I woke up feeling like I hadn't slept at all. My eyes burned and my head buzzed with leftover fear from the night. The thought of that still silhouette in the window stuck to my brain like glue.
I barely tasted breakfast — just toast and coffee swallowed too fast — and walked to the police station. Every few steps, I glanced over my shoulder. People were walking dogs, checking mailboxes, brushing leaves off cars… normal stuff. But every stranger looked more suspicious than before.
The station sat near City Hall, a brick building with chipped paint and a door that always squeaked. I pushed it open and stepped inside. The air smelled like old paperwork and burnt coffee.
A receptionist lifted her head. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah. I need to speak to Detective Rowan. It's important."
She asked my name, typed it in, and told me to wait. The metal chair felt like sitting on ice. I rubbed my palms together to keep calm.
Rowan came out after a few minutes, jacket unbuttoned and hair messy like he'd been pulling at it.
"You again," he said, not unkindly, just tired. "Come with me."
He led me into a small office. A whiteboard filled with messy notes and photographs hung on the wall. Crime scene pictures. The alley. The Thompson girl's house. Red pins and lines between names. It looked like a map of fear.
He sat opposite me. "What's so urgent?"
My voice shook, but I tried sounding normal. "Last night… I think I saw the killer. Or someone watching… after the ambulance left."
He stared at me too long. I regretted coming instantly.
"Describe what you saw."
I repeated everything — the window during the body removal, the silhouette at night, how they stood so still, just observing.
Rowan didn't write any of it down. He just listened, jaw tightening.
When I finished, he sighed, leaned back, and rubbed his forehead. "Look… people are seeing shadows everywhere right now. Fear messes with perception."
"It wasn't fear," I snapped. "They were there. They were watching."
He folded his arms. "Okay. Which house?"
I pointed on a map mounted beside the whiteboard. He marked the location with a small green pin. "We'll check. But don't expect too much. People stand at windows. People stare at things."
"That wasn't a normal stare," I muttered.
Rowan gave me a careful look, like he was studying me instead of believing me.
"Let me show you something," he finally said.
He pulled a folder from his desk — labeled 'Behavioral Profile Draft' — and opened it.
"This stays between us," he warned. "We're working with a profiler. Early impressions only."
I nodded quickly, heart kicking up.
Rowan read aloud:
"Subject is likely intelligent, organized, methodical. Chooses victims carefully — young women, low-risk environment, minimal witnesses. Moves unnoticed. Possibly lives alone. Has good social camouflage. Appears harmless. Blends in."
I swallowed hard. Those words crawled under my skin.
Appears harmless.
Blends in.
Lives among the rest of us, invisible until it's too late.
Rowan continued:
"He watches his victims before acting. Studies routines. Gains confidence from proximity. Enjoys returning to the scene to observe aftermath."
Return to the scene…
Watch the chaos…
That window.
That silhouette.
I leaned forward. "You see? That sounds exactly like what I saw!"
Rowan raised a hand. "It sounds like a lot of people in this town. Calm down."
I clamped my mouth shut before anger could spill out. Getting kicked out wouldn't help.
Rowan closed the folder. "We have no forced entry at either scene. No fingerprints. No weapon left behind. Whoever this is — he's careful. He doesn't take big risks."
"He watched from a window," I argued. "That's risky."
"You noticed," Rowan said. "No one else did."
Something in his tone made me shift in my seat. Was that… suspicion?
"I live near there," I explained quickly. "Right across the street. Anyone would've seen them."
"But no one did," he replied.
I didn't know what to say. My throat tightened.
Rowan's voice softened. "Look, I get it. You're scared. We all are. Just… don't let your imagination take over the investigation."
He stood up — signaling our conversation was done.
"Go home," he said. "We'll look into the house you pointed out."
I wanted to argue again, but the room suddenly felt too small. I nodded and left.
Walking home, I replayed his words, each one cutting deeper.
Appears harmless. Blends in. Lives among us. Observes aftermath.
I looked at every passerby differently.
The grocery store cashier.
A jogger with earbuds.
A guy unloading boxes from his truck.
Any one of them could be pretending to be normal.
I even glanced at my own reflection in a store window — messy hair, tired eyes, ordinary face — and wondered briefly what I must look like to others. Someone average. Harmless.
A chill ran through me. I turned away from the glass quickly.
At home, I opened my laptop and ignored the uncomfortable sensation that it was too quiet. The walls seemed thinner today, like the whole building was listening.
News sites flashed headlines:
"Residents Warned to Stay Alert"
"Police Claim No Clear Motive Yet"
I scrolled comment sections — terrified minds typing loudly:
"Serial killers are always smart. That's why they get away with it."
"They usually have jobs. Friends. They hide in plain sight."
My heart thudded faster.
I wasn't helping by reading these. But I couldn't stop.
The profiler's description gnawed at my mind like a hunger:
Smart. Organized. Blends in.
The killer wasn't sloppy. He didn't panic. He chose carefully. He understood people.
Types of killers like that weren't random monsters. They passed unnoticed. They acted… normal.
My phone buzzed — a message from my friend Tyler:
Dude you okay? You're all over the news comments lol
I rolled my eyes. People really did have hobbies for everything.
"I'm fine," I typed back, then stared at the reply like it wasn't true.
I needed air.
Outside, the afternoon sun warmed my face. For a moment, that helped. The street looked like a painting of calm: a woman gardening, a kid riding a bike, laundry waving on a line.
All pretending the world wasn't changing.
I walked to the corner store. The old owner, Raj, stood near the counter reading a newspaper. He smiled when he saw me — tired but trying.
"Crazy times, huh?" he said.
I nodded. "Yeah. Can't believe this is happening here."
He lowered his voice. "Cops better find him soon. People are scared to go out at night."
"They think he's smart," I said, leaning closer like sharing gossip. "Organized. Someone who watches the aftermath."
Raj shivered. "Ugh. Gives me chills."
"Right? Like… what if he's watching us right now?"
Raj looked around instantly, shoulders tense. I tried to laugh it off so I didn't seem creepy, but it came out awkward.
I paid for a soda and left quickly. I didn't want to see fear in everyone's faces — it made mine feel heavier.
Back in my apartment, I sank onto the couch and opened my notes app again. I tried to piece together what I knew:
Two victims. Same age group.
Killer returns to scene.
Observes reactions.
No panic. No mistakes.
Lives close to victims.
Close enough to watch from a window, maybe.
The profiler wasn't describing a monster hiding in caves. He was describing someone who smiled at neighbors. Someone with steady hands and a calm mind.
Someone who everyone trusted and nobody suspected.
I whispered into the empty room:
"He could be right next door."
The thought thrilled and terrified me at the same time.
The killer was smart — that much was clear. Smart enough to choose victims, avoid evidence, disappear into crowds.
Smart enough… to fool anyone.
Maybe even me.
Night crept in before I noticed. I had been stuck on the couch thinking for hours. I turned the lights on and shut the curtains, making sure there were no gaps.
I made noodles for dinner — badly — then turned on the radio for noise.
A reporter spoke:
"Police believe the suspect is highly intelligent and organized. A calculated offender who studies his surroundings and the people in them. This case suggests—"
Click.
I turned the radio off quickly. I didn't want to hear any more. But silence was worse.
So I turned the TV on.
Same topic.
Every channel.
"An intelligent predator—"
"May be living among the rest of us—"
"Possibly close to both victims—"
Click. Click. Click.
I shut the TV off too. My heart kept racing like it needed to outrun something.
I walked to the mirror in the hallway. I stared at myself again.
Ordinary. Forgettable. A harmless guy renting a cheap apartment.
If the killer lived here, walked these same streets, breathed the same air… how would anyone know?
I stepped closer to the glass until my breath fogged it.
Anyone could be a killer…
Even someone like me.
I smirked — but I didn't know why. Maybe nerves. Maybe irony. Maybe both.
I wiped the mirror with my sleeve and backed away.
No more thinking tonight. I needed sleep.
But as I lay in bed, staring into darkness, the profiler's voice whispered through my skull.