I woke up with a headache that felt like someone had tapped a metal rod against the inside of my skull all night. I barely remembered falling asleep. The TV was still on, volume low, replaying yesterday's interview with the detective. The sketch flashed in intervals, like it was mocking me. I switched the TV off and let the silence settle.
For a while, I sat without moving. Just breathing. Just waiting for the pressure inside my chest to loosen. It didn't.
Around noon, someone knocked on my door.
Three firm knocks. Not hesitant. Not casual. Official.
My heart shot upward, lodging in my throat.
I stood there frozen, hoping they would go away, but the knocking came again, louder this time. The kind of knock that said they knew someone was inside. They weren't leaving.
I forced myself to open the door.
Detective Rowan stood in the hallway.
His tie was crooked, and his eyes were red, like he'd been awake for too long. He wasn't holding a warrant, or a gun, or even a notebook. He just stood there with a tired posture and a faint, unreadable expression.
"Morning," he said.
My voice almost cracked. "Morning."
He glanced past me into the apartment. The broken mirror was gone, the hallway clean, everything placed neatly, but I still felt exposed. I kept my shoulder against the door like I could block his view.
"Mind if I come in?" he asked.
Every instinct screamed no, but I shrugged like it didn't matter. "Sure."
He stepped inside, taking slow, deliberate steps like he was absorbing every detail. I didn't offer him the couch. He sat anyway.
"You've been around town a lot these days," he said.
"Everyone has."
"Except you tend to be near certain places more than others."
I swallowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Rowan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Look, I'm not accusing you. I'm trying to understand something. We found a pattern."
I kept my face blank, even though my pulse hammered. "What pattern?"
He leaned forward. "All the murders happened within less than a mile of places you've been recently."
My body stiffened so sharply I had to force myself to breathe.
"That's… a coincidence," I said, too quickly.
"It might be," he said. "It also might not. That's why I'm here."
He looked at me in a way no one ever had—like he was finally seeing me. Not the quiet guy people overlooked. Not the invisible background character. He was studying my face… memorizing it.
I needed to stay calm.
"Detective, a lot of people pass those areas. It's a small town."
"Yes," he said. "But most people don't show up on street cameras so often. You do."
Street cameras. I hadn't even thought about those.
"Are you tracking me?" My voice trembled before I could steady it.
"We're tracking everyone." He didn't blink. "You just stand out more than you think."
That landed like a punch.
I was supposed to blend in. That was the whole point. No attention. No suspicion. Just another person moving through his day.
But Rowan sounded like he'd been watching me long enough to see something I didn't want him to see.
He scratched his chin. "Also… I'm curious why you were near the old bridge two nights ago."
My mouth went dry.
Two nights ago was when the last victim died.
"I was taking a walk."
"At one in the morning?"
"I couldn't sleep."
He stared at me for a long moment, and I couldn't read whether he believed me or not.
Then he looked down at his hands. "Listen. I'm going to be honest with you. Something about this case feels off. We arrested Ethan too fast. The chief wanted results. Everyone wanted results. But that sketch…" He shook his head. "It's not him. And it sure as hell looks like someone else."
He didn't have to say who.
"I didn't kill anyone," I said.
"Good," he replied softly. "I hope not."
That "hope" lingered in the air like a heavy fog.
He stood and looked around my apartment again. My throat tightened. If his eyes drifted toward the bedroom closet — the one spot I avoided — this whole conversation would end differently.
But he didn't look there. He walked to the door. "Do you mind if I check where your building keeps the trash? We're reviewing all disposal areas."
My stomach clenched hard.
The mirror pieces.
"Oh," I said, trying to sound casual. "I already took my trash out this morning."
"Doesn't matter," he said. "We're looking for anything unusual."
I forced a smile. "Knock yourself out."
He left, and the moment the door closed, my knees almost gave out. I locked it three times and leaned against it, shaking.
Rowan wasn't stupid. He'd noticed things. He'd seen patterns. He was looking in the right direction, even if he didn't realize how close he was.
I walked to the bedroom.
The closet door creaked open.
Inside, on the top shelf, hidden under two blankets, was a small wooden box. The lid didn't close properly anymore because I kept too much inside. Too many things I shouldn't still have. I pulled it down and opened it.
A silver necklace.
A folded bus ticket.
A torn corner of a flyer.
A glove.
A button.
A receipt.
All small things. All things that could be explained on their own. But together…
Together they were the truth.
They were the pieces I had kept. Things I told myself I held onto because I couldn't forget what I'd seen. Because I wanted to remember how dangerous the world was. Because I wanted to "understand" the murderer.
But I had kept them long before I admitted anything to myself.
I touched the necklace. Cold. Heavy. Beautiful.
It didn't belong to me.
None of it did.
I closed the box fast, breathing through clenched teeth.
If Rowan came back with a warrant, this box would bury me. The sketch alone wouldn't be enough, but these objects — these memories I refused to let go — they would end everything.
I pressed my forehead against the closet door. "I didn't mean any of it," I whispered. "Not at first."
The apartment felt like it was shrinking around me.
I carried the box to the bathroom and set it on the sink. My hands trembled as I opened the cabinet under the pipes. I had cleaning supplies, tools, a stack of old rags… things that could hide the box for a while. Just until I figured out what Rowan planned next.
But hiding it wasn't enough. It was stupid. Weak. Reckless. I needed to get rid of the evidence entirely.
That thought made my pulse spike.
Throwing the items away felt wrong. They meant something. They were my map, my history, my reminders. But keeping them was worse. Keeping them was a death sentence.
I wrapped the box in a bag, tied it three times, and shoved it deep behind the plumbing. Not perfect, but better than before. Better than leaving them where someone could find them in minutes.
The knocking came again.
I nearly dropped the sink door.
This time, the knock wasn't firm and controlled like Rowan's. It was softer, almost hesitant.
"Hello?" a voice called. A woman's voice.
Eliza.
My neighbor.
I wiped my hands on my pants and opened the door a crack. She stood there holding a stack of letters.
"These were in my mailbox," she said, handing them to me. "All for you."
"Thanks."
She didn't leave. She peered over my shoulder. "Was that Detective Rowan earlier?"
"Yes."
"What did he want?"
"Routine questions."
She hesitated. "Do you think he really caught the killer?"
I forced my voice steady. "I don't know."
She nervously tugged at her sleeve. "Just be careful, okay? You've been acting… different lately."
My chest tightened. "Different how?"
"I don't know. Distant. Unsettled."
I almost laughed. If she knew what was in my bathroom cabinet…
"Long week," I said.
She gave me a sympathetic nod and left.
As soon as her door shut, I locked mine again. My palms were sweaty. My shirt stuck to my back. My nerves felt like they were running electricity.
Rowan was suspicious.
Eliza was watchful.
The sketch was too close.
And the box of objects — reminders of everything I shouldn't have done — was living proof of what I was trying so hard not to accept.
I sat on the floor, breathing fast.
The trap was closing.
Not because the detective was brilliant.
Not because the town suddenly woke up.
Not because justice was coming.
It was closing because I was losing control.
And I didn't know how much longer I could keep all the pieces hidden — from them, from the detective, from anyone watching…
…from myself.