves a hand, cutting me off. "I know you spoke with Marcus Reed.”

I freeze, my breathing suddenly going tight. What did he tell her? My mind drifts from the question to another, far darker one. What would I do if she knew everything?

“My PI?” she says, lifting a brow. “Don’t play dumb.”

“Yeah, I did,” I said. “What’d he tell you?”

She doesn’t answer me for several minutes, content to let the silence drag between us. But when she does speak, her voice is low. Almost irritated. “Not much, other than that he’s made some big discoveries, and that he’s on the right path.”

A weight lifts off my shoulders. It still wasn’t gone completely, but knowing that Melissa didn’t have an idea about everything was freeing enough to let me think through how I was going to deal with this.

“He also said to stay away from Vincent.”

Damn Reed. Damn him to hell.

“Why’d he say that?” I ask, putting on my most innocent, curious face.

She shrugs, looking around the room. Her eyes catch on his shoes, back over by the door. Those were the shoes he’d been wearing the night he murdered Stephen, I realize.

“It’s weird, you know. How you and Stephen seemed to be doing so well. He talked about you all the time. Said you were the one.”

I take a half-step back as my heart twinges in pain. He said that?

Melissa’s eyes drift from the shoes to the diamond ring on my finger. “But now you and this Vincent guy are together, just after he’s gone missing. And not only that, but you’re… engaged.”

My mouth goes dry. I swallow hard. “Vincent stepped in when I was grieving. A-and we fell for each other. It happens.”

Her eyes narrow. “Grieving? Grieving about what? That first time I called you, asking about my brother, you said you two broke up.”

God, I need to get her out of my house.

With a grimace, I add, “Yes, maybe it was a poor choice of words. I was sad about that.”

“A poor choice of words from the person who makes a living out of them.”

It’s then that I see it in her eyes. The suspicion. She actually thinks I had something to do with his disappearance.

She stood, her lip curling and her dislike of me clear and evident in her expression. “No calls, no texts. His car found abandoned a few miles from here. A bank account full of money.”

She spits the facts like poison.

“Something’s bad happened to him and I don’t know what part you had to play in it, but I think you’re involved.”

Hence hiring Marcus Reed.

"What do you want, Melissa?" I ask, struggling to keep my voice steady.

"I want to know what happened to my brother. And I want whoever's responsible to pay for it." Her gaze hardens. "Reed was vague, but if he was saying stay away from Vincent, I have to think that’s for a reason.”

I stay quiet. Mostly because I know that anything I say will only make things worse.

“I know that Reed is giving you a chance to help him. To tell the truth about what happened to my brother.” She leans down, her face inches from mine. “If you don’t take it, I’ll make sure everybody knows what kind of monster you really are. I’ll burn your life to the ground, Luna Harrow.”

I stare up at her, heart pounding. Dark clouds sprout into my mind, and a quiet whisper worms its way through me.

She needs to die.

My voice doesn’t shake now. “Are you threatening me?"

There must have been something in my voice, some change that takes her off guard, because she takes a half step back like she’s suddenly realized that maybe Vincent isn’t the only dangerous one around here.

“If so, you wouldn’t be the first one to do that. Not even this year.”

“I’m not that Val lady. I wouldn’t back down or retract my statements.”

I laugh, and I’m not sure whether I should be disturbed or pleased by the way I see her shiver. “No. You’re not her.”

She purses her lip, straightens, and adjusts her purse strap. She clears her throat. “Look, talk to Reed. Do it, before I start talking to everyone else. The police, the press, your fans. Everyone.”

Already, I can imagine how the fans would take to the rise of yet another person claiming horrible things about their favorite author. After the Val debacle, they’d attack her, claiming that Melissa was doing it to gain attention. But somehow I had a feeling that Melissa was strong enough to endure the assault over Momnt—long enough for them to start to wonder… why was Miss Murder coming up again like this?

It wouldn’t take long for my name to trend again. Of that, I was a hundred percent certain.

She walks to the door, then turns back. "You know what's funny? Stephen loved your books. He used to gush about how talented you were. He believed in you." Her lip curls. "What a waste."

The door slams behind her, the sound reverberating through the empty house. The house seems to hold its breath, like it knew the storm that was broiling inside of me.

And I let it all out.

“They were never my books!” I scream, the words tearing themselves from my throat, leaving it raw.

My breath comes in short gasps as my chest heaves. The walls seem to be closing in, the ceiling lowering. My safe space—this house, this life I’ve built—is collapsing inward, crushing me beneath its weight.

I need to tell Vincent. I need to warn him. But the thought of what he might do to Melissa, to Reed, makes acid rise in my throat. They were innocent, and I didn’t want innocent blood on my hands.

Not to save myself, and certainly not as inspiration for my books.

Of course, Val was already a victim of that. But that was different. She wanted to take everything away from me, to destroy my only way of keeping a roof over my mother’s head.

Melissa and Reed are trying to take that away from you too.

I don’t let myself pursue that thought. Instead, a sound escapes me—half laugh, half sob. I'm trapped between Reed, who thinks he's saving me, and Vincent, who thinks he's completed me. Between Dominic's deadline and Melissa's ultimatum. Between the life I want and the death I've courted.

My feet carry me down the hall to my mother's room. The door opens silently, and the familiar beep of machines greets me. She's awake, eyes fixed on that invisible point on the ceiling. I cross to her, taking her hand in mine.

I don’t know what to say, other than to whisper, “I really miss you, Mom.”

She lies still. Her eyes are blank. She’s alive, but just like the dead, she can’t give me any comfort or hope.

“All I wanted is to just make some money and take care of you,” I say, squeezing myself into the small space next to her on the bed and resting my head against her shoulder.

But even as I say it, I know that’s not true. Yes, I needed the money for her care. But I also wanted the fame, the recognition. I wanted to be something more than a fraud. I wanted to create. I wanted to feel that addictive rush when the words flowed from my fingertips, when readers devoured my stories, when they begged for more.

And somewhere along the way, I started to crave the other part too. The dark thrill of watching Vincent work, the horror and fascination that fueled my words. The moment I felt Palmer's pulse fade beneath my fingertips.

My hand drifts to hers, and unintentionally, my fingers rest against her wrist.

I can feel her pulse.

It’s beating against my fingers, sending a sick, twisted thrill through me. I bury that part, and focus on the fact that her pulse is strong. She’s alive. Unlike Stephen, who disappeared without a trace. Unlike Janice, who tried to warn me. Unlike Val, who only wanted justice for her son.

"What am I going to do?" I ask, not expecting an answer. Not getting one.

A tear slips down my cheek, landing on the pristine white sheet. Then another. And another. Until I'm silently sobbing, my body shaking with the force of it.

But for now, this is enough—this quiet room, this moment of peace before I have to face what's coming. Before I have to decide who I really am: the victim Reed thinks I am, the monster Melissa believes me to be, or something worse than either of them could imagine.

TWENTY-TWO

LUNA

I'm halfway through a chapter when I smell something burning. Smoke curls under my office door, and for a heartbeat, I wonder if the house is on fire. If this is it, the universe's way of ending my problems once and for all.

But then I catch the scent beneath the smoke. Garlic. Butter. Wine.

Vincent is cooking.

I glance at the clock in the corner of my office and see it's past seven. I've been locked in my office since Melissa left, trying to drown out her threats with productivity. Trying to write something worthy of Dominic's expectations. The fear of failure tastes like copper in my mouth.

I want to keep writing, squeeze every last drop of inspiration from Palmer's death, but my stomach growls in protest. With a curse, my fingers fall from the keys as hunger wins the battle, fraying what little resolve I have left.

Making my way downstairs, I’m greeted by a haze of savory steam coming from the kitchen. Vincent is standing over the stove, sleeves rolled up, forehead shiny with sweat. I linger in the doorway a moment too long, watching the way his muscles shift beneath his shirt as he stirs whatever's in the pan. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him more attractive than in this moment, drenched in sweat, slaving away in the kitchen.

“There you are," he says without turning around. "I was starting to think I'd have to come drag you out."

"Sorry. Got caught up."

"How's the new book coming?" The question is casual enough, but there's something in his voice that makes me pause.

"Fine," I lie, helping myself to a glass of the wine he's opened. A good vintage—too good for a weeknight dinner. The kind he breaks out only for special occasions or when he's trying to soften a blow. "Though I need more than Palmer for what Dominic wants."

"We'll get to that." Vincent's shoulders are tense, his movements mechanical as he plates the food. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

He sets the plates on the table, everything arranged with a precision that borders on obsessive. Herb-crusted steak, potatoes roasted with rosemary, haricots verts with butter and almonds. It's my favorite meal, the one he made the night he proposed, after we were done with that detective. My stomach knots.

"What's the occasion?" I ask, sliding into my seat.

Vincent sits across from me, his dark eyes unreadable. "Can't I cook for my fiancé?"

I reach for my wine, needing the alcohol to steady my nerves. "Of course. It's lovely."

For a while, we eat in silence. The steak is perfect, medium-rare just the way I like it. The wine goes down too easily. I keep waiting for whatever's coming, my anxiety rising with each bite.

It happens as I'm reaching for more potatoes.

Vincent sets his fork down with a gentle click against the plate. His right hand disappears beneath the table, then reappears holding something between two fingers. Something small and white.

A business card.

"Want to tell me about this?" His voice is soft, almost gentle. It's the tone he uses when he’s speaking to the victims, right before he kills. My blood turns to ice.

Marcus Reed's business card sits on the table between us, the plain white square like a landmine. Vincent must have found it in my pocket while helping with laundry. Or maybe he searched my things while I was writing. It doesn't matter. What matters is the look in his eyes as he waits for my answer.

"It's nothing," I say, trying to sound casual. "Just research for a character."

"A character." He repeats the words like he's testing their weight. "And what character would that be?"

"For the new book. I needed a PI.” The lie feels flimsy, like wet paper. “Dominic said that the whole epidemiology idea wasn’t good. So I’m working with something new. Someone being bothered online by a few others. I wanted to see how realistic it would be if a PI could actually track them down, shut them up.”

Vincent takes a sip of wine, his movements leisurely. He's not rushing me, not yet. He's giving me enough rope to hang myself.

"That's interesting," he says. "Because when I called him, just to check, he seemed to know quite a bit about us."

My heart stops. "You called him?"

"Of course I called him." Vincent's voice remains level, but there's an edge to it now, a razor hidden in silk. "You didn't think I would check? After everything we've been through?"

"I—"

"He said you met with him.” Vincent's eyes never leave mine. "To discuss Stephen."

The kitchen suddenly feels too hot, too small. The walls press in as I search for a response that won't get someone killed.

"That's not⁠—"

"Don't lie to me, Luna." Now there's something beneath the calm. A ripple of anger, like a shark moving just below the surface. "Not about this. Not about us."

Us. The word hangs between us, heavy with implications. Not just me and Vincent, but everything we've built together. The books. The murders. The life we share.

"Stephen's sister has been calling me," I admit finally. "She hired Reed to investigate Stephen's disappearance."

"And you didn't think to tell me this?"

I swallow hard. "I didn't want to worry you."

"Worry me?" Vincent laughs, a sound with no humor in it. "You think I worry about some washed-up ex-cop?"

"He knows things, Vincent. About Val. About Janice." I set my glass down, afraid my shaking hands will spill wine on the pristine tablecloth. "He might even know about Palmer.”

Vincent goes still, and for a moment, I see something flash in his eyes. "How could he possibly know about Palmer?"

"I don't know. I thought I’d felt someone watching us that day in the parking lot. But even if he doesn’t, he's getting closer." I lean forward, desperate for him to understand. "Melissa came by today while you were out.”

“Melissa?”

“Stephen’s sister. She’s threatening to go all public on social media, just like Val, if I don’t cooperate with Reed.”

Vincent's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture. He rolls his shoulders back, cracks his neck, and the tension in the room ratchets up another notch.

"And would you?" His voice is deceptively casual. "Cooperate with Reed?"

"No." The answer comes too quickly, too desperately. "Of course not."

Vincent studies me, his gaze peeling back layers, searching for the truth. I hold my breath, wondering what he sees.

After what feels like forever, he nods once. "Good.”

He rises, gathering our plates though neither of us has finished eating. The meal is over. The moment passes. I exhale, relief flooding through me.

But then he turns back, his smile like a knife's edge. "I've been thinking about Dominic's deadline," he says. "And your need for more... inspiration."

There's a gleam in his eyes that makes my skin crawl. "What are you thinking?"

"I've got it all worked out." Vincent begins clearing the table with efficient movements. “A series of kills, all structured, planned, with a variety of… characters, so that you can use them all as inspiration for whatever story you need to get the movie deal done."

The wine turns sour in my stomach. "A multi-kill?"

"I've selected the victims. Worked out the locations." He keeps moving, never stopping, energy radiating off him in waves. "It's all planned, Luna. A businessman who embezzled funds from a children's charity. A doctor who falsifies prescriptions. A principal caught with an underage student." His lips curl. "The kind of people who deserve what's coming."

I stand, my legs unsteady beneath me. "Vincent, with that PI watching us, I’m not sure⁠—"

"It's perfect," he cuts me off. "We'll hit all three in a row, give you the material you need. I've even timed it so we can stop at that boutique you liked for your wedding dress. It's right by the principal's house."

My mouth goes dry. He's planned an entire killing spree around wedding preparations. Like we're running errands: dry cleaning, groceries, murder, wedding dress.

"Vincent, we can't just⁠—"

"What's the story you're telling Dominic?" he asks, abruptly changing direction. "What's the plot?"

"I—" I hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“What if it was about a woman who takes justice into her own hands, targeting people who’ve escaped the system?”

Instinct tells me to reject the idea right away, simply because it’s not mine. But I hesitate, thinking it through. It actually isn’t a bad idea. And sometimes, the best ideas come from others with a fresh perspective.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, and I think it hits all the key points. You have to consider what people want in a movie, not just a book. And in a movie, people love strong women, crave the correction of injustice, and are drawn to the juxtaposition of a woman doing something so brutal.”

He was right.

Vincent's smile widens when he sees my face. "See? Perfect. I'm giving you exactly what you need. Now, I’ve booked us a hotel, just for a night. It’ll be tight with just the two days, but if we’re quick about it all, then…”

His voice drones on, and I lose track of what he’s saying. This is moving too fast. The ground is shifting beneath my feet, and I can't find purchase.

I cut in, interrupting him, "What about my mother? We can't leave her alone overnight."

His smile falters. Just a fraction. "She has her equipment, Luna. She'll be fine for a night."

“I’ve never left her alone like this.”

“I understand, but she will be okay. I promise you. As her caretaker, I can set her up to handle a little less attention on the day.”

"But what if something happens? What if⁠—"

"You need to trust me." There's an edge to his voice now, impatience bleeding through. "This dependency isn't healthy."

The word lands like a slap. Dependency. Like my concern for my paralyzed mother is a weakness to overcome.

“Dependency?”

He winces, like he didn’t mean to say that. “All I’m saying is that she will be okay.”

"I can't just abandon her," I insist. "She's the reason I'm doing all of this."

“I know,” Vincent says softly, pausing in his clearing of the table. “Trust me, I know.”

But it’s too late. His words have already cut too close to the bone. I look away, unable to meet his eyes.

"Tell me what you need," he says, his voice gentle. “I’ll do whatever you need, whatever you want. If you don’t want to do this, then tell me what’ll work for you.”

I try to think through the fog of panic. If I don't deliver something stunning to Dominic, the movie deal is dead, and Alyssa will blast me on that talk show of hers. And if I don't cooperate with Reed, Melissa will expose me. And if I don't agree to Vincent's plan...

I don't know what happens if I don't agree to Vincent's plan. But looking into his eyes, I don’t think he’ll hurt me. There are a lot of things I could worry about with him, but one thing is never in doubt.

He loves me. He wants nothing but the best for me.

I really do believe that.

“Okay,” I say finally, my voice sounding distant and hollow to my own ears. “I can work with a plot that’s got the three kills. They’d have to be connected by method but not motive. Escalating violence. The last one has to be... personal. But all of this, it has to be done without Reed knowing.”

Vincent nods, pleased. "I can work with that."

He steps closer, cupping my face in his hands. His fingers are warm against my skin, gentle despite everything that's just happened. He kisses me, and I let him. His lips taste like wine and promise and something else. I don’t know if I imagine the copper tang of blood or not.

“Are you okay with me planning this? Handling all the details?”

I’m not. I don’t like the idea of not having control, especially with so much happening. But I know that for us to be husband and wife, I have to learn that I can rely on him in times like these. That he is a part of me, and I have to treat him as such.

Quietly, I nod.

“Okay. We'll leave tomorrow night," he says. "Pack light."

And just like that, it's decided. Three more deaths. Three more inspirations. My ascension to Mrs. Murder, sealed in blood.

"I should finish my chapter," I say, needing to escape. Needing to breathe.

Vincent smiles, releasing me. "Of course. Don't stay up too late."

I flee upstairs, my mind racing. The walls are closing in, the options disappearing one by one. Reed and Melissa. Dominic and Alyssa. And beyond them both, in his own strange way… Vincent. They're all pulling me in different directions, tearing me apart at the seams.

And I’m worried what kind of darkness will come spilling out of me when the seams break.

TWENTY-THREE

LUNA

Everybody's got a theory about the universe. Some say it was born in a bang, others say it was spoken into existence, and a few tinfoil-hatted souls think we're living in a simulation run by bored alien teenagers.

Me? I think the universe is a petty bitch with a clipboard. A sentient force who just occasionally picks someone at random, flips to their name, and gives them the big ol' middle finger. Then it dumps everything on you. All at once. No warning.

I know that's me when another knock comes at the door at precisely 7:39 AM. Exactly twenty-one minutes before Vincent and I planned to leave. Our bags are already packed and stacked next to the door, ready to be loaded into the Range Rover. My mother has been prepped with extra medication, her feeding tube freshly changed, and Vincent had adjusted her IV drip to last through our absence. He assured me everything was calibrated perfectly, leaving her okay to be alone overnight.

And of course, the plans for the three murders were scoped out and meticulously arranged. Unsurprisingly, Vincent had thought of everything. It seemed that he and I were much alike in that regard.

Everything was right.

Right up until that knock at the door.

Vincent and I exchange a look over our plates of eggs and toast. He raises a brow, as if to say, what else? And then without asking, he goes to the door. A chill creeps down my spine as I watch him go.

He stands at the door, opens it, and a long shadow stretches across our polished hardwood floor.

"Hi," he says. "Can I help you?"

"You must be Vincent."

The voice is instantly recognizable, sending goosebumps over my skin. It's Reed. What is he doing here?

"I am. And you are…"

"Marcus Reed. I'm a detective with the local police department. I apologize for bothering you this early, but could I have a moment of your time?"

"Sure, come on in," Vincent says, not so much as an ounce of concern in his voice. Even his face is perfectly composed as he steps aside and looks in my direction. For a brief moment, I stare at him in wonder, trying to figure out how he manages to stay so calm with him on our doorstep.

Marcus Reed steps over the threshold, his eyes sweeping the open-concept living area before his gaze falls on me. Something flickers in his expression—a twisted kind of humor—before it settles back into professional seriousness. I know he's fully aware of the danger he's in.

After all, he's standing in the room with a serial killer.

"Could I get you a cup of coffee?" Vincent asks.

Reed studies him for a moment, like he too is surprised by Vincent's composure. But then, he wouldn't know that Vincent is a far more prolific killer than even he suspects. I have no doubt this isn't the first curious "detective" Vincent has dealt with.

"No, thank you. I don't think I'll be staying long enough to…” his voice trails off as his eyes catch on the packed suitcases. "Are you going somewhere?"

"A little getaway, yes," Vincent says with a smile. "We were actually headed out. But we're more than happy to stay and answer your questions before we go, Detective... what was your name?"

"Reed."

"Right. Reed." Vincent's smile falters, and he taps his chin like he's thinking. "Reed... that sounds familiar."

"Does it?"

"Yes, isn't... no, it can't be." He hesitates again, before glancing my way. "Luna, wasn't that the name of that private investigator we like on that show?"

What game is Vincent playing? And why is Marcus Reed pretending to be a detective? What's his game?

My hands shake as Reed stares at me, his fingers twitching toward what I'm sure is a hidden gun. I stuff them beneath the fold of my dress.

"I don't think so. You're thinking of Magnum P.I."

"Ah, must be that." He turns back to Reed. "Sorry about that, Detective. So what is this all about?"

Reed is quiet for a moment, unfazed by Vincent’s antics as he stares him in the face. I imagine that he’s seen his fair share of killers, but I don’t think he realizes yet that Vincent is nothing like them.

"We're looking into the disappearance of a professor. Local guy, teaches at the community college."

"Disappearance?" Vincent asks. "How long has he been missing?"

"Over forty-eight hours, so we're concerned. Only reason I'm here is because your vehicle was spotted in the faculty parking lot the night he vanished."

My heart stops. The words I typed flash through my mind, describing with horrifying detail the bloodbath of Palmer’s death: his wide, terrified eyes, the way his body slumped against the chains, the sound of his final breath, and the feel of his dying pulse.

I knew I was right, that we’d been watched that day in the parking lot. But there was no way that Reed would have been able to follow us to the abandoned house. No way that he would’ve seen how we made a story out of that abuser.

Vincent doesn't so much as flinch. "Oh? That's interesting. Which night was this?"

"Thursday," Reed says, his eyes never leaving Vincent's face. "Around 9:30 PM."

Vincent laughs, the sound so genuine it's almost unsettling. "Thursday night? That actually makes sense." He glances at me, a boyish grin spreading across his face. "Should I tell him, or do you want to?"

I blink, completely lost. "Tell him what?"

Vincent turns back to Reed, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "We were there, but not for whatever you're thinking. Luna and I... well, we're not exactly kids anymore, but sometimes we like to keep things... exciting."

Reed's brow furrows. "Meaning?"

"We were having sex in the car," Vincent says, a hint of manufactured embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "It's quiet there at night, secluded. We've been planning our wedding, and sometimes you just need to... blow off steam."

I nearly choke on my own tongue. We've never had sex in the car. But the lie is perfect, just embarrassing enough to seem true, just detailed enough to explain away our presence.

"I see," Reed says, his expression unreadable. He knows it’s a lie. "And you didn't see anyone unusual? No sign of the professor or anyone else?"

"No," Vincent says. "We were a bit... preoccupied. But we weren't there long. Twenty minutes, maybe?"

Reed's gaze shifts to me. "Ms. Harrow? You remember the same?"

"Yes," I manage, trying to match Vincent's casual tone. "It was... spontaneous. We didn't see anyone."

There's a long, tense pause as Reed seems to consider this. I can almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes, trying to think about how he can leverage what he already knows against us.

He’s not here on behalf of anybody but himself—here to remind me that he’s not going away. And more than that, he’s hoping to spook Vincent into making a mistake.

It’s clever enough that it might work on the killers he’s met. Men who are so afraid of prison that they’d be willing to attempt the drastic moves to cover up their crimes.

But like I thought before, he’s never met anyone like Vincent. Vincent was competent, controlled, calm. Even though my nerves were firing on all cylinders, screaming for me to somehow throw my mother over my shoulder and to run out the door, his presence grounded me.

There was a reason that we’ve been able to build Miss Murder into what she is today. What I am today.

"I have to say," Reed finally says, "that's a pretty convenient explanation."

Vincent shrugs, unfazed. "Sometimes the truth is convenient. What's the professor's name? Maybe we've seen him around."

"Palmer," Reed says. "Gregory Palmer."

"Doesn't ring a bell," Vincent replies smoothly. "But we'll certainly keep an eye out. Now, is there anything else? We're expected at our retreat by noon."

Reed pulls out a small notebook, flipping it open with practiced ease. "Just one more thing. Would you mind telling me where you're headed? In case we have follow-up questions."

"Lake Geneva," Vincent says without missing a beat. "Wyndham Grand resort. We're there until Saturday."

Another perfect lie. We're going nowhere near Lake Geneva. But I know that when Reed looks into it, there’ll be a reservation there with our name regardless.

Reed writes this down, then snaps the notebook closed. "I appreciate your time." He hands Vincent a card. Not his real business card, but a fake police department one. "If you remember anything else, give me a call."

Vincent takes it with a polite nod. "Of course. I hope you find him."

Reed turns to leave, but pauses at the doorway. His eyes meet mine, and there's something in them I can't quite read. A warning, maybe. Or a challenge.

"You know, Ms. Harrow," he says, "I've read all your books. Big fan."

"Thank you," I say, the words sticking in my throat.

"The details are what make them special. So vivid. So... authentic." His lips twist into something not quite a smile. "Almost like you were forced to be there when it happened.”

The air freezes in my lungs.

"Anyway," Reed continues, "enjoy your trip. I'm sure we'll be talking again soon."

Vincent closes the door behind him, waiting until Reed's footsteps fade before turning to me. His expression has changed completely, the easy-going façade replaced by something sharp and calculating.

"He doesn't have anything," Vincent says, his voice low. "If he did, we'd already be in cuffs."

I clutch the back of a chair to steady myself. "He's not even a real detective."

"I know." Vincent's jaw tightens.

"Why did you let him in? Why did you talk to him at all?"

Vincent crosses to me, his movements fluid and controlled. "Because I wanted to see what he knows, which is nothing. All he has are suspicions."

"He knows we were there, Vincent. He knows about Palmer."

"He suspects. But he can't prove it." Vincent's hand cups my face, gentle despite the danger pulsing around us. "This changes nothing. We stick to the plan."

I pull away from his touch. "Are you insane? He's investigating us!"

"Which is exactly why we need to move forward." Vincent's voice hardens slightly. "If we panic, if we change the plan, we look guilty. Besides..." His eyes glint with something dangerous. "I think we can plan on eliminating the Reed problem."

A cold weight settles in my stomach. "What does that mean?"

"It means we continue with our trip." Vincent walks to the suitcases, lifting them with ease. "We get what you need for Dominic. And then we deal with Reed."

"Vincent—"

"Don't you see, Luna?" He turns back to me, something close to excitement in his eyes. "This is perfect. Reed is alone. No official backing. No one who knows what he's doing. He could be the perfect addition to your story. Or even the start to your next one.”

Horror dawns on me as I realize what he's suggesting. "You want to kill him."

"I want to give you what you need." Vincent's voice softens. "The way I always have."

I say nothing as he carries the bags out to the car. My eyes drift to the spot where Reed stood, his false detective persona a thin shield against the danger he walked into. I should warn him. I should do something to stop this before it spirals further out of control.

But a part of me—the dark, twisting part that's grown stronger with each kill—is already imagining the scene. Reed's final moments. The perfect climax to the story that began with Palmer.

I gather my purse and phone, checking once more on my mother before following Vincent outside. The morning sun is bright, casting long shadows across the driveway.

It looks like it's going to be a beautiful day.

TWENTY-FOUR

VINCENT

The sound of tires against the highway drones on as rain beats against the windshield. Luna has already fallen asleep beside me, her hands twitching, her face twisted. She’s having a nightmare, but I know waking her wouldn’t help.

Not when the real nightmare is waiting in the waking world.

I glance at her trembling fingers. The same fingers that felt Palmer's pulse fade beneath them. Some things can’t be taught. They’re instinct. But she’ll be calm soon. Once we finish what we’ve started. Once we’re married in that remote church. Once I give her my wedding present.

Then, all her stress will disappear.

My hands grip the steering wheel tighter at the memory of Marcus Reed showing up on our doorstep yesterday, pretending to still be a detective. But I know something he—and maybe even Luna—doesn’t. I know why he lost his badge. And it’s exactly the kind of story that would tempt her into using him as inspiration.

But he doesn’t need to die yet. Soon, yes. But not yet. He has no proof. No photographs. Just suspicions. And suspicions aren’t enough for me to rush her.

Luna is delicate, like a butterfly still drying its wings before taking flight. If I push, she’ll break.

But everything will come in time—her secrets, too. I see it in the way her eyes shift when I ask the wrong questions. The pause before she answers. She’s holding something back. But I’m not here to control her. I’m here to free her.

She stirs, mumbling as she turns toward the window. Her lips part slightly with each breath. So soft. So perfect.

There's something different about her lately. A new distance in her eyes when she looks at me. But I know her better than she knows herself. This is just her evolving, becoming what she was always meant to be. The butterfly emerging from its chrysalis.

This trip will shape her. Three kills before the wedding, each one chosen to prepare her for my precious wedding gift. The one hidden in my storage unit. It’ll be the last step in her transformation.

The trees thicken as we climb into the mountains. The sky darkens, heavy with more rain. Perfect weather for what comes next.

My gaze lingers on Luna’s face again. I wonder what she sees in her dreams. Maybe Palmer, maybe something worse. Maybe the truth she hasn’t yet accepted: that she belongs to this life now.

I reach across the console and brush a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips.

“We’re almost there,” I whisper, knowing she can’t hear me.

The rain intensifies. It soothes me. Washes away the frustration about Reed and about her secrets.

I look at her again. This woman who is my entire purpose. The woman who’ll be my wife. My partner. And someday, hopefully, the mother of my children.

“I love you,” I say to her sleeping form.

And it’s true. I love her with the kind of intensity that would terrify anyone else. The kind of love that demands blood. That finds beauty in death. That sees what she could become—what she will become—when no one else can.

The cabin appears through the trees as I round the final bend. Dark wood, darker sky. Our haven. Our killing ground, ready for the inspirations we bring back to it.

I smile as I pull the car to a stop, the rain drumming steady on the roof.

The inspiration she gets from here will be enough to give her the movie deal she so desperately craves. But no matter how amazing the experience is, it will pale in comparison to what she will feel when she sees my wedding gift.

That will be the inspiration that inspires her forever.

TWENTY-FIVE

LUNA

I never dreamed of being a bride. Not when I was little, not when I got older, not ever, really.

Maybe it was because I was too focused on other things, like taking care of my mother after the Locked-In Syndrome stole everything from her except her consciousness. Or maybe it was because I could never really picture myself walking down the aisle or sharing a first dance, thanks to my aphantasia.

Turns out, it’s hard to fall in love with the idea of romance when you can’t see it in your own mind. At least, for me.

Now I'm standing in Bella's Bridal Boutique, encased in white satin that weighs more than it should, trying not to hyperventilate while a stranger tugs at the fabric around my waist.

"We can take it in just a bit more," the saleswoman—Paige, according to her gold name tag—says. She's rail-thin with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "You have such a lovely figure."

I don't respond. Can't respond. The empty compliment hangs in the air between us, another fake pleasantry in this charade. The fabric is too tight, the lights too bright, and this whole thing feels like a performance I didn't sign up for. I suck in a breath as Paige pushes pins into the waistline, trying to ignore the suffocating feeling of being trapped in all this white.

Purity. Innocence. New beginnings.

I nearly laugh at the irony. Nothing about me is pure or innocent—not anymore. And my "new beginning" with Vincent is built on a foundation of blood and bodies that would terrify everyone in this store if they knew.

The only thing pure about me is the purpose with which I've pursued my career, and even that is tainted now. It wasn't even my own writing that made me famous. It was Janice's words, typed out while Vincent forced her to document his kills.

"Vincent will love this one," Paige says, stepping back to admire her work. "It's exactly what he described."

I freeze. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, didn't he tell you? He called ahead with some very specific requests of what he thought you’d like. Sweetheart neckline, fitted bodice, that gorgeous cathedral train." She beams at me like this is romantic. "He has quite the eye for detail."

Of course he does. Details are everything to Vincent. They're the difference between getting caught and getting away clean. Between creating the perfect murder scene and leaving evidence behind. Between turning a brutal killing into a bestselling novel.

The realization that Vincent played a part in even this beautiful dress—something so traditionally feminine, so personal—leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

"Would you excuse me for a minute?" I ask, the words coming out strangled.

I step off the pedestal, not waiting for an answer, and duck behind the curtain into the changing area. My hands shake as I try to reach the hidden zipper nestled between rows of tiny pearl buttons. But I can't reach it. Just more proof I can’t even get out of this dress without help.

A rap on the dressing room door makes me jump.

"Luna?" Vincent's voice drifts through the curtain. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," I lie, smoothing a hand over the bodice. "I just needed a minute."

There's a pause. "Can I come in?"

I don't answer, which he takes as permission. The curtain slides back, and Vincent slips inside the small space, his broad shoulders making it feel even tighter. His eyes rake over me, taking in the dress with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

"You look breathtaking," he says, voice dropping to that low, intimate register he uses when we're alone.

“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding day,” I say half-jokingly, even though my throat tightens. “Besides, you already knew what it would look like.”

He smiles, “First, people like us don’t have bad luck, Luna. We control what happens to us. And second, I had ideas. That’s all.”

"Specific requests, according to Paige."

Vincent reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate lace at my collarbone. "I wanted it to be perfect for you."

"For me? Or for you?"

His hand stills, and something dark flickers in his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," I say quickly, regretting the words as soon as they leave my mouth. This isn't the time for a confrontation.

Vincent studies me for a long, silent moment. I think he's going to push the issue, but instead, his expression softens. "If you don't like it, choose another one. Any one you want."

The offer should make me feel better, but it doesn't. Because I know it's not real. It's manipulation dressed up as generosity, control masquerading as kindness. Vincent already knows I'll wear the dress he's chosen. Partly because it is beautiful, in its own suffocating way, and partly because fighting him on this seems pointless when I’m on the verge of being exposed. Again.

I still haven’t told him about the incriminating photograph.

"It's fine," I say, forcing a smile. "It's beautiful."

His answering smile is genuine. "It is. You are."

He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. For a moment, just a moment, I let myself sink into the comfort of his touch, the familiar scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body. It would be so easy to forget everything else. To pretend we're just a normal couple picking out wedding clothes, not planning to murder someone once we’ve finished the fitting.”

"I'll give you some privacy to change," he says, drawing back. "We're on a tight schedule."

The reminder hangs between us, heavy with implication. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

Vincent slips out, closing the curtain behind him. I stare at my reflection one more time, trying to reconcile the woman in white with the woman who's agreed to participate in more murders to secure her movie deal with Dominic. But as I lock gazes with the woman in the mirror, a dark thought slithers into the back of my mind.

You’re becoming the monster you’ve been publishing books about for years.

I snort and push the voice aside. So I was becoming like Vincent? What a ridiculous thought. There was a very clear difference between me and him.

With a last, deep breath, I reach for the zipper again, desperate to get out of this dress. This time, my fingers find it, and the fabric gives way, falling open to reveal the corset beneath. I step out of the puddle of white, and loosening the strings of the corset, I finally feel like I can breathe again.

I hang the dress carefully on its padded hanger, my fingers lingering on its delicate beadwork. Despite everything, it is beautiful. Vincent's tastes are impeccable, even when it feels like his choices are meant to confine me.

As I pull my regular clothes back on—dark jeans, a silk blouse the color of midnight—I catch sight of my engagement ring. The diamond catches the light, throwing tiny rainbows against the dressing room wall. It’s just as beautiful as the dress is. But I can’t help but wish, in this moment, that I could’ve helped pick that too.

Shaking my head, I finish dressing and step out to find Vincent waiting, credit card already in hand as Paige wraps up the paperwork. He looks up when I approach, a smile spreading across his face.

"All set?"

We interlace hands, and I force myself to draw a deep breath. I’m too tense, and I’m letting myself get into my own head. I know it has to do something with all the stressors, feeling like everyone is out to get me. It’s not the first time, so the feeling is becoming familiar.

But there is one big difference between last time and now. This time, I have Vincent—the man who gives me everything, from the creativity and freedom from my aphantasia, to the understanding of the growing darkness inside of me.

Well, maybe that’s not quite true. I’ve always had Vincent. But I just didn’t know it.

My mind turns to what comes next. The sound of Vincent and Paige’s conversation fades to the background as I think about the victims. Colors bloom in the blackness of my mind, whispering for me to take my dark inspiration.

And when Vincent meets my eyes, he gives me a knowing smile.

Together, we exit the boutique, a bright bag containing my wedding dress swinging from his other arm. Anyone watching would see a happy couple taking the next step in their perfect little love story.

No one would guess where we're headed next.

No one would imagine what we're about to do.

As we walk to the car, I steal a glance at Vincent's profile. His jaw is set, his eyes focused ahead. There's an energy building in him, that familiar coiled tension that comes before a kill.

I wonder what he feels in these moments. Does he feel the same sense of inspiration, of creation and power that I feel? Or is it something else?

Vincent opens the passenger door for me, ever the gentleman. As I slide into the seat, reality crashes over me with stunning clarity.

I'm not just marrying a killer.

I'm becoming one.

And God help me, a part of me is looking forward to it.

TWENTY-SIX

LUNA

The weight of my wedding dress lingers like a phantom sensation against my skin as Vincent and I wait in Principal Foster's darkened kitchen. The stark contrast between Bella's Bridal Boutique and this eerily silent house isn't lost on me. White satin to dark shadows. Matrimony to murder. My life has become a study in contrasts.

"Are you sure we should start with the principal?" I ask, watching Vincent check the knife blade against the dim light filtering through the curtains.

"He's the easiest to grab," Vincent replies. "The others will require more... finesse. Besides, we’re local, and the other two are on the way back to the cabin.”

The cabin. I didn’t get a good look at it, thanks to the heavy rain and the dark clouds hanging overhead. But the inside was comfortable and luxurious enough. Most importantly, it was secluded from the city.

As we wait, a thought pops into my head, and I wonder if it’s the first time that Vincent has visited the cabin. He seemed to know his way around the place when we got there… he even knew about the quiet basement where screams wouldn’t echo into the woods.

Vincent moves to the window, peering through a gap in the curtains. "He's coming."

Apparently, Foster is a creature of habit. Every Thursday night, he drinks at the same bar and walks the same path home because he knows he’s too drunk to drive.

And coincidentally enough, that path takes him past the school where he works. The school where he took advantage of an underaged girl.

Sixteen years old, and pregnant with the principal’s child. That alone was awful, but this was his third time getting a young girl pregnant and then forcing her to get an abortion. At this point, it was more than an accident. It was a disgusting ritual, an act of power over the powerless.

But he’d learn powerlessness soon enough.

The front door creaks open at 10:37 PM. Foster stumbles in, fumbling with the light switch. The overhead light flickers on, illuminating Vincent who steps out from the shadows, chloroform-soaked cloth in hand.

Foster doesn't even have time to shout before Vincent is on him, pressing the cloth against his mouth and nose. He struggles briefly, eyes wild with panic, before going limp in Vincent's arms.

"Help me get him to the car," Vincent says, his voice calm and methodical.

I nod, moving forward to grab Foster's feet. Together, we carry the unconscious principal through the back door and into the waiting trunk of the Range Rover.

In retrospect, it would’ve been better to use a rental car. I make a note to include that difference in my manuscript.

We get into the car and pull away from the curb. “Chambers next. Williams after.”

The night blurs as we collect them all. Businessman Andrew Chambers, embezzler from a children's cancer charity. Doctor Raymond Williams, who preys on vulnerable women through falsified prescriptions. Each one a monster in their own right. Each one soon to provide the inspiration I need.

By the time we reach the cabin, nestled deep in the woods and miles from any neighbors, it's past 3 AM. The moonlight casts long shadows across the clearing as Vincent drags the still-unconscious Foster from the trunk, leaving Chambers and Williams for the moment.

I help him down to the basement, where a sturdy worktable waits in the center of the main room. My typewriter sits on top, paper loaded and waiting. The sight of it sends a thrill through me that I don’t try to suppress.

"The drugs will wear off soon," Vincent says, securing Foster to one of three chairs arranged in a semicircle around the table. "We should work quickly."

I watch as he brings in Chambers and Williams, tying them securely to their respective chairs. The tableau is perfect: three men, each representing a different flavor of evil, arranged like an audience for my creative awakening.

"I thought I'd start with Foster," Vincent says, unrolling a leather case lined with an assortment of knives. "Then Williams. Save Chambers for last." He looks up at me. "Unless you have a preference?"

The question catches me off guard. It's the first time he's asked me to choose. As if reading my thoughts, he smiles.

"This is your story, Luna. Your inspiration. It should unfold the way you want it to."

My throat tightens as I consider the options. Three more lives. Three more deaths. Three more important characters in my book.

"Start with Foster," I say finally, my voice steadier than I expected. "Like you said."

Vincent nods approvingly as he selects a knife from the case. The blade gleams in the harsh overhead light, and for a moment, I'm transfixed by its cold beauty.

Foster begins to stir, his head lolling forward as consciousness returns. His eyes flutter open, confusion clouding his features as he takes in the unfamiliar surroundings. Then panic sets in as he realizes he's bound.

"What the hell—" his voice is slurred from the drugs and alcohol, but the fear in it is sharp and clear.

Vincent steps forward, tilting Foster's chin up with the point of the knife. "Good evening, Principal. Glad you could join us."

Foster's eyes dart wildly between Vincent and me, then to the other two men still unconscious in their chairs. "Who are you? What do you want? I have money⁠—"

"It's always about money," Vincent interrupts. "Never about accountability."

Shit. That’s a good line. My fingers dance over the keys as I document it. I’ll figure out how to work it into the manuscript later.

The sound of my clacking keys draws Foster’s attention. The man looks toward me, brows furrowing with confusion at the sight of a woman bent over an old typewriter.

"You know who she is, don't you?" Vincent asks Foster.

Recognition flickers in Foster's eyes. "You're that writer. The one they call⁠—"

"Miss Murder," I finish for him, the name falling from my lips like a confession.

Vincent's smile is feral. "Soon to be Mrs. Murder." He presses the knife harder against Foster's throat, drawing a thin line of blood. "We know about the girls, David. All of them.”

Foster's face drains of color. "How—that's not⁠—"

"Don't bother denying it," Vincent cuts him off. "We know everything."

My gaze drifts to Foster’s face, and in the fear marring it. His fear births creation, words spilling into my mind, one after the other.

Fear has a taste. Metallic, like blood pennies dissolving on the tongue. It fills his mouth as understanding dawns—this isn’t a random abduction. This is judgment. This is the universe collecting a debt he so foolishly thought he’d never have to pay.

“Luna,” Vincent calls softly. “Come here.”

I pause, fingers hovering over the keys. I have so many more words to put down before we reach the climax of the night, of the ending to Principal Foster’s life. But still, I find myself rising, moving toward them like a moth to flame.

I kneel beside Foster's chair, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, to see the sweat beading on his forehead, to feel the heat radiating from his skin. So alive. So human.

"Put your hand here," Vincent guides, placing my fingers against Foster's throat. "Feel his pulse."

The principal's heartbeat drums against my fingertips, strong but erratic with fear. His eyes lock onto mine, silently pleading for mercy.

But there is no mercy in me tonight. Just as I’m sure there was none in Foster’s when he took advantage of those girls.

"Now," Vincent whispers, and before I can think, before I can pull my hand back, the knife flashes.

Blood spurts from Foster's throat, hot and thick, some of it spattering across my face and blouse.

A scream tears itself from my throat, raw and harsh. But I don’t look away. My fingers remain pressed to his neck, counting the erratic beats as Foster’s pupils dilate in fear, in his final dying moments.

My chest heaves as I try to breathe, my own heart pounding with excitement. A quiet laugh escapes me as I grow transfixed by the gradual slowing, the fluttering of life as it tries to cling to a body that can no longer sustain it.

Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat...

Beat. Beat... Beat...

Beat...

Nothing.

The cabin is silent except for the sound of my breathing and Vincent's. Foster slumps in his chair, eyes fixed on something none of us can see.

I should be horrified. I should be sick with guilt and revulsion. Instead, I feel high, a dark euphoria filling me like wine, making my head swim and my senses sharpen. Words press against the inside of my skull, demanding release.

I sprint back around the table to the typewriter, leaving bloody fingerprints on the white keys. The words flow more vividly than I can remember.

By the time I look up, Williams is awake, his eyes wide with terror as he struggles against his restraints. He must have already seen Foster's body, must know what's coming for him.

"Please," he begs, his voice breaking. "I have a family. Children."

Vincent moves to stand behind him, knife in hand. He meets my eyes.

Williams makes a strangled sound of protest, his eyes finding mine. "You, you're not like him. You can't be. Please⁠—"

When Vincent buries the knife into Williams' chest instead of his throat, I'm fascinated by the different expression on his face. I imagine that the doctor in him is counting the seconds, like he knows exactly how long he has left to live.

The knowledge is there in his eyes as they begin to glaze over. Accusation. Understanding. And finally, emptiness.

Vincent stands over the third man, waiting for him to wake. He doesn’t bother with saying anything to them, because he, like me, knows that those words don’t matter. The only words that matter are the ones I’ll come up with, the ones that’ll spill onto the blood spattered page in ink.

So much inspiration is coursing through my mind that I’m drunk with it. It feels like I’m in a fever dream, watching myself in third person, hunched over a typewriter with my fingers pounding at the keys in rapid succession.

Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.

I'm barely aware of anything else as I type, my words rushing forward like a torrent of vivid description and raw emotion. This is why fans love me, for my ability to transform death into art, to turn the darkest human experience into something readers can’t put down.

“Luna.”

When I look up, I realize that Vincent has repeated my name multiple times. But it doesn’t seem to bother him. In fact, he looks proud.

My eyes drift to the final living man. Andrew Chambers, who would dare to embezzle from a children’s charity, one for children suffering from cancer no less.

Chambers is fully conscious now, watching us with a mixture of horror and resignation. He doesn't beg or plead like the others. Perhaps there's a dignity in him that they lacked, or perhaps he's simply frozen with terror.

"Last one," Vincent says, breaking my trance. He holds the knife out to me, handle first. "Would you like to try this time?"

Everything stops. The cabin, my breath, my heart, all frozen in this single, pivotal moment.

Vincent is offering me the knife. Offering me the chance to cross the final threshold. To move from witness to executioner.

My hand trembles as it moves forward of its own accord. I watch it in horror, and force myself to stop. I’m not ready. I don’t want to be ready. Not for this.

Quietly, I shake my head.

"You don't have to do the killing," Vincent says softly, understanding flickering in his eyes. "Just hold it. Feel it. Give yourself a different kind of inspiration by stepping into my shoes.”

Relief washes through me. I move closer, ignoring Chambers and staring into Vincent’s eyes.

“After.”

He nods, and together, we both look down at the so-called businessman. He looks back up at us, the horror having faded, giving way to something else.

Irritation.

Like he was frustrated that this would be how he died.

“You two are twisted f⁠—”

Blood fountains, hot and thick, spraying across my face and hands as Vincent drags his knife, opening Chambers’ carotid in one smooth motion. Chambers convulses beneath us, his eyes wide with shock and pain. His mouth moves, shaping words that never come.

I see the reflection of myself in his eyes, see the awe spreading across my own face.

Vincent comes around, stands behind me as he presses the knife into my hands. My fingers curl around the handle, sticky with blood. It’s lighter than I expected.

Together, we stand over Chambers as his body makes its final, desperate attempt to cling to life. As his eyes turn glassy and distant.

It’s different from merely feeling a pulse fade. It feels more intimate. More terrible and exhilarating than anything I've experienced before.

TThe whirlwind of words calms, until only one voice remains—my voice—whispering a single line.

And then he dies.

I turn and see Vincent watching me, a dark gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. It's not just pride I see there—it's victory. He's been guiding me toward this moment since the day we met, molding me into his perfect partner, his Mrs. Murder.

I should feel manipulated. Used. Instead, I feel... free. These are not words I see in my mind, but a voice that I’ve never heard before. And it’s so much more vivid.

"You were magnificent," Vincent whispers, kissing my bloodied knuckles. "Look at you."

I stare down at my hands, red and wet in the harsh overhead light. The blood is already starting to dry, cracking in the creases of my palms like ancient riverbeds.

I return to the typewriter, and this time, when my fingers hit the keys I know that what emerges will be something entirely new. Something that will make Dominic Reeves fall to his knees in gratitude.

Vincent moves around the cabin, taking photos before he begins to methodically clean, ensuring no trace of us remains. By the time dawn breaks, the bodies are gone, the floor scrubbed clean, and my pages are stacked neatly beside the typewriter.

“While I deal with the bodies, you should get cleaned up. We can get a little rest before we head back,” Vincent says. “After all, we've got a movie deal and a wedding waiting for us.”

The juxtaposition is jarring—three murders and a wedding, blood and white satin, death and a new beginning. Yet they seem intrinsically linked now, two sides of the same coin. I can't have one without the other.

But that’s not the only thing waiting for us.

“What if Marcus Reed finds out about tonight?” I ask.

Vincent's expression remains calm. "He won't."

"But if he does, then my mother⁠—“

"Then we'll handle him." Vincent's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "Trust me, Luna. I won't let anything happen to you. Or your mother."

I nod, and head for the stairs. Three bodies lie behind me, waiting to be disposed of. Three lives taken for my art. For my future. For my mother’s continued care.

For us.

And as I climb into the shower and turn on the water, I realize that as the water runs down over me, it’s washing away the vestiges of who I once was.

This is me now. This is Mrs. Murder.

TWENTY-SEVEN

LUNA

The ride back home feels far longer than it took to leave. Maybe it's because I know what's waiting for me now that the thrill of creation has lifted—a perfect storm of Dominic, Alyssa, Melissa, and, of course, Marcus Reed. Or maybe it's simply that I was asleep before, while Vincent drove.

I feel more confident now, though. More capable. The unfinished manuscript sits in the back. It’s a start to something I'm certain Dominic will appreciate. Something strong enough to secure that movie deal and elevate me to icon status amongst the authors of the world. And that should be enough to get Alyssa off my back, though I know I'll need to have a conversation with her once this is all said and done. I won't have her thinking she can continue to threaten me.

As for Melissa and Marcus Reed, well... thinking about them makes my temples throb. The answer will come to me later. It always does, eventually.

For now, I lean my head against the cool window as Vincent drives, scrolling through Momnt on my phone. One of the best things about being a bestselling author isn't the money or the fame. It’s the validation. Anytime I need a pick-me-up, I can just hop online and soak in all the wonderful things my readers say.

Well, not about me in particular. They all speculate that I'm a little twisted, that there must be something wrong with me to write such dark, captivating books. But they compliment Miss Murder, and it feels nice. It feels like being seen, even if they're only seeing the parts I want them to.

I could get the same validation from Amazon reviews, where they love me twice as much. I'd say Goodreads too, but people can be savage there. Even with a five-star rating, they'll pick out specific quotes and tell the world what a terrible writer I am. It's funny, sometimes, but I think I'll avoid those particular reviews today.

Perhaps most important of all, there isn't a single negative thing about me trending on Momnt. It's strange, almost like the controversy between Val Felder and me never happened.

"We're nearly there."

I glance up at the sound of Vincent's voice, and see that he's right. We're only about a mile out from our house. Before I know it, he pulls into the driveway, that familiar crunch of gravel greeting us like we've been away for far longer than just a single night.

I start to get out and grab my things but realize that Vincent hasn't moved.

"Are you not coming?" I ask, gathering my bag.

He shakes his head, one hand still resting on the steering wheel. "No, not yet. I've got something I need to check on."

I raise an eyebrow at the vagueness, and he chuckles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

"It's something for the wedding."

The way he says it—casual, like it's nothing important—makes my stomach twist. Not with fear exactly, but with something… else.

"Fine," I say, gathering my bags. "Just don't be too long."

His smile widens. "Wouldn't dream of it."

I watch him pull away, the Range Rover's tires crunching over gravel as he disappears down the road. The house looms before me, silent and still in the afternoon light. For a moment, I just stand there, breathing in the crisp air, feeling strangely suspended between what was and what's coming.

I can almost hear Dominic's voice over the phone when he reads the manuscript: the excited tremor, the realization that he's holding something revolutionary in his hands.

I smile to myself as I head up the walkway. For the first time in days, I feel like I'm back in control.

The lock clicks as I turn my key, and the door swings open to reveal the familiar shadows of the entryway. I step inside, dropping my bag on the table and kicking off my shoes.

Something's wrong.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. The steady hum and beep of my mother's equipment, the constant backdrop to my life, is missing. In its place is a silence so complete it feels difficult to breathe.

Then I hear it.

A single high-pitched tone cuts through the silence—flat, unbroken, continuous. Not the rhythmic beeping of a stable patient. Not the staccato alarm of a temporary issue.

The sound every hospital family dreads.

My blood turns to ice as recognition hits. I've heard that sound before, in movies and TV shows. I know what it means.

"Mom?" My voice comes out as a whisper.

The sound grows louder as I move through the house, my feet carrying me forward even as my mind screams at me to stop, to turn around, to not see what I know I'm about to find.

Then I'm running, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"MOM!"

TWENTY-EIGHT

LUNA

I remember once hearing that time slows down in moments of crisis. But that's a lie. I know it because there's nothing I can do to keep the inevitable from happening, from crashing into me with all the speed and weight of a train. And with it, the flat, unbroken tone still blares through the house, drilling into my skull as I stare at the scene before me.

She looks peaceful. That's the first thing that strikes me. She's still arranged neatly on her bed, her thin frame barely making a dent in the mattress. One hand rests atop the blanket, pale and motionless. Her eyes are closed. She could be sleeping.

Except for the monitor. The one with the flat, unwavering line streaking across its screen.

I don't remember rushing across the room, throwing myself at her side, clutching her to me as I scream for Vincent's help. I don't remember messing with the medical equipment in some pathetic attempt to stop the alarm, to somehow give her what she needs so that a single blip could disrupt that unbroken line.

But I do remember pressing my fingers to the inside of her wrist and feeling nothing. And being so desperate that I pressed my ear to her chest, hoping upon hope that I would hear her heartbeat, however faint it might be.

But there was no denying the truth.

My mother was dead.

A keening wail tears itself from my throat, born from the very depths of my soul. It shatters me, tears me apart more thoroughly than Alyssa or Reed or Dominic or even Melissa could ever dream of doing. And if I thought that the sound of my own torment and grief would drown out the relentless tone blaring through the house, I would be wrong.

It underscores it, stabbing into me with every broken heartbeat.

My tears splash down onto her peaceful face. My begging for her to come back goes unheard. And through it all, that tone continues to attack me.

A surge of rage courses through me and I punch the screen as hard as I can, trying to do something, anything, to shut it up. The skin over my knuckles splits, and blood spatters across the screen like some macabre Jackson Pollock. I keep punching until warm crimson runs between my fingers.

It doesn't stop.

Not until I knock the monitor over and stomp my foot into the equipment, over and over, until I'm greeted by something much worse.

An all-encompassing silence.

It swallows me whole, traps me in its void, and renders me... empty.

I climb onto the bed, wrap my arms around my mother, and sob into her hair. It feels so wrong that she can be gone, when I can still smell her here.

I reach for my phone, my hands shaking so badly I can barely dial. Vincent. He needs to be here. He needs to fix this. He knows everything about her care, about her machines. If anyone can bring her back, it's him.

But the call goes straight to voicemail.

"Vincent," I sob, the word barely recognizable. "Please. It's Mom. She's... she's..."

I can't say it. Saying it makes it real.

I try again. And again. Five calls, each one more desperate than the last.

"Where are you?" I scream into the phone, rage and grief tangling together like barbed wire around my heart. "I need you!"

But he doesn't answer. The one time I truly need him, and he's gone.

Her body is growing colder against mine, heat leaching away with each passing moment, as the room spins around me, everything I've ever believed crumbling into dust.

For years, I've told myself that everything I was doing—every book I published, every murder I witnessed, every dark act I enabled, including Val's death down the hall—was for her. To keep her alive. To give her the care she deserved, and to make sure that she was safe.

But now she's gone.

What was it all for?

The manuscript I'd been so proud of just hours ago means nothing now. The movie deal, the fame, the money… all of it hollow without her.

And Vincent, the man to be my husband, is nowhere to be found when I need him most.

A new wave of grief surges through me like a riptide, dragging me under. Minutes pass, each one scraping against my soul with claws so sharp I know the scars they leave will never fade. Time isn't measured in seconds anymore but in ragged breaths and broken sobs.

It's only when my tears are spent, and my heart is so ravaged that I don't think it'll ever recover, that I lift my phone and dial 911.

"911, what's your emergency?"

My own voice sounds foreign to my ears, hollow and distant.

“My mom's dead."

TWENTY-NINE

VINCENT

Everything is going exactly as planned.

All of her dependencies are finally falling away, one by one, and soon, my precious Luna, my soon-to-be Mrs. Murder, will be everything I ever imagined her to be. Independent, powerful, and of course, the greatest murder thriller author of our age.

And she is making such incredible progress toward it.

I can't keep the smile from my face as I exit the vehicle, leaving my phone on the passenger seat and walking slowly toward the storage containers. The attendant desk is empty, once again. That was one of the reasons I picked this place. Security here is woefully lax, and that benefits me. It would be... unfortunate if anyone ever found what I store here.

Whistling a tune with my hands stuffed in my pockets, I walk down between the rows of containers. I'm not even sure where the melody came from. I don't listen much to music, not even when I run. I prefer the harsh sounds of the world: my feet pounding the pavement, blood rushing in my ears, the roaring of the wind. The tune must be from my childhood.

A memory clicks, and I suddenly know where it's from. Tommy. Not my first kill, or even my second, but one of the early ones. He liked to whistle. And I'd gotten tired of it. He didn’t whistle much by the end.

I reach unit 237 and slide the key into the padlock. The lock clicks open, and with a grunt, I heave the storage unit door upward, listening to the satisfying screech of metal against metal.

The screams inside are more subdued this time, sounding more like moans than anything. Maybe a lesson is finally sinking in. There's no escape from this place. No chance of someone overhearing the muffled cries.

I know that for a certainty, because I've rented nearly every storage unit around this one. Some are empty, others hold tools and supplies that I use from time to time, like the hydrofluoric acid, the quicklime, and my shovels. And then there are some, like this one, saved for a special purpose.

But this unit is more special than the others. Because it holds my wedding gift to the one person who matters most in my life.

"I'm back," I say with a deep, dark, self-satisfied grin. I enter the unit, flicking a switch that floods the space with harsh fluorescent light. It chases the shadows away, revealing my precious cargo.

A muffled sound comes from the back of the unit, and I smile. The fear is palpable, hanging in the air like a heavy perfume. Good. It means my wedding gift is still... fresh. Still vibrant with the terror that will inspire Luna's greatest work yet.

I check the restraints, making sure everything is secure. There's a flinch at my touch, a tension that radiates outward. Perfect. Luna will love that too; the way fear emanates like heat. It's the kind of detail that makes her writing come alive.

"Not long now," I whisper. "You're going to be part of something beautiful."

I leave fresh water and as little food as they need—can't have my gift expiring before the big reveal—and lock the unit securely behind me. The knife Luna will need is already gift wrapped. But I realize that maybe she’ll want some sort of cover that will keep her from getting her wedding dress ruined with blood. Although... would it ruin the dress? Or make it better?

I ruminate on the thought as I walk back to the Range Rover, and decide that I’ll get something for her anyways, just in case. It’d be a shame if Luna didn’t want to take that final step of evolution solely because it’d ruin her dress.

The sun is setting as I slide behind the wheel, casting long shadows across the pavement. Maybe I should pick up dinner for Luna on my way home. After everything that's happened, she would probably love that. Women appreciate thoughtful gestures like that, and what better way to celebrate her growing independence?

She's nearly there now. So close to standing on her own, to not needing her mother or anyone else as a crutch. After all, that's what I've been working toward since the day we met: making sure that she would never need to cry out for someone’s help again.

My phone still sits face-down on the passenger seat. I flip it over, checking the time. Still early enough to grab dinner for us. I toss it into the cupholder without a second glance and start the engine.

I never notice the notification icon glowing in the corner of the screen.

Five missed calls.

THIRTY

LUNA

The coroner's van pulls away from the house, taking my mother with it. I stand in the doorway, watching the red taillights fade into the darkness until they're nothing but pinpricks in the distance. Then, nothing at all.

The house feels cavernous now, every sound amplified in her absence. The creak of floorboards beneath my feet. The hollow thud of the front door closing. My own ragged breathing.

I move through the empty rooms like a ghost, touching surfaces as if to confirm they're still real and that this wasn’t all some horrible nightmare. And when I reach her bedroom, I stop at the threshold. The hospital bed has been stripped bare, the mattress naked and vulnerable.The medical equipment sits to the side, silent and broken. A folded brochure for a funeral home sits on the nightstand, left by one of the paramedics. Three days from now. Apparently that's standard. Bodies don't keep. Life moves on.

I should be crying. I should be drowning in grief. Instead, I feel nothing but a cold, hollow emptiness and the insistent throb of suspicion.

The timing is too perfect.

Vincent wanted to check on "something for the wedding." He was gone when it happened. The one time I've ever truly needed him, and he wasn't here.

I walk to the equipment, running my fingers over the screen I shattered with my fist. My blood has dried there, rust-colored flecks against the cracked display. Vincent set up all this equipment. He knew how it worked, how to maintain it—and how to sabotage it.

The thought slithers into my mind like poison: Vincent wanted my mother gone.

We’d had that disagreement before. What did he say?

This dependency isn't healthy.

My fingers curl around the edge of the monitor, knuckles whitening. It's unthinkable. And yet...

A soft knock comes at the door, slicing through my thoughts like a knife.

I freeze, my heart lurching painfully in my chest. A quick glance at my watch. 10:37 PM. Too late for condolence calls. Too late for anything but bad news.

Moving silently through the house, I grab the baseball bat I keep in the hall closet. It’s the same one that Vincent used to bash in Val’s skull. My palm is slick with sweat as I grip the handle, approaching the front door cautiously. Through the peephole, a distorted face stares back at me.

Marcus Reed.

I lower the bat, but don't set it aside. The lock clicks as I twist it, pulling the door open just enough to see him clearly.

"Now isn't a good time," I say, my voice flat.

He takes in the sight of me. I must look like hell. Bloodshot eyes, tangled hair, clothes stained with tears and blood from my split knuckles.

"I heard about your mother," he says. No preamble. No false sympathy. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?" I lean against the doorframe, the bat still in my hand. "Or are you here to say 'I told you so'?"

Something flickers across his face. Not quite pity, but close enough to make my teeth clench.

"I warned you," he says quietly. "I told you he was dangerous."

"Vincent didn't kill my mother." The words sound hollow even to me.

“Are you sure?” Marcus's gaze hardens. “Isn’t it convenient that you go off for a night and you come back, and she’s dead?”

I tighten my grip on the bat. "My mother was ill for years. Her condition was always terminal."

"And Vincent was her caretaker," he counters.

The worst part is, I've had the same thoughts. But hearing them from Marcus makes me want to defend Vincent out of pure spite.

"What do you want, Reed?" I ask, fatigue seeping into every syllable.

"The same thing I wanted before. To help you." He steps closer, his voice dropping. "Let me protect you. Let me get you away from him before you end up like Stephen. And Janice. And Val Felder. Like your mo⁠—“

“Enough,” I hiss, opening the door wider, letting him see the bat in my hand.

A beat passes, before he draws a heavy breath and says, “I’m just trying to protect you.”

I laugh, the sound brittle and sharp enough to cut. "Protect me? You think I need protection?"

"I think you're in over your head," he says. "I think you're scared. And I think deep down, you know I'm right about Vincent."

"You don't know anything about me. Or what I'm capable of."

His eyes flick from me to the bat. For the first time, I see uncertainty in his expression.

“That may be. But you don’t have to do this alone.” I hate how sincere he sounds. "You're as much a victim in this as anyone else. If you cooperate, tell me what you know⁠—"

"Get out," I interrupt, raising the bat slightly. "Get off my property."

"Luna—"

"I've just lost my mother," I say, my voice deadly calm. "The person who mattered most in this world to me. I'm not in the mood for threats or negotiations or whatever this is. You wouldn’t be on my doorstep if you were half as good a private investigator as you think you are. That tells me you’ve got nothing, except for that photo. So do what you want with it, but do it out of my sight.”

He goes still, really looking at me now. Not as a potential victim, but as someone dangerous in her own right. Finally, he nods once.

"I'll go. But this isn't over." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card, setting it on the small table by the door. "When you're ready to talk, when you come to terms with what Vincent really is, call me. Day or night."

I say nothing as he walks away, waiting until he reaches his car before closing the door. The lock slides into place with a decisive click.

Leaning back against the door, I let the bat drop to the floor with a hollow thud. My hands shake, adrenaline surging with nowhere to go.

My mother is dead.

Everything—every single thing I've ever done—has been for nothing.

All those murders. All those books. All those words typed onto pages with my name, words I never truly wrote myself. All those long nights at the blood-spattered typewriter. The accolades. The money. The fans. The deal with Dominic. Even my confrontation with Val.

And what about Vincent? The man I thought was my salvation—my Mr. Murder—now looks more like my damnation.

Some part of me wonders if this is all somehow my fault. If I’d doomed my mother the day I made the choice to free Vincent and eliminate Val.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, my breath catching when I see his name on the screen.

A text: On my way home. Got dinner.

So casual. So normal. As if he’s driving home to a house where nothing’s changed, where nothing will ever be the same again.

I don't bother typing back.

I look around the house, at the shadows stretching across the floorboards. At the life I built to keep her safe, now meaningless without her.

The baseball bat lies at my feet, the same one Vincent used to bash in Val's skull. I stare at it, my vision blurring as the reality washes over me again.

She's really gone.

The weight of it crashes down on me, crushing what little strength I have left. I slide down against the door until I'm sitting on the floor, my legs no longer able to hold me up. My hands shake uncontrollably as I press them against my face, a sob tearing from somewhere deep inside me.

This dependency isn't healthy.

Was this Vincent’s plan all along? To sever the one connection that mattered to me?

I don't know what's true anymore. I don't know who to trust. I don't even know who I am without her, without my reason for being Miss Murder.

All I know is that the life I've built, the career I've claimed, the murders I've written—all of it—has led to this empty house, this hollow victory, this meaningless fame.

Everything I've gained doesn't matter.

Because now... now, I have nothing.

THIRTY-ONE

LUNA

The steady drone and beeping of my mother’s equipment play in the background, tethering me to reality. But something’s wrong.

It’s subtle—just a sliver of wrongness beneath the surface—but it crawls up my spine like a whisper I can’t quite make out. Even as I sit in my office reviewing my latest manuscript, I feel it: that cold, creeping chill.

Frowning, I stand and make my way toward her room. The house is darker than usual. Too dark. Thick with shadows so dense I have to trail my fingers along the walls just to keep my bearings.

“Mom?” I call out.

No answer. Just the unbroken rhythm of machines.

I try again, but my throat is dry. My chest aches with every heartbeat. When I reach her door, I push it open and wince as the creak of the hinges splits the silence, echoing down the hallway behind me.

Pitch black.

“Mom?” I whisper, my voice no louder than a breath.

I flick the switch. The light flares to life, and I squint against the sudden bloom, rubbing at the afterimages floating in my vision.

And then my heart stops.

Vincent is standing over her, a butcher knife gleaming in his hand, angled toward her chest. His gaze is locked on me.

But it’s not the look I know. The softness is gone. The devotion. The obsession. All of it has bled away, replaced by something vacant and bottomless. Something monstrous.

“Vincent?” My voice comes out hoarse. “What are you doing?”

My eyes flick to my mother, and I jolt. She’s staring at me too.

“Why aren’t you saving me?” she asks, her voice hollow and strange, and I realize how long it’s been since I’ve heard her speak.

Vincent begins to lower the knife. Slowly. Deliberately. A tight, cruel smile spreads across his face. My body lurches forward instinctively, and⁠—

I’m stuck.

I glance down.

My feet won’t move. I’m rooted in place, like the threshold itself has grown hands and clamped around my ankles. Panic coils in my gut. I strain, I fight, I try to lift my foot, but nothing moves. The paralysis crawls up my legs, then my arms, freezing me in place. I can only watch as Vincent brings the blade lower. Closer.

“Vincent, stop!” I scream, voice cracking. “Don’t hurt her!”

But he doesn’t stop.

The tip of the knife presses against her chest. Blood begins to well around it, staining her gown with a slow, deliberate bloom of red. The sheets beneath her drink it up. Pure white turns ruinous crimson.

“NO!”

My voice doesn’t faze him. The blade sinks deeper, sliding into her with brutal ease until it disappears to the hilt. I sob, helpless. Tears streak down my face, burning like trails of fire.

But through it all, my mother doesn’t even flinch.

She just stares at me with those heavy, disappointed eyes. Her voice is soft. So soft I almost miss it.

“You’re the monster. Not him.”

I blink.

Suddenly, I’m the one holding the knife.

My hands are warm and bloody. My chest is heaving. My mother lies still beneath me, her face peaceful in death. Her eyes are closed.

And all I can hear is the steady drone of machines in the distance, echoing like a lullaby.

I open my mouth to scream, and I⁠—

I jolt awake, chest heaving, lungs gasping for air. I’m drenched in sweat and surrounded by darkness.

But it’s not the same kind of darkness I just escaped. This is the familiar kind. Shapes and shadows I recognize. Silhouettes of furniture. The soft outline of the window. The low, steady sound of Vincent breathing beside me.

I exhale shakily, grounding myself. It was just a dream.

But the hollow feeling in my chest doesn’t go away.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, hands brushing against a small mountain of crumpled tissues. And then it hits me: I know exactly why the emptiness is still there. Because if I walk down the hallway and so much as peek into my mother’s room, I’ll be reminded of it in a way I’m not sure I can handle.

My stomach rumbles. I don’t want to eat. But I don’t want to go back to sleep either. Not with her face waiting for me, her eyes filled with accusation and disappointment.

With a heavy sigh, I make my way downstairs.

The food Vincent brought home is still sitting on the counter. Chinese takeout. I’ve never really liked reheating it, but we’re out of groceries, and it’s the only option at this hour.

As the microwave hums to life, I stand at the counter, letting my eyes drift across the room, empty and lifeless. They catch on something by the door. A fallen bouquet of flowers.

I hadn’t noticed it before.

Vincent must’ve dropped them when he came home and realized what had happened. Pink and white blooms, scattered across the entryway like forgotten confetti. A small, stupid part of me flutters at the thought. He brought me flowers.

But then another part twists.

There’s a thought buried in the back of my mind, hissing and insistent: He did it. He rigged her equipment. Ensured that by the time we got home from the multi-kill, my so-called "unhealthy dependency" was finally gone.

But staring at the bouquet, I hesitate.

Could that really be true?

What kind of twisted man buys flowers for his fiancée, knowing her mother has just died?

Unless… he didn’t know.

Unless he came home expecting a normal night, and what he walked into truly did knock the breath out of him.

Part of me hates that, despite the lingering thought that Vincent played a hand in her death, I leaned into the immediate comfort he offered when he got home. And the other part is so grateful for it, because without him, then I’d truly be alone in this world. I needed the love, the warmth he could provide when he wrapped his arms around me and told me everything would be alright.

I hadn’t said a single word to him last night, though I imagine he probably figured it out when my mother’s room was empty and the house was dark.

The microwave dings, but I don’t move.

I just stand there, staring at the wilted bouquet on the floor. Some of the blooms are still wrapped in crinkled plastic. Others have spilled out like they were dropped mid-thought. I picture Vincent in the doorway, holding them. Smiling, maybe. And then seeing me. Seeing what had happened.

But was it shock?

Or guilt?

I cross the room and kneel over the flowers. My fingers brush against the fallen petals, and something inside me shudders. Part of me wants to believe he brought them home thinking we’d be celebrating after we’d got all the inspiration I needed for the manuscript to seal the deal with Dominic. But there’s another voice, quieter but colder, whispering that maybe they were part of the plan. A ribbon-wrapped distraction. Grief, softened by just the right performance.

I sink back against the wall, the tile cold against my spine. My eyes burn from lack of sleep, but there’s no chance of rest now.

Because this isn’t about whether or not Vincent tampered with the machines. This is about me.

About what I’ve let myself become.

I’ve spent so long playing the role of someone caught in the tide—swept along by other people’s decisions, their betrayals, their violence. First Janice. Then Vincent. Even my mother, in her slow, silent decline, had shaped me more than I wanted to admit.

And now she’s gone.

I wrap my arms around my knees, trying to make myself smaller, like that will help me feel less hollow. But the emptiness isn’t physical. It’s moral. Spiritual. Like I’ve scraped myself so clean trying to survive, there’s nothing left to hold onto.

I know if I went back upstairs, I’d still find Vincent sleeping, his breathing calm and steady, as if nothing in his world had changed.

But mine has.

The dream, it wasn’t just about fear. It was a mirror. I wasn’t saving her because deep down, I didn’t know if I wanted to. And worse than that… I was the one holding the knife.

I remember the feeling of warmth and that horrible relief.

If Vincent did kill her—rigged her death to “liberate” me from some dependency I never asked to be freed from—then what does that make me for staying?

Because I haven’t left. I’ve cried. I’ve doubted. But I haven’t left. Not even after what’s happened to Stephen and Janice, or all the little flags that told me something was deeply, irreversibly wrong.

I press my forehead to my knees and draw a slow, shaking breath. Marcus Reed had it all wrong. I’m not the victim. I don’t think I ever was. My dream made that clear enough—and maybe that’s a good thing. Because if I want to survive and write anything real, be anything real, I have to choose what comes next. I have to be the one behind the wheel.

Not Vincent.

Me.

Maybe it’s already too late to be innocent. Maybe I crossed that line the moment I watched Val die and wrote my first true words. Maybe that’s why my mother called me a monster. And maybe… she was right.

But if she is, then this monster still has a story to finish.

THIRTY-TWO

LUNA

Funny, how much can change in the span of a few days.

That first night without my mother, I was afraid that I was never going to get used to the silence in the house, without that steady backdrop of her medical equipment. But by the second night, I already was. This morning, I’d already begun to feel like I had lived a year without her there. Grief has a way of doing that to you though, of stretching the minutes into hours.

Knowing that the world would soon find out about my mother’s death, I had to get ahead of it. And though the funeral was today, this morning I’d recorded that video for Momnt.

I’d sat at my desk, the room bathed in the grey light of predawn, my face no longer swollen and raw from crying. Only on camera did I see how grief had carved trenches beneath my eyes, deep enough that not even my expensive concealer could hide.

“To all of my wonderful fans,” I'd begun, my voice steady despite the hollow feeling in my chest. "I need to share some difficult news. My mother passed away after a long battle with Locked-In Syndrome."

I'd paused there, letting the weight of the words sink in, both for my audience and for myself.

"I know there's been speculation about my work and the collaboration with Dominic Reeves. I promise I'll address all of that soon. But for now, I'm asking for space and time to grieve. Thank you for understanding."

Short. Simple. To the point.

What I didn't say was how I'd smashed my fist into the medical equipment, screaming until my voice gave out. How I'd spent the night wrapped around my mother's body as it grew colder, hoping beyond reason that she might somehow come back.

The notification tsunami hit within minutes of posting. Condolences from fans. Messages from other authors. Publishers and publicists sending carefully worded platitudes. Alyssa Lake's office asking for an exclusive interview about my "journey through grief."

I'd turned off my phone after that. The silence that followed felt like an echo of watching the coroner's van disappear into the night, final and absolute.

The funeral itself is a small affair.

I'd like to blame the rush—bodies don't keep, after all—but the truth is, I didn't have anyone to invite. No aunts or uncles or cousins to call, and no family friends wringing their hands over what to wear. Just Vincent, the funeral director, and me in a black dress that feels too tight around my throat.

And then Dominic Reeves, appearing like a specter at the edge of the cemetery.

The funeral director drones on about a woman he never knew, while I stare at the gleaming mahogany of my mother's casket. It's more expensive than she would have wanted. But it gives me some twisted comfort knowing she'll be buried in luxury. A final gift for the woman whose care fueled my every decision these past years.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the funeral director intones, bringing me back to the present.

Vincent stands beside me, his face a mask of appropriate sadness. He places his hand on my lower back, and I let him, even as doubt snakes through me.

The service concludes. I place a single white rose on the casket, my fingers lingering on the polished wood.

“Goodbye, Mom,” I whisper. “I'm sorry I couldn't save you.”

When I turn, Dominic is there, impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit. His expression is solemn, his eyes slightly narrowed against the sun.

"Luna," he says, extending his hand. "My deepest condolences."

I take his hand, surprised by the genuine warmth in his grip. "Thank you for coming. I didn't expect to see you here."

"Death has a way of clarifying what matters," he says, releasing my hand. "How are you holding up?"

The question is so normal and sincere, that for a moment I almost answer honestly. Almost tell him that I'm drowning, that a growing part of me suspects Vincent killed my mother, that I'm not sure how to be Miss Murder without her as my reason.

Instead, I say, "I'm managing."

Vincent appears at my side. His eyes find Dominic's, and something passes between them—two predators sizing each other up.

"Mr. Reeves," Vincent says smoothly. "We appreciate you coming."

"Of course." Dominic's attention shifts back to me. "I know this isn't the time, especially with your mother’s passing. But with the deadline upcoming, I've been wondering about our project."

"Actually," I say, "I sent you some excerpts from the manuscript."

Surprise flickers across his face. "You did?"

I nod, watching as he pulls out his phone. "This morning. Check your email."

His fingers move across the screen, his brows furrowing in concentration. Then his expression changes, eyes widening slightly as he scrolls through what I'd sent him: the raw, unfiltered pages I'd written during that night with Val and Vincent. Pages stained with real blood and real horror.

"This is..." he trails off, looking up at me with something like awe. "This is really, really good, Luna. This is exactly what I've been talking about. The authenticity, the darkness⁠—"

I say flatly, cutting him off.

He blinks. "What?"

“Call Alyssa Lake, tell her she’s not involved anymore. If you don’t, then I’m not doing the movie deal with you. Not now, not ever.”

Vincent shifts beside me, surprise evident in the slight tension of his shoulders.

Dominic studies me for a moment, then tucks his phone away. "Can I ask why?"

“Because she thought she could threaten me. Truth is, I don’t need her. Or you, for that matter. That manuscript is the real deal, Dominic. You know it, just from that little excerpt. And I know it." I step closer, lowering my voice. "And if you don't get rid of her, I'll find another director for this. Someone who respects boundaries. And you'll regret it."

A beat passes.

Then a slow smile spreads across his face, not of amusement but of admiration. "You know, grief agrees with you, Luna. It gives you an edge."

I don't respond.

"Alright," he says after a moment. "I'll handle Alyssa."

"Good."

I start to turn away, but he catches my elbow gently. "When can we discuss the rest of the manuscript? I have so many questions."

Vincent steps forward, his presence protective and possessive all at once. "This isn't the time," he says, an edge to his voice.

"No," I agree, "it's not." I pause, then add, "But you're welcome to come to our wedding. It’s this weekend. I'll text you the details."

Vincent's eyes snap to mine, confusion clear in their depths. This wasn't part of our plan. Our small, private ceremony was supposed to be just the two of us and my mother. Except now, there will be no mother.

"Wedding?" Dominic's gaze flick between Vincent and me. “You’d like to have me there?” He chuckles at the dark look on Vincent’s face. “Well, who am I to decline your offer. I’ll be there.”

"Thank you," I say.

He nods, then gestures toward the parking lot. "I should go. Again, my condolences for your loss."

As he walks away, Vincent turns to me, his expression unreadable. "I didn't realize we were inviting people to the wedding. And shouldn’t we give it a bit of time? I mean… your mother’s just⁠—“

“No, I think we should go ahead with it. It’s what she would want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. And you’re sure you want to have other people there too?”

I watch Dominic's retreating form. "I don't want to be alone. Not now."

Vincent's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "You're not alone, Luna. You have me."

I meet his gaze, forcing a small smile. "I know. But maybe it's time we stopped being so isolated. Especially now that..." I trail off, unable to finish the sentence.

His face softens with what looks like understanding. "Of course. Whatever you need."

We walk back to the car in silence, Vincent's arm around my shoulders. The cemetery is quiet except for the soft crunch of gravel beneath our feet. When we reach the Range Rover, he opens my door, ever the gentleman.

"I need to use the restroom before we go," I say. "I'll just be a minute."

He nods, and I slip away, back toward the small chapel adjoining the cemetery. Once inside, I duck into a narrow hallway and pull out my phone.

I turn it on and wait for the flood of notifications, but I ignore them all, opening my messaging app instead. I type a text to Marcus Reed first.

Okay, I’ll talk. But only at the wedding. I'll text you the details.

I send it before I can second-guess myself. I know he’ll be confused about why I’m going forward with the wedding, but it doesn’t matter. I think about sending Melissa a message, only to decide against it. She’s in the same boat as Reed. Once he’s dealt with, she won’t have a leg to stand on in her threats against me. I delete the conversation with Reed from my phone, clear the notification bar, and turn it off again.

As I walk back to the car, my steps feel lighter somehow. More purposeful. The crushing weight of grief is still there, a hollowness I know will never fully heal. But alongside it is something new.

Resolve.

Vincent waits by the car, face tilted toward the sun, eyes closed. He looks peaceful. Innocent, even.

But I know better now.

I know what he's done. What he's capable of. What he's turned me into.

And I know what I have to do.

I slide into the passenger seat beside him, and he glances over, a small smile on his lips.

"Ready?" he asks.

I nod, the decision hardening with every breath. "Yes. I think I finally am."

THIRTY-THREE

LUNA

Today is the day.

I'm dressed in my wedding gown, standing before the mirror, staring at myself. My hair’s done up in long, winding braids, each one carefully pinned in place. The makeup artist has transformed me with contoured cheekbones, smoky eyes, and lips painted the color of secrets. The hair and makeup team did excellent work. Better than I could’ve hoped.

But there is no makeup that can mask the coldness behind my blue eyes.

Only days ago, my sweet mother was lowered into the ground. I stood there, watching dirt fall on her casket, wondering what the world will be like without her—what kind of purpose will even keep me going as Miss Murder. But I can't focus on that loss right now. I'm too consumed by something else.

I'm too focused on finding out if Vincent was the one who killed her.

My phone dings, drawing my attention. I pick it up: a message from Reed.

You said you were going to text me the details about the wedding. I haven't heard back.

I drop him my location and let him know that the wedding starts at five in the afternoon. It's a lie. The wedding starts at four, a mere two hours from now. But by the time he shows up, I'll have my answer about Vincent.

If my husband-to-be actually killed my mother, then Reed has his purpose to serve. He'll help me get rid of Vincent. I doubt my fiancé would willingly go to prison. He’d probably have to be killed. That’s why I sent my location to Dominic too, making sure he knows the correct time. There's power in numbers.

But if Vincent is innocent? Then Reed has to be dealt with. It's better that he shows up to this isolated church well after the wedding anyway, so we can ensure he stays off the map. Permanently.

Of course, Melissa would probably go forward with her threat to blast me across social media, but I'm confident my fans would rally around me. Without proof or credibility, she wouldn't last long against their devotion. No matter how bold she is.

A knock comes at the door, and I quickly delete the messages to Reed.

"Who is it?"

"Is it safe to come in?" a man's voice calls through the door.

That would be the officiant. Without any bridesmaids or groomsmen, he has to act as the go-between. Though he seemed happy enough to do so when Vincent suggested it.

"Yes," I answer, smoothing my dress and my expression in one practiced gesture.

The door cracks open and he pokes his head through, like he's a little nervous about entering the bridal suite before the wedding. Though already starting to bald, he’s younger than I expected an officiant to be.

His eyes widen at the sight of me, and his face splits into a smile. "You look magnificent."

"Thank you," I say quietly.

For a moment, he just stands there awkwardly, taking me in. Even though he doesn't have that predatory look in his eyes, it does seem a little... unsettling.

"Is there something for me?"

He suddenly realizes what he's doing, and his face burns bright red. He clears his throat and says, "I've been asked to pass you something. A gift, apparently."

My mouth curves into a frown. Vincent has mentioned a wedding gift a few times recently, his voice always dropping to that low, secretive tone whenever he brought it up.

"Okay, set it over there."

The officiant enters and carefully places a box on top of the dresser. It's medium-sized, wrapped in cream-colored paper with a blood-red ribbon tied in a perfect bow. My pulse quickens despite myself.

"He seemed very particular about you receiving this now. He wanted you to feel the excitement, he said?"

My phone buzzes, and we both look at it.

"Excitement for what?"

The officiant spreads his arms and gives me a rueful grin. "A second wedding gift? Or a part two? I'm not sure."

I glance back at the box. I can tell he's curious too. I imagine he doesn't get to do weddings very often, not out here. And certainly not for someone counted among the rich and famous.

The phone buzzes again. And again.

"Wedding guests trying to reach you?" he laughs. "They must be stressed about the time."

I pick up the phone. It's Alyssa, not even calling. Just texting me, raging in a strangely passive-aggressive manner, both congratulating me on my wedding day and shitting on me for getting Dominic to drop her.

"Someone important?" he prods. "If we need to adjust the timing, I'm happy to be flexible."

"No. Nobody important at all."

I leave her on read and silence her messages. Alyssa is inconsequential now, all the power behind her threat removed because she risks upsetting Dominic—someone with the connections to effectively shut her down. I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing I'll likely never have to worry about her again, though I imagine she’ll be reluctant to do any sort of promotional content when it comes to Miss Murder.

My eyes drift toward the finished manuscript resting on the edge of the dresser. I'd spent the last few days hammering it out, polishing it for Dominic. This was by far the greatest piece of work I had ever written, whether by my own hand or Janice's. And it was all thanks to Vincent.

The gift box seems to pulse in my peripheral vision, drawing me back to it.

"Thanks for bringing the gift by," I say, glancing pointedly at the door.

"Of course." He lingers, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Call for me if you need me. My name's Paul, so just shout it down the hallway. I'll hear you."

"Right." I don't think I'll be shouting his name at all. I have everything I need.

He gives me a polite nod and finally shuts the door behind him as he goes.

Alone at last, I cross the room, my breath caught in my chest. I place my hands on the box, fingers trembling slightly as they trace the edge of the ribbon. My mind races with possibilities of what’s inside: fingers, toes, maybe even tongues. There's a part of me that thinks Vincent has kept something hidden from me, a side that's even more twisted and dark than the kind-hearted murderer I've come to know.

Steeling myself, I bite my lip, peel back the paper, and lift the lid to reveal...

A knife?

I wrap my hands around the handle with a frown and lift it. It's not the same knife that was used on any of the three men we used for inspiration on the manuscript I finished for the movie deal. I would have recognized that right away. But it's also not any knife I recognize. It seems like a simple kitchen knife, with a comfortable handle and... are those edges freshly sharpened?

I carefully touch my finger to it and hiss as I draw back, a small bead of blood seeping out. I suck on my finger as I consider the knife, the metallic taste spreading across my tongue. What was this supposed to mean?

It's then that I remember the officiant said something about a part two to this gift. Does Vincent plan to deliver me some new source of inspiration for my wedding gift? Some scab of society, bound and muffled, waiting for me to remove them from existence and transform into a bestselling novel?

It would be just like him to think that was what I wanted for my wedding gift. More inspiration, more work, more everything, while that private investigator continues to watch us. I shake my head and put the knife back into the box, slamming it shut. The sharp sound bounces off the walls around me, an echo of my frustration.

With a deep sigh, I take my place back in front of the mirror. I meet my own gaze, and with a soft whisper, remind myself that I have to confront Vincent. It's not a simple choice of whether I want to do it or not. I'm conflicted, because even if he did do it, even if he somehow managed to cause my mother's death without me or anyone else understanding how, I still love him. There is a part of him that lives in me, that lives on in every single one of the books that grace my bookshelves.

And I’m not sure I can cut him out without destroying what’s left of me. Still, I must do it.

By nightfall, everything will be different.

One way… or another.

THIRTY-FOUR

LUNA

The chapel looks exactly like Vincent described when he suggested it. It’s small, isolated, and deceptively charming. And inside its weathered stone exterior, the polished wooden pews sit empty, all facing a small altar draped in white. Sunlight streams through stained glass to cast jewel-toned shadows across it all, making for a view that I can only describe as quaint.

Vincent's idea of "privacy," he'd said. Now I wonder if he meant privacy from the world, or privacy to do whatever he had planned.

The knife from his gift sits tucked into a garter beneath my wedding dress, the blade carefully wrapped so it doesn't slice through the delicate fabric. My fingers keep twitching toward it, seeking reassurance in its presence. I hadn't planned on bringing it, but something told me I might need protection today, even from the man I'm about to marry. Especially from him.

I linger in the small antechamber, peering through the crack in the door. There's no audience waiting to witness our union.

The loneliness of it hurts, because it only emphasizes the absence of the one person I would have wanted in attendance.

The side door opens with a soft groan, and sunlight spills across the chapel floor as Dominic strides in, dressed for the occasion in a midnight blue suit with subtle silver pinstripes that catch the light each time he moves.

His eyes widen as he takes in the empty room, a slow smile spreading across his face. He seems pleased by the intimacy of it, perhaps recognizing the dramatic potential of such a scene. When he notices me watching, he offers a small nod of acknowledgment before sliding into the back pew.

He withdraws his phone, angling it toward the altar. The director in him can't resist, I suppose—capturing raw footage even at someone else's wedding.

The officiant, Paul, startles me by appearing at my side.

“Is that Dominic Reeves?” Paul asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Holy shit.”

“Are you supposed to swear inside a church?” I ask, taken aback.

“No, definitely not,” he says, nearly bursting with excitement. “Anyway, it’s time. Your groom is waiting.”

It amazes me that he doesn’t sense something off about those of us in attendance. That he doesn’t see the killer in Vincent, or the darkness inside me and Dominic. But I suppose only those of us who know the intimacy of darkness can recognize it in others.

“Do you have anybody else you’re waiting on? Maybe someone coming to walk you down the aisle?” he asks.

I shake my head, my words shaky as I answer. “No. It’s just me.”

He blinks in surprise, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just pats me on the shoulder and takes his place at the altar.

I press myself against the wall, heartbeat thundering in my ears, chest heaving with anxiety and anticipation. Closing my eyes, I force myself to breathe, to know that at the end of the day, whether I’m married or not, I’ll be walking out of this place. And that somehow, whatever happens, I’ll figure it all out.

With that thought fixed in my mind, I take one final breath and step into the chapel. As I walk, I feel strangely detached from my own body. The dress whispers against the stone floor, the sound almost thunderous in the quiet space.

Vincent stands at the altar with his back to me. When he turns, his breath catches visibly in his throat. His eyes widen, drinking in the sight of me as if he's seeing something miraculous. The raw adoration in his gaze makes my throat tighten.

It would be so much easier if he looked like a monster. If his eyes were cold, his smile cruel. But he looks at me the way he always has… like I'm his entire world.

How can hands that have taken so many lives reach for mine with such tenderness?

I force my feet to move, each step bringing me closer to the altar, to him, to the moment I'll either discover the truth or bury it forever.

"You're perfect," Vincent whispers as I take my place beside him. "Absolutely perfect."

I manage a small smile, the muscles in my face stiff and uncooperative. His hand finds mine, warm and solid, grounding me even as I contemplate turning his world upside down. My fingers curl reflexively around his, muscle memory betraying my resolve.

Paul clears his throat, drawing us both back to the moment. "Dearly beloved," he begins, his voice echoing slightly in the empty chapel. He stammers for a moment, realizing that there are no dearly beloved. Other than Dominic at the back, and it was easy enough to tell that he was not exactly that. He clears his throat. “We are gathered here today…”

His words fade into white noise as I study Vincent's profile. The sharp cut of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the slight curve of his lips. This man has killed for me. Has created art from death. Has given me the words I never thought I could write.

And he might have taken my mother from me.

The thought curls around my heart like barbed wire, tightening with each beat.

"The couple has prepared their own vows," Paul says, gesturing to Vincent.

Vincent squeezes my hand gently before releasing it. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small, folded piece of paper. His hands are steady as he unfolds it.

“Luna Harrow,” he begins, voice soft but threaded with an undercurrent of tension. “Before you, I lived in shadows. An aimless darkness was all I knew, and I was content to let it swallow me whole.

He pauses, his gaze lingering on my face. I can’t look away from him, can’t help but feel those damn butterflies fluttering around in the pit of my stomach.

His eyes lock with mine, intense and unwavering, so filled with something akin to worship.

“But from that first moment I saw you, you breathed life into my emptiness. You gave me purpose. And you continue to give me purpose. From that first moment to now, and to the end of my days, I swear to you… I’ll be your partner in everything. I’ll be there to build you up so that there is inspiration in everything you do. I’ll forever be your Mr. Murder, no matter the cost. I’ll do this because I love you. Truly, I do.”

My lips part, my eyes fill with tears, and now, finally, I look away. I have to, because otherwise, this resolve in my heart will shatter and I’ll choose to forget my mother’s death. I’ll do it, because I love him too.

When Vincent finishes, Paul turns to me expectantly. "And now, Luna, your vows?"

This is it. The moment I've been dreading and anticipating in equal measure. I haven't written any vows. Instead, I have questions that burn in my throat, demanding release.

I take a deep breath. "Vincent," I begin, my voice surprisingly steady. "Before I say my vows, there's something I need to ask you."

Confusion flickers across his face, quickly replaced by that patience he always has.

"Of course," he says. "Anything."

A beat passes.

Then two.

And finally, in a quiet voice, I ask, "Did you kill my mother?"

The words hang in the air, sharp and sudden. Paul gasps, taking an instinctive step back. Dominic's phone dips slightly in surprise, then steadies, still recording.

For a moment, Vincent is completely still, as if carved from stone. Then his face crumples, genuine shock rippling across his features.

"What?" he whispers, the single word ragged with disbelief. "Luna, how could you⁠—"

"Answer the question," I cut in, the coldness in my voice surprising even me. "Did you kill her? Did you take her from me because you thought I was becoming too dependent on her? That I wasn't dependent enough on you?"

He sinks to his knees in front of me, right there at the altar, his eyes never leaving mine.

"No," he says, the word breaking in his throat. "Luna, I swear to you, I had nothing to do with her death. It was a sad, terrible accident. I would never take away your reason for writing."

I search his face for any sign of deception, any flicker of the monster I know lurks behind those eyes. But all I see is raw, genuine pain at my accusation.

"You said it yourself," I press on, determined now. "You said it’s an unhealthy dependency.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he insists, still on his knees before me. "I wanted you to grow beyond your dependence, yes, but I would never hurt her to make that happen." He reaches for my hands, clasping them between his as if in prayer. "You have to believe me, Luna. Please."

The sincerity in his eyes makes me waver, my conviction suddenly uncertain. Is it possible I'm wrong? That her death truly was just the cruel randomness of fate?

A movement at the edge of my vision reminds me we're not alone. Paul has backed up against the wall, his face pale, eyes wide with fear. When he sees me looking, he makes a small, aborted movement toward the door.

"Don't," Vincent says without turning around, his voice suddenly hard as steel. "Don't even think about it."

Paul freezes, his throat working as he swallows convulsively.

"You'll finish this ceremony," he tells him, and the knife against my thigh suddenly feeling very present. "And then you'll forget everything you heard here today. Do you understand?"

He nods jerkily, perspiration beading on his forehead.

Vincent rises slowly to his feet, his eyes returning to mine.

"Luna," he says softly. "I didn't kill your mother. But if you need me to prove myself to you, I will. Whatever it takes. I meant every word of my vows.”

Something in his voice, thread of absolute certainty, makes me hesitate. The truth is, I want to believe him. I want to believe that at least one person in my life hasn't betrayed me and taken something precious from me.

“You swear?” I ask, my voice shaking like I’m on the verge of crying. Maybe because I am. Up to this point, I still hadn’t quite accepted my mother’s death. But standing here in front of Vincent, if I accepted him, then I’d have to accept that she was simply gone, and that her time had finally come. Naturally.

I wasn’t ready to let her go.

But then, I never would have been.

“I swear with every fiber of my being.” He pauses. Then in a quiet voice, he adds, “In my own way, I loved her too.”

God help me, there’s not a trace of deceit in his eyes or voice. He’s speaking the truth.

I swallow and nod, my decision made.

“Finish the ceremony,” I tell Paul without looking at him.

Paul steps forward on shaky legs, his voice trembling as he picks up where he left off. “D-do you, Vincent, take Luna⁠—“

“You skipped my vows.”

He swallows, clears his throat, glancing at me, “Luna Harrow. Would you like to share your vows?”

I take Vincent’s hands, brushing my thumb across his skin. “Vincent, you’ve shown me who you really are—what you’d do for me. And I love you more than words could ever say. Just as you’ll always be mine, I’ll always be your Mrs. Murder.”

He smiles like I’ve never seen before.

“Do you, Vincent, take Luna Harrow, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

"I do," Vincent says firmly, his eyes never leaving mine. "With everything I am."

"And do you, Luna, take Vincent to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

I pause, just long enough for Vincent's expression to tighten with fear.

"I do," I finally say. This morning, I struggled to imagine the words coming from my mouth. But now, they come like honey.

"Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife." Paul's voice cracks on the last word. "You may kiss the bride."

Vincent’s hands cradle my face with a careful gentleness. He leans in, pressing a kiss to my lips that’s almost chaste. I feel the slightest tremor in his fingers, the only sign he’s as rattled as I am.

As we break apart, movement flashes at the corner of my vision. Dominic stands, slipping his phone into his pocket with a practiced ease. Vincent takes my hand and guides me down the aisle.

“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Murder,” Dominic says, a dark gleam in his eyes. There’s no worry in them. Not even a sign of judgment or alarm. It’s like he’s… familiar with our world, and has dabbled in some darkness of his own.

And Vincent seems to recognize that. Maybe that’s why he extends his hand, as though he’s offering a truce. Or maybe it’s because he knows that they both care about me. “Thank you for coming.”

Dominic shakes his hand, then turns his gaze to me. “Of course. Quite the dramatic ceremony. You certainly know how to keep things interesting, Luna.”

I study him, recalling how he fed me real case notes and grim recordings, anything he could gather to fuel my writing. He’s hardly a normal director.

“So… the movie deal,” I say. “Still on?”

The question dangles in the air, unsaid, but clear: Or are you planning to sell us to the cops out the moment we leave?

His grin widens. “We’re most certainly on. And don’t worry, I’ll have a word with the officiant before I go.”

I exchange a glance with Vincent, and we offer Dominic a short wave goodbye. He drifts toward the officiant, a confident look on his face. Something tells me that in Hollywood, he’s probably been exposed to all kinds of darkness.

Vincent ushers me out a side door into the midday sun. A white-ribboned Range Rover waits, cans rattling at the bumper.

He glances at me, excitement lighting up his features. “I’ve got something for you. My real wedding gift. Do you have the knife?”

A murder, right now? The idea makes me frown, but for reasons I can’t fully name, I find myself nodding, letting his infectious thrill carry me.

He helps me into the passenger seat, my wedding dress fanning around me. I catch a glimpse of Dominic near the chapel exit, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and urgent. He doesn’t look concerned, just… busy.

Vincent climbs behind the wheel, turning the key with a flourish. The cans clank and scrape on the pavement as we roll away, leaving Paul standing slack-jawed in the chapel doorway.

I expect Vincent to take the main road away from the chapel, but at the fork, he doubles back, taking an adjacent path I hadn’t noticed before. The tires crunch on gravel as we wind deeper into the woods surrounding the property.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"You'll see," Vincent says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "It's not much further."

We round a bend, and the church comes back into view. We stop just short of it, before a small concrete structure that’s half-hidden by overgrown vegetation. It looks like a bunker of some sort, the kind built during the Cold War when nuclear paranoia was at its height.

Vincent parks the car and comes around to help me out. I notice, with a sinking feeling, that he's gotten hold of the knife I'd hidden. It now sits tucked into his waistband, the handle just visible beneath his suit jacket.

How did he manage to get that out of my garter without me noticing? Maybe whenever he’d been helping me with my dress when we were getting into the car?

I push the thought aside and look at the rusted metal door of the bunker. “What is this place?”

"The caretaker's shelter," he explains. "Built decades ago as a fallout shelter, now mostly forgotten. But I found it while exploring the grounds. And I thought..." His smile widens, becoming almost boyish in its excitement. "I thought it would be perfect."

He throws open the door with a flourish, and the sound hits me immediately—low, exhausted moans, muffled but unmistakable. Human sounds. Sounds of suffering.

My blood turns to ice as Vincent takes my hand, guiding me toward the concrete steps that descend into darkness.

"Come, Mrs. Murder," he whispers, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "Let me show you my gift.”

He leads me down into the dark.

THIRTY-FIVE

LUNA

The stairs creak beneath my weight, catching and clawing at the trailing hem of my wedding dress, like they're trying to hold me back. To keep me from descending deeper into the dark, toward the haunting moans that echo off the concrete walls—muffled cries that sound barely human anymore.

But with Vincent's hand gently holding mine, I'm guided toward it, and toward the acrid scent that has me wrinkling my nose. It smells of urine, of unwashed bodies, and of the most potent scent of all: fear.

My mouth is dry, and any attempt at words catches in my throat.

"Careful, one more step," Vincent says calmly, his voice brimming with an undertone of excitement that makes my skin crawl.

He helps me down, and I release his hand to gather my dress, freeing it from the stairs. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see them: two silhouettes on their hands and knees, framed by crumbling concrete and rusted pipes.

I glance toward Vincent for an explanation, but he doesn't notice. Instead, he walks toward the wall and with a flick of a switch, light blooms across the space, chasing away the darkness. It hurts my eyes, forcing me to squint and blink away the dots swimming across my vision.

By the time I do, I notice Vincent approaching me with a butcher's apron, pristine white except for the words "Mrs. Murder" stitched in red across the chest.

"I know, it’s a little tacky. But I thought you might like it anyway,” he says, offering it to me. “It can help you keep your wedding dress from getting stained."

My mouth parts in confusion as I stare at him.

It lingers in his hand, and he blinks, like he's surprised I haven't taken it yet. But then his eyes light up. "Unless you want to paint that white canvas red. Then I guess you won't be needing this."

He laughs as he puts the apron aside.

I look past him, staring at the kneeling human forms. With the light on, it's easier to see more about them, though their faces are obscured by black hoods. Their bodies are rail thin, bones poking through like they had been starved halfway to death. Beneath the hoods, I can catch a glimpse of their lips, cracked and bleeding, gasping for air through the thin material.

"I've been preparing for this day for a long time," he says with a twisted smirk, like he’s proud of himself. "I've had to be patient, and believe me, it wasn't easy at times. But I can finally give you my present, knowing that you're ready for it."

Ready for it? The words echo in my head, hollow and ominous.

He comes to me, opens the fingers of my hand gently—the way you'd unfurl a flower—and presses the handle of the kitchen knife into my palm. The plastic handle is cold, almost alive against my skin. Then his gaze rises to meet my own, and what I see there makes my throat tighten.

"You have grown so much since the moment I first saw you, Luna. You used to be so in need of help that you cried out for it, except you thought nobody was listening. But I heard you, my love. I heard you. And now..." his voice drops to a whisper, reverent and terrifying, "now you're so strong. So capable. You're so close to finally never needing anybody's help again."

My mouth works as I try to wrap my head around his words, but they're slipping through my grasp like smoke. "What are you talking about?"

He lifts his thumb, brushes it across my lips with an intensity that borders on worship, and then leans in to kiss me. I expect it to be forceful, which would only be fitting in this strange place with its strange offerings. But instead, it's soft as a feather, so tender that it feels more violent than if he'd bitten me.

"I'm talking about love. Love and inspiration," he whispers, his breath warm against my skin.

He steps aside and gestures toward the two kneeling silhouettes like a magician revealing his grand finale. I realize now why he's brought what appears to be two starving, homeless people off the street. He wants me to kill without worry of someone coming after me.

I wait for the adrenaline, for the familiar thrill that always courses through me at moments like these. But for some reason... it doesn't come. I feel nothing but emptiness where there should be fire. No blooming colors in my mind. No swirling words waiting to be typed. No pulsing of my vision, no driving need to thrust forward and bury the knife into their chests.

Just cold, hollow nothing.

He sees my doubt and gives me a placating smile, like I'm some sort of child unsure of how to take my first steps. He gently takes my hand and guides me closer to the kneeling bodies, and together, we crouch in front of them.

Up close, there's a nagging feeling in the back of my mind. Like there’s something critical I’m missing in this moment. And the longer it goes without me addressing it, the more it gnaws at me.

"It's okay," he says. "We can start slow."

I try to object, not feeling anything close to the murderous thrill that I'd become so familiar with. Instead, I only feel some kind of abject horror crawling up my spine, wrapping cold fingers around my throat.

He grabs one of their wrists, and they jump in fright, whimpers and moans escaping them. But they don't resist. It’s almost like they've been trained not to. The thought makes my stomach turn.

"Feel their pulse," he says, pressing my fingers to their wrist.

I feel the racing heartbeat. It's pounding against my fingers, and in response, my own heartbeat pounds against my chest. Not because I'm afraid of this moment, but because there's something strangely familiar about this person.

It's a woman, I realize, from the thinness of her wrist. My gaze passes over the rest of her. Though you wouldn't know it from the way her body has wasted away, bones jutting out at painful angles, skin stretched too thin. It's hard to even tell, beneath the filthy burlap sack she's been forced to wear. The fabric is coarse and stiff with grime, cut roughly into a shapeless garment with frayed holes for arms. The same makeshift burlap that the person next to her is wearing, like they're nothing more than discarded goods.

"Keep your finger on the pulse," he says. He takes my other hand, the one holding the knife, and slowly raises it to the woman's wrist. "All you have to do now is cut. One cut, and she'll be gone. You'll feel that divine slowing of her heartbeat, and with it, an inspiration that will never leave you."

But I don't cut. Instead, my gaze narrows, honing in on her hooded face, like I can see through it.

"Who is she?" I ask.

He studies me, his smirk persisting, like this is all going according to plan. He's expected me to be nervous about this moment, to want to see who he's selected for me to commit my first murders on. I expect him to give me some long-winded explanation of who this worthless soul is, and how nobody will miss them. Or to attempt to justify her death by telling me what awful things they've done.

But instead, he simply lifts the hood.

I stare at the face beneath the hood, and the world stops spinning.

It's Janice.

My editor. My ghostwriter. The woman Vincent murdered.

Except she's not dead. She's here, in front of me, a grotesque parody of the person I once knew. Her face is gaunt, cheekbones jutting like mountain ridges beneath pale, waxy skin. Dark hollows sit where her eyes should be, sunk so deep they seem to disappear into her skull. The corner of her lips is torn from what I can only assume were screams no one heard.

She's alive.

The thought slams into me, and I stagger back, my wedding dress brushing against the filthy concrete floor.

"Janice?" I whisper, the name scraping against my throat like broken glass.

She makes a sound. Not quite a word, but more of a moan that bubbles up from somewhere deep and primal. Her eyes, bloodshot and yellowed, fix on mine with a desperate intensity that makes my skin crawl. There's recognition there, and beneath it, a silent plea.

But I don’t know if it’s a plea for me to put her out of her misery, or if she’s begging me to help save her.

Vincent watches my reaction, his smile never wavering.

"Surprise," he says simply, as if he's just revealed a birthday gift instead of a woman I thought was dead.

My gaze snaps to the second figure, still hooded, still trembling on bruised knees. Melissa's voice echoes in my head, clear as if she were standing right beside me.

I know Stephen wouldn't just abandon the family like this. He wouldn't just disappear.

My stomach drops, and the floor suddenly feels unstable.

"No," I breathe, already knowing what I'll find.

Vincent doesn't wait for me to ask. He reaches for the second hood and yanks it off with a flourish.

Stephen.

His beard has grown wild, matted with what looks like dried blood and worse. His face is nearly unrecognizable: one eye swollen shut, the other bloodshot and unfocused. His hair, once thick and dark, has thinned, exposing patches of scalp that are mottled with bruises in various stages of healing. But it's him. It's unmistakably him.

He doesn't make a sound when the hood comes off, but his good eye finds mine. The silent accusation there is worse than any scream. He thinks I had some part to play in this.

"They're both still alive," I say stupidly, unable to process what I'm seeing.

Vincent nods, pleased as he regards them both. "I saved them for you."

I look between them, these two people I'd mourned, had nightmares about, had built my new life on the foundation of their supposed deaths. They're hardly more than skeletons draped in skin, their bodies whittled down to the essentials needed for survival. Stephen's arms now look like twisted twigs. Janice's elegant hands, which used to fly across the keys of the typewriter, now gnarled, nails torn and bloody.

They've been hollowed out, stripped of everything that made them who they were, left with only the bare, terrified animal instinct to survive.

“Why?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

"For you."

"For me?" The words come out strangled.

"They both betrayed you." His voice hardens, the gentle tone giving way to something colder. "Stephen with his investigation, trying to prove you were somehow the victim in all this. And Janice, writing that letter, trying to turn you against me." He shakes his head, genuinely perplexed. "They deserved this."

I look at Stephen, remembering how I'd found his phone in Vincent's suite. How I'd thought Vincent killed him because I wanted him gone. How easy it had been to believe that lie.

"You let me think they were dead," I say, a statement, not a question.

"You needed to think that." Vincent steps closer, his fingers gentle on my wrist. "You needed the grief to push you forward. To make you stronger."

I stare at him, this man I married just hours ago, trying to reconcile the Vincent I thought I knew with the monster standing before me. The one who kept two people I knew captive for months, feeding them just enough to keep them alive, breaking them down until they were barely human.

"You lied to me."

His smile falters for the first time. "I protected you."

"By lying."

"By helping you become who you were meant to be." He gestures to the knife in my hand, his excitement building again. "And now you're ready. Now you can do what you could never do before."

I look down at the knife, then back at Janice and Stephen. They're both watching me, their eyes the only part of them still fully alive. Terrified, desperate, pleading.

"Kill them," Vincent urges, his voice soft but insistent. “Do this, and see why you’ll never need to cry for help again. You’ll never need to rely on someone else for inspiration again. Become Mrs. Murder in truth, not just in name.”

I hesitate, the weight of the knife suddenly unbearable. This isn't like watching Vincent kill with that surge of inspiration as blood pools beneath a stranger's body. This is Janice. This is Stephen. This is different.

My hesitation stretches too long. Vincent's excitement morphs into impatience, a shadow crossing his face.

“Maybe you just need to see it," he says, reaching for the knife. "Sometimes the first step is the hardest."

Before I can react, he takes the knife from my hand and moves toward Janice with terrifying efficiency. In one swift motion, he grabs her by the hair, yanks her head back, and slashes the blade across her throat.

The cut is deep and precise. Blood sprays in an arc, spattering across my white dress m, eliciting a gasp from me. Janice's eyes widen in shock, her body jerking once, twice, then slumping forward as blood pumps from the wound in rhythmic spurts.

"See?" Vincent says calmly, stepping back from Janice's twitching body. "It's easy. Now you try with Stephen."

He holds the knife out to me, handle first, the blade dripping with Janice's blood. Stephen makes a desperate sound, something between a whimper and a scream, as he tries to back away. But he's too weak and broken. He can barely keep himself upright on his knees.

Vincent presses the knife into my hand, closing my fingers around it. "Do it," he urges. “Finish this."

I stare at Stephen, at the terror in his eye, at the resignation just beneath it. He doesn't expect me to save him. He expects me to kill him.

"Luna," Vincent's voice has an edge now, harder than I've ever heard it. "Do it."

"I can't."

"You can. You will." His grip tightens on my hand, guiding the knife toward Stephen. "This is what you've been training for. This is what all those other kills were leading to: your independence, your freedom."

"I don't want it," I whisper. "Not like this."

Vincent's face transforms, a coldness seeping in that I've only glimpsed before. “Don’t you understand? I’m giving you two people you can murder that you already thought were dead.” His voice rises, echoing off the concrete walls. “What else can I give you? What else can I possibly do?”

It's the first time I've ever heard him yell, the control he's always maintained finally cracking. It should scare me, but instead, it feels like clarity washing over me. This isn't love. This was never love. This is obsession, twisted into something darker than I can comprehend.

“They are already dead,” he shouts, spittle flying from his lips. “Finish them off, or they’ll take you from me and ruin everything we’ve built!”

Stephen's eye meets mine, and in it, I see a flicker of the man he once was. The man who came to me because he cared, who tried to investigate because he thought I needed saving. Maybe he was right.

I open my mouth to respond, to tell Vincent that this has to stop, when the groan of metal above us cuts through the tension.

The door to the shelter is opening.

Heavy footsteps on the creaking stairs, and then a figure emerges from the shadows.

Marcus Reed.

His eyes widen as he takes in the scene: me in my blood-spattered wedding dress, Vincent standing over me, Janice's body collapsed in a pool of blood, Stephen kneeling in terror.

"Oh, God," he breathes, reaching instinctively for a weapon that isn't there.

Vincent reacts instantly. The knife leaves my hand as he snatches it, flips it in his palm, and throws it with deadly accuracy. The blade embeds itself in Reed’s thigh, sending him tumbling down the remaining stairs. He lands hard, crying out as the impact drives the knife deeper.

Vincent is on him in seconds, retrieving the knife with a twist that makes Reed howl in pain.

"Perfect timing," Vincent says, his voice controlled again, almost pleasant. "I was just teaching my wife how things work.”

"You're insane," Reed gasps, clutching his bleeding leg.

"I'm innovative," Vincent corrects, standing over him with the knife. He turns to me, his expression softening. "Luna, maybe I made a mistake. Maybe Janice and Stephen are too personal for your first kill. I understand that. But this one—" He gestures to Reed with the knife. "This one you can do. He's been trying to destroy us from the beginning."

Reed’s eyes find mine. Like Janice, like Stephen, they beg me for help.

My teeth grind against each other as I dig my fingers into my scalp like claws, as though they could tear into my mind and undo this nightmare. But there is no escaping this.

“Do you know why old Marcus Reed here is an ex-detective?” Vincent asks.

He doesn’t wait for me to answer. Instead, he presses the knife against Reed’s throat. Reed winces as a thin red line of blood appears, trailing down the side of his throat.

Vincent leans in, his teeth bared as he growls in Reed’s ear, “Do you want to tell her, or me?”

Reed draws a shuddering breath, his tongue flicking out over his lips. He locks eyes with me, and I can tell he doesn’t want to tell me. But he does anyway.

“My badge was taken for evidence tampering.”

“What?” I ask. “What do you mean, evidence tampering?”

“There was this murderer. I didn’t have enough proof, but I knew he was behind the bodies. So I just… I planted some evidence to make sure he went away.” His face twists with shame and defiance. "I've made mistakes. Done things I'm not proud of. But I'm trying to do things right now.”

Vincent laughs, a cold, hollow sound that makes me want to clamp my hands over my ears. “Mistakes? The man he put away for life wasn’t even responsible.”

Before I have the chance to react, another figure appears at the top of the stairs.

Dominic.

He freezes when he sees us, but it’s when he sees Stephen and Janices’s body that his face drains of color. And lucky for him, Vincent’s back is to him. He doesn’t know he’s here.

It throws me for a moment, trying to wrap my head around how Dominic and Reed both found me. Then I realize that my location sharing must still be on. It would have led them both here. I knew Reed wanted to find me, but why Dominic?

It could have been simple curiosity, on why I doubled back from the fork. But whatever his reason was, a small spark of hope burns to life inside of me. He’ll see all this and help, though I don’t even know what kind of help I need. But instead, like the director he is, he pulls out his phone and starts filming.

“Did you hear me?”

I blink, realising that Vincent’s focus is entirely on me, his eyes burning with an intensity that’s almost religious.

“Luna,” he says, his voice gentler now, coaxing. “Did I push this onto you too early?”

I look from him to Reed, to Stephen still kneeling in the dirt, to Janice's body cooling on the concrete floor. I think about all the deaths that have led to this moment, all the blood that's been spilled to fuel my career, my success.

Vincent lets out a disappointed sigh. “That’s okay. That’s my fault. We can take this slower.” Then he raises the knife, ready to plunge it into Reed’s chest. “I’ll handle it myself.”

In that moment, everything becomes perfectly clear.

I lunge forward, grabbing Vincent's arm just as he brings the knife down. With strength I didn't know I had, I redirect the blade's path, driving it not into Reed, but into Vincent's side.

The knife sinks in with surprising ease, sliding between his ribs like they were always meant to part for it.

Vincent's eyes widen. He glances down, surprised to see blood coming from his own body, surprised to see that he, too, is like everyone else in the end. And when he looks back up at me, his eyes fill not with pain, but with something that disturbingly looks like… pride.

His mouth curves into a smile as blood bubbles at the corner of his lips. His hand covers mine on the knife, just as gentle and loving as always, and slowly, he helps me drive the knife deeper.

“There you go,” he whispers. “You’re finally doing it.”

I stare at him, at the life draining from his face, and strangely, I feel my own heart cracking in grief.

"This is what I always wanted for you," he gasps, his voice weakening. "To be capable… of taking your own… inspiration.”

His legs give out, and I'm not strong enough to hold him up. We sink to the ground together, the knife still buried in his side, his blood warm and sticky between us.

"You don’t… need anybody’s help now,” he whispers. "My perfect... Mrs. Murder."

He presses my fingers to the inside of his wrist, letting me feel the dying of his pulse. His eyes glaze over, still fixed on me with that terrible pride, that awful love.

And then he's gone.

The basement falls silent except for the ragged breathing of the survivors. Dominic stands frozen on the stairs, his phone still recording. Reed clutches his bleeding leg, face a contorted mask of pain and disbelief. And Stephen… Stephen has managed to crawl to Janice's body, sobbing almost uncontrollably.

I look down at my wedding dress, once white, now a canvas of blood and dirt and choices I can never unmake. My face darkens, my brow furrows, and my fingers tighten around the handle. The knife feels different now, heavier, like it's absorbed the weight of Vincent's life.

With a sickening slick of the blade, I pull it from Vincent's body and rise, turning to face Stephen.

My old boyfriend looks up at me with fear and hatred, and I just know that if I let him live, then all that I am—Miss Murder, Mrs. Murder, or whatever I am—will come to an end.

The world will find out what I've done and they'll destroy me, sentence me to a lifetime in prison, if not worse.

"Do it," Stephen wheezes, baring his cracked teeth at me.

I grip the knife and crouch over him. A storm churns inside me—rage, grief, guilt—all twisting together until I can hardly breathe. For a moment, I see every path my life could have taken if I'd never accepted those first typewritten pages, if I'd never met Vincent, if I'd never become Miss Murder.

But now, I know there’s only one path left to me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

Then I slice the knife forward.

THIRTY-SIX

LUNA

When I leave the fallout shelter, the sun has nearly fallen. It's kissing the horizon, painting the sky in a vivid shade of red. Covered in blood, I stare up, transfixed by the beauty of it all. The sight reaches deep into my soul and wraps itself around me, like it knows what I've just been through. What I've had to do.

My eyes well with tears and soon, they spill down my blood-crusted cheeks. I take my time staring at the sky, because I know…

I know that this may very well be the last time I see the sky like this.

The stairs creak behind me. I hear a sharp intake of breath as Dominic sets Stephen down on the ground. The stairs creak again as he goes back for Reed.

I don't bother looking back at Stephen. I’d seen the hatred in his eyes, persisting even after I chose to spare his life. The truth is, I did what I had to do because it was the right thing to do.

Stephen is a kind person, and he's always tried to do right by me. Killing him, after everything he suffered through because of me, was unthinkable.

When Dominic helps Reed to the surface, Reed pulls out his phone to call the cops. Dominic heads back down, not to retrieve either Janice's or Vincent's bodies, but to get what footage he can before the scene is cordoned off by the police.

And sure enough, it's not long before I hear the sirens splitting the air, disturbing the beautiful silence that had settled around us. All of us are, in our own ways, too stunned to speak. All except for Dominic, who, having taken enough photos and videos, is now sending them to his assistant in case the cops confiscate his phone. There's an excitable, but somehow serious energy surrounding him. Like he knows he's in the midst of something monumental, a once-in-a-lifetime event even for someone like him.

The cops arrive in a flurry of flashing lights and shouted commands. I don't resist when they push me to the ground, my wedding dress billowing around me like some grotesque flower. The cold metal of handcuffs bites into my wrists, but I barely feel it. Everything seems distant now, like I'm watching it happen to someone else.

As they lift me to my feet, I catch a glimpse of a car pulling up, a woman bursting out before it even stops. Reed must have called her too. She rushes to Stephen, collapsing beside him and sobbing as her arms wrap around him, grateful to be reunited, and at the same time, horrified by his appearance.

Our eyes meet for just a moment as the officers guide me toward the waiting police car. There's no hate there, not like in Stephen's. Just confusion, and maybe, beneath it all, something that might be pity.

The door slams shut behind me, and just like that, I’m sealed away from the only world I've ever known.

* * *

The trial is swift. With my full confession and the mountain of evidence—including my photos that had been hidden away in the safe and Dominic's footage, which somehow leaks online before proceedings even begin—there's little room for the legal system to show mercy. Not that I ask for it.

I take responsibility for it all: my complicity in Vincent's murders, my marriage to a monster, the blood-soaked words that flowed from my fingers. The only lie I maintain is that I killed Val Felder. Her death will always be my burden to bear, even if the hands that wielded the weapon were Vincent's.

Prison walls close around me, a different kind of void from the one my aphantasia created. Days blur into weeks, into months.

The world beyond these walls continues without me. Marcus Reed visits once, his eyes softer than they were that day. He tells me he's working with Melissa to piece together everything Vincent did. They found other bodies by the abandoned houses, other victims whose stories never made it into books.

"How many?" I ask, dreading the answer.

He hesitates. "Twenty-seven, so far."

The number settles on me like a stone. Twenty-seven lives. Though I could hardly be horrified. I’d published more books than that, and there was at least one life taken for each one of them.

Reed leaves me with a portable TV, a special concession from the warden. "There's something you should see," he says.

That night, alone in my cell, I watch the footage of Janice’s funeral. The camera pans across a sea of faces—editors, authors, fans. Stephen stands at the podium, thin but healing, his voice steady as he tells the truth to a world hungry for it.

He tells them that though Janice was blackmailed into writing for Vincent and myself, she was the true voice behind Miss Murder. She was the one who the fans should adore.

But everyone knows that’s not the whole truth. The last seven novels published under the Miss Murder pseudonym were entirely mine. And the irony is that they are the ones that the world celebrates most. All seven sit in the Amazon top ten.

Not that it matters. I'll be in prison for the rest of my life, and I have no need for royalties. Instead, the money from my books goes to charity and the families of those killed. The proceeds from Janice's works go to her family, and I do take some small comfort in knowing that they’ll never have to worry about money ever again.

Alyssa Lake's segment on Miss Murder breaks viewership records, but I don’t bother watching it. Instead, I turn off the TV, knowing it’ll just upset me. Even now, she has a way of getting under my skin.

But just before the TV goes dark, I see a quick advertisement about an upcoming, explosive true crime documentary, based on… me. The corner of my mouth quirks into a smile. Turns out, I got that movie deal with Dominic after all.

EPILOGUE

Fists bang against the cell bars, the jarring sound jolting me awake. I blink away the drowsiness and sit up, my prison-issued blanket pooling around my waist.

"Harrow! Mail call!" the guard's voice rings out, as guttural as the first day I heard it.

"Coming," I say, sliding from my bunk. My bare feet touch the cold concrete floor, sending a familiar shiver up my spine. I've been in general population for almost a year, but my body still hasn't adjusted to the perpetual chill.

The correctional officer—Santiago, one of the few who looks me in the eye—stands outside my cell, clutching a clipboard and a box. His face gives nothing away, that perfect prison guard neutrality that I've come to recognize.

"Sign here," he says, sliding a form through the narrow slot. "Special delivery, approved by the warden."

I raise an eyebrow but take the pen. Special deliveries are rare, usually reserved for holidays or court documents. Today is neither.

"It's been screened?" I ask, though I know the answer. Nothing enters Rockland Women's Correctional without being torn apart and put back together.

Santiago nods. "Thoroughly."

It's mail distribution hour, when the block is quiet. Most women are at work assignments or educational programs. I'm exempt from both, my notoriety making me a "security concern." Isolation is its own kind of punishment.

I sign the form, my signature—once flowing and practiced for book signings—now cramped and jagged. Santiago takes back the clipboard and slides the box through the package slot at the bottom of my cell door, a rectangular opening just wide enough for meal trays and thin parcels.

The box barely fits.

"Who's it from?" I ask, though I try to keep my voice casual. I've learned that showing too much interest in anything here makes you vulnerable.

"Return address says Mitchell," Santiago says, checking his clipboard. "Stephen Mitchell."

My heart stutters. I haven't heard from Stephen since that night in the fallout shelter. The last image I have of him is his broken body being cradled by his sister as the police car door slammed between us. I thought he'd moved on, found a way to forget about Luna Harrow and Miss Murder and everything in between.

Apparently not.

"Thanks," I manage to say, my voice steady even as my hands tremble.

Santiago gives me a long look. "Anniversary's coming up, isn't it?"

He doesn't have to specify which anniversary. The entire country knows what happened one year ago tomorrow. My face has been splashed across every tabloid, every true crime podcast, every late-night television special since the trial.

"Yeah," I say, throat suddenly dry. "Tomorrow."

He nods once, then moves down the block. I wait until he's gone before approaching the box. It sits on my cell floor like a bomb waiting to detonate.

I kneel beside it, my prison uniform bunching at the knees. The box is plain cardboard, sealed with clear packing tape that's been sliced open and resealed with evidence stickers. Whatever's inside has been examined, X-rayed, and deemed safe enough for the prison's most infamous inmate.

I tear through the tape and open the flaps. Inside, nestled in a bed of bubble wrap, is my typewriter.

My breath catches. Not just any typewriter—my typewriter. The one I used to write my books. Its sleek black surface gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights, the keys perfect and polished, waiting.

There's no blood on it. Not Vincent's. Not Janice's. Not Val's. But I can still imagine the specks covering it.

Two notes are tucked beneath the carriage. The first one is a simple torn sheet of paper.

Whatever you write, make sure I get the first read. —Warden Stevenson

Well, that would explain why the warden approved the delivery of my typewriter. I’d heard that he was a fan, after he apparently went to bat to get me transferred here.

I shake my head and reach for the second note. This one is nicer, a cream sheet of paper that’s soft to touch. Stephen always did have good taste. Carefully, I unfold it.

I thought you might need this. Whatever else you are, you're a writer. That's the one truth in all of this.

—S

The words blur through sudden tears. I don't deserve this kindness, this acknowledgment of the one part of me that was real. But I take it anyway, greedy for the connection to something beyond these concrete walls and barbed wire fences.

My fingers brush along the keys, and I feel that familiar stir of creation, the wave of stories waiting to be told. Something in me awakens, a voice that I’ve told no one about, that’s been trapped since that night at the fallout shelter.

I want to write. No, I need to write.

Hours slip by as I position the typewriter on my small metal desk. I feed in a sheet of the generic prison-issued paper, the kind with ROCKLAND CORRECTIONAL stamped across the top in faded blue ink. I've been hoarding these sheets for months, stealing extras from the library when no one's looking.

The typewriter makes a reassuring click as I begin to type, the sound echoing in my tiny cell. The words come slowly at first, then faster, pouring out of me, my mind close to bursting with that voice’s words. For the past year, I thought that voice belonged to Vincent, some trauma that could get me transferred to the psych ward if I wasn’t careful. But now… now I’m seeing that the voice is mine. Just as all these words are mine.

I'm so absorbed that I barely notice when Santiago returns, this time to announce evening recreation.

"Reeves’ documentary is playing in the common room," he says, unlocking my cell. "Warden approved it."

I look up, momentarily disoriented. "What?"

"That movie. About you. They're screening it."

Of course they are. Dominic Reeves' true crime documentary, Miss Murder: America’s Deadliest Author, premieres tonight across the country, on the anniversary of my wedding and final murder.

Word had spread through the prison block like wildfire, the women suddenly finding excuses to walk past my cell, eyes hungry for a glimpse of the woman whose story they've been living alongside.

"Special occasion," Santiago adds, his expression unreadable. "Attendance optional."

I know what he's offering: a chance to stay in my cell and avoid watching my life played out for entertainment. But something pulls me toward it. Maybe it's masochism. Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's just that I've been alone with my thoughts for too long.

I slide the pages I've written beneath my thin mattress and follow the stream of women toward the common room.

The space is already packed, every plastic chair filled, women perched on tables and standing against walls. A collective hush falls as I enter, eyes tracking me like I'm both celebrity and specimen. I feel the weight of their stares—some curious, some hostile, all hungry for the truth behind the headlines.

Beshlie, serving ten years for embezzlement and one of the few who treats me like a human, slides over on the bench to make room.

"Saved you a seat," she whispers.

I nod my thanks, too tense to speak. A counselor stands at the front of the room, remote in hand, her expression serious.

"Ladies, this is a special viewing privilege," she announces. "Any disruptions, and it's straight back to your cells."

The fluorescent lights dim, and the large TV screen flickers to life. The Netflix logo appears, then fades to black. The room holds its collective breath.

The screen opens on an aerial shot of my house, the sprawling lakeside property that once felt like an escape. Now it looks like what it always was: a beautiful prison before I found myself in a real one.

Then the scene cuts abruptly, and suddenly there I am, sitting at an interrogation table, my hands cuffed and resting on the metal surface. The wedding dress is gone, replaced by a simple gray jumpsuit. My face is haggard, my eyes hollow.

But there's something else there too, something that makes my stomach twist with shame.

Relief.

Dominic's voice comes through the speakers, smooth and practiced.

"Please state your name for the record."

On screen, I look directly into the camera, exhaustion etched in every line of my face.

"You know who I am."

Dominic doesn't respond, just waits. The camera doesn't cut away, capturing every micro-expression, every twitch of my fingers against the cold metal table.

Finally, I sigh.

"My name is Luna Harrow."

I pause.

Then the woman on screen seems to transform, straightening her back, her eyes hardening into something cold. And then she smiles, a small, knowing curve of the lips that sends a visible shudder through the roomful of inmates watching.

"But they call me Miss Murder."

If you enjoyed Mrs. Murder, then please:

1. Read The Newlywed, a twisty psychological thriller.

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3. Leave a review <3

ALSO BY ZIA RAYYAN

Miss Murder

Mrs. Murder

The Newlywed

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Zia Rayyan is a psychological thriller author with no background, no alibi—only a need to write about the lies we tell, and the ones we bury.

You can reach Zia at ziarayyan.com or by email at zia.rayyan.author@gmail.com.

You may also see Zia being quite active in the Psychological Thriller Readers Facebook group—come join the community. But only if you can keep a secret.