CHAPTER 228
**ZION**
Two detectives—Martin and Ruiz—knelt before the box, gloved hands moving with practised care as they peeled back the lid.
“Jesus Christ,” Ruiz breathed, recoiling slightly.
Even after seeing it earlier, my stomach still lurched like I was looking at it for the first time.
Martin let out a slow breath through his nose, face tight but composed. Ruiz, on the other hand, looked pale as he snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and reached in.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as he lifted what was left with deliberate gentleness.
He bagged the remains in silence, jaw clenched like he was holding something back.
Then he stood and looked toward the house, expression dark.
“He would've had a perfect view from here,” he said, voice low, clipped.
Martin followed his gaze, eyes narrowing as he stepped forward, studying the spot just beyond the hedges.
“He could’ve been watching for hours,” he said coolly, like he was listing a fact he’d already decided on.
“Every time she came home. Every light that went out at night. Every shadow that passed behind her window.”
Something in his tone made my hands curl into fists.
He crouched slightly, examining the flattened grass as if searching for traces.
“Whoever left that box might’ve been studying her. Tracking her schedule. Learning her patterns.”
Every word out of Martin’s mouth made it worse—like he was confirming every sick thought already circling in my head.
Watching her.
Tracking her.
Studying her.
I felt heat rise up my neck, a dull roar in my ears.
And the fact that he could’ve been out here for days, for weeks—just watching her while we didn’t even fucking notice—
I ground my teeth until my jaw ached.
Every time she smiled on that front porch.
Every time she walked out at night, she thought she was safe.
He could’ve been standing right here.
Breathing.
Waiting.
Watching her like she was his fucking prey.
If I ever got my hands on him...
I didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t.
My hands were already curling into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
The air felt too thin, too quiet—like the trees around us were still holding onto whatever sick secret he left behind.
And all I could think was—
He was too close.
Too fucking close.
And we never saw him coming.
Ro stood beside me, arms folded across his chest, his expression grim.
Harry paced a few feet behind us, jaw tight, eyes never leaving the box.
Clark hovered near the path, fists jammed into his hoodie pockets, glaring like he wanted to punch something. Or someone.
Martin rose slowly, snapping off his gloves with a sharp flick, then exchanged a glance with the younger detective.
“We’re going to need to speak with Winter,” the detective said, calm but firm.
I didn’t let him finish. I stepped in fast, blocking the path like a wall of concrete.
“No,” I said, voice cold and final.
“She’s in shock. She’s not up for it right now.”
The detective blinked.
“Mr. Royal—”
“You really think she’s in any shape to answer questions?” I cut in, jaw tight, eyes hard.
“She just found what was left of her fucking cat—torn up and boxed like a threat. She’s barely holding on, and you want to put her under a spotlight?”
Ro stepped in beside me, arms folded, gaze unwavering.
“You’ve got questions? You ask us.”
Detective Martin’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of understanding in his eyes.
“We get that this is hard,” he said quietly.
“But Winter’s safety depends on us getting as much information as possible. Sometimes that means asking tough questions—even when it’s uncomfortable. We’re not here to make things worse. We just need to stop whoever did this before they hurt her—or someone else.”
He shot me a look, voice tight but controlled.
“Protecting her’s one thing. But preventing us from speaking to a potential witness?”
His tone sharpened, the weight behind it unmistakable.
“That starts looking a lot like obstruction.”
The words landed like a cold slap, quiet but deliberate.
Then he turned, sweeping his eyes over each of us—sharp, calculating, like he was dissecting the group for weakness, guilt, or anything we weren’t saying.
“Let me be clear,” he said, his tone clipped and tight with frustration.
“We will be speaking with her—and none of you are in a position to stop that.”
A tense beat.
“But if you’re serious about helping—if you actually want to be useful to this investigation—then here’s my first question: Did any of you see anything unusual? Anything out of place, strange, off—anything—before we begin speaking with her?”
His voice hardened, final.
“Because if so, now is the time to speak up.”
His voice was controlled, but the edge of impatience—and a barely concealed anger—cut through every word.
“This isn’t some game. If you stay silent now, you’re only obstructing justice. So speak up, or stay out of the way.”
I clenched my jaw so tight I thought something might snap.
“You think if we fucking knew anything that could help stop this freak, we’d keep it to ourselves?”
My voice came out sharp.
Too sharp.
But I didn’t care.
“If we had even one name, one hint—you’d already have it. You think I’d just stand here while she gets hunted like this?”
My glare locked onto his, unflinching.
“Don’t insult us.”
Zion stepped up beside me, his posture rigid, eyes dark with fury.
“You want answers? So do we,” he snapped.
“But you don’t get to walk in here and act like we’re the problem.”
His voice was low, dangerous—coiled tight with restraint that was fast slipping.
“She’s barely holding it together, and you’re wasting time swinging your badge like a damn weapon. If you think pressing her right now is gonna get you something useful, you're more clueless than I thought.”
Ruiz didn’t flinch.
Just gave me that calm, bureaucratic look.
Like he’d seen guys like me lose it before.
Like this was just another Thursday.
Martin didn’t react either.
Then:
Ruiz’s jaw tightened, eyes flashing as he took a step forward.
“You think I want to do this right now?” he snapped back, voice hard and clipped.
“You think I enjoy watching a girl fall apart while some sick bastard circles closer?”
He jabbed a finger toward the crime scene behind them.
“I don’t give a damn how protective you are. I get it. But don’t stand there and pretend we’re the enemy when all we’re trying to do is stop her from ending up in one of those fucking bags.
You think this is fun for us? That we get off on showing up with bad news and worse questions?”
He let out a bitter breath, scrubbing a hand down his face.
“We're not the enemy here. But every minute we waste arguing is another minute this sick bastard stays ahead. So yeah—we’re pushing. Because we have to.”
His gaze landed on me, sharp and unwavering.
“You want to protect her? Then help us do our job. Otherwise, get out of the damn way.”
Martin stepped in, voice lower but no less firm.
“She might’ve noticed something. Small details she didn’t think were important at the time—messages, things out of place, faces she didn’t recognise. Anything. Victims don’t always realise what’s important until someone asks the right question.”
He kept his tone steady, clinical.
“If he’s been tracking her this closely, he’s bound to have slipped up somewhere—maybe in ways she hasn’t even noticed yet. That’s why we need to speak with her, even if it’s just for a moment.”
I opened my mouth, ready to snap back—ready to unload every bitter, burning word sitting on the tip of my tongue. But before I could get the first syllable out, a hand landed on my shoulder.
Firm. Grounding.
“Z,” Harry said quietly, but his tone left no room for argument.
“I know you’re pissed. We all are. But taking it out on them isn’t going to help her.”
I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. My vision was still locked on Martin, my pulse pounding like war drums in my ears.
“Let them do their job,” Harry continued.
“You want to protect her? Then stand down. Just long enough for them to do what they came here for.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Didn’t mean I liked it.
“I’m not here to make this personal. We all want the same thing—answers. But we can’t afford to wait. The longer we stall, the greater the risk.”
He paused, voice steady but serious.
“This isn’t about breaking her down. It’s about preventing something worse. She’s the key to understanding his behaviour. The more we know, the better chance we have at catching him.”
I exhaled through gritted teeth, forcing the tension down my spine like poison I had no choice but to swallow.
“Fine,” I muttered, stepping back—reluctantly, and just enough to let them through.
Harry’s hand tightened briefly on my shoulder before he shifted his gaze to the detectives, his voice cutting through the tension like a razor.
“She’ll give what she can—no more, no less. Push her too hard, and this ends. Right here. Right now.”
My jaw was locked tight, every muscle braced like I was holding something back.
They didn’t know her.
Not like I did.
Martin read the tension and gave a small, measured nod.
“Understood,” he said.
“We’ll keep it brief. But we need her insight if we’re going to catch this guy.”
Harry didn’t blink.
“If she says no, you walk. Got it?”
Another nod from Martin.
“Got it.”
I turned back toward the house, heart pounding, blood still hot in my veins.
Let them try.
But if they pushed her even an inch too far—
They’d have to deal with me.
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