Chapter Fifty-Seven

Jackson

Brooklyn’s slipping through my fingers, and I don’t know how to stop it.
She’s here, but she’s not here. Half the time she won’t eat, the other half she won’t even get out of bed. When she does, she just sits by the window, staring at nothing. I catch her crying sometimes,  quiet, hidden, like she’s trying to smother it before I can notice. And when I do, when I ask what’s wrong, she just wipes at her face, smiles all tired, and says she’s fine.
“It’s just hormones,” she says every damn time.
But it’s not just hormones. I know that. I’ve seen fear before, the way it clings to people long after the threat is gone. I’ve seen the way it eats them alive.
And I’ll be damned if I let it take her too.
Still, I don’t know how to reach her. She flinches when I touch her sometimes. Pulls away when I try to get her to talk. I tell myself to give her time, but time feels like the one thing we don’t have.
Between her, the “Beautician” case, and now this new one, my brain hasn’t shut off in weeks.
The new one’s hitting too close to home. It involves a girl named that I knew back in high school through Aspen, my sister-in-law. Sweet, loud, always laughing. She’s been through her own kind of hell, but she’s tough. I thought she’d made it out clean. Now she’s knee-deep in something ugly again.
I stop by her place after work. Just to check in. She answers the door with that same spark in her eyes, but it’s dimmer now. She tells me she’s fine, that she’s just tired, that she’s not scared. But the way her hands shake when she tucks her hair behind her ear tells me otherwise.
Something about that house feels off. Like the air’s too still.
By the time I get back to my truck, my stomach’s tight. The whole scene keeps replaying in my head.
I can’t let it go.
So I call Dal.
He answers on the third ring. “Yeah?”
“Morning.” My voice comes out rough, like gravel. Like I haven’t slept in weeks. Because I haven’t.
It’s starting to feel like that’s just how it’s gonna be from now on.
“What’s up?” he asks, sounding curious but cautious.
I sigh, rubbing a hand down my face. “You got a minute?”
“Yeah. What’s going on?”
I hesitate. Not sure if I really want to drag him into this. But out of everyone, he’s the one who’ll get it. We’ve always been close, and he’s got history with this girl. If it were Brooklyn, I’d want to know.
“Tell me she’s okay."
At first I think he’s talking about Brooklyn, but then I remember that I stopped by the shop the other day and asked him about her.
“She’s shaken, man. Says she’s fine, but she’s not sleeping. Keeps hearing things, thinking someone’s outside.”
“Can’t blame her.”
“No,” I say, voice low. “But it’s more than that. Something about that scene’s still bugging me. I’ve seen a lot of weird shit, but this one’s different. Too clean, too careful. Whoever did it knew what they were doing.” The frustration hits hard again, the same damn itch in the back of my brain that won’t quit. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
“You think she was targeted?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I can’t shake the feeling this isn’t done yet.”
The silence that follows sits heavy between us, thick with everything neither of us says out loud.
“You want me to do something?” Dal finally asks.
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Not yet. You’ve got enough on your plate already. Just…keep your eyes open. You see or hear anything off, you call me first, alright?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”
“Good.” I pause. “How’s Dad doing?”
“He’s fine. Smoked ribs last night. Ashlynn nearly cried over how good they were.”
I chuckle under my breath. “Sounds about right.”
The sound fades quickly though, leaving that same quiet weight hanging between us.
“Listen,” I tell him, softening my tone. “You don’t have to get involved in this. I know how your brain works, Dal. You start thinking about someone like her, and next thing you know, you’re right back in the middle of it.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, sounding distracted. Maybe already thinking, planning. “I know.”
“I mean it,” I urge. “Let me handle it.”
“Alright.”
Even though I’m not convinced he’s gonna stay out of it, I let it go. “Get some rest, alright? I’ll call if I learn anything new.”
“Yeah. You too.”
We hang up.

I barely get any sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see flashes of things I can’t stop thinking about. Brooklyn’s face when she says she’s fine. Cheyenne’s hands shaking. The photo from the crime scene that won’t leave my damn head.
When the sun finally drags itself over the horizon, it feels like I never stopped working. I make coffee that tastes like burnt mud, sit at the kitchen table, and stare at the steam curling off the cup without drinking it. The house is quiet. Brooklyn’s still asleep, curled up under the blanket, her breathing soft and even. For a second, I think about staying there beside her, pretending the world can wait. 
I get up out of bed and pace the living room before sitting down on the couch. Pulling on my contacts, I press call on the one person that I’ve always been able to talk to, not even sure if he’ll be awake and half hoping he isn’t.
But he half surprises me when he picks up before my call goes to voicemail. “Yeah.”
“Dal,” I say. “You up?”
“Am now,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep. “What’s goin on?”
“It’s about Cheyenne.”
That gets him quiet fast.
“What about her?”
“She’s okay,” I say. “Just…something weird happened last night. Somebody was seen hanging around near her place. Neighbor called it in. Guy took off before anyone could get a good look.”
There’s movement on his end. I can hear it, the sound of him getting up, footsteps, the shift in his tone. “And what, she’s just there by herself?”
“She’s fine,” I say again, even though I don’t know that for sure. “I’ve got someone keeping an eye on her. Quietly. Just in case.”
“‘Just in case’?” His tone sharpens. “You think whoever grabbed her buddy’s just gonna take the night off?”
I rub the back of my neck. My head already hurts. “Dal, relax.”
“Don’t tell me to relax,” he fires back. “You said she’s fine but you don’t know that. You put one guy on her and you think that’s enough?”
“I can’t exactly park a damn patrol car outside her apartment,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “We’re not there yet. She’s not a suspect, and she’s not asking for protection.”
“She shouldn’t have to ask,” he says, lower now but harder. “You really think she’s sleeping easy right now?”
I let out a breath. “You’ve been through enough of this, man. You know how it works.”
There’s a long silence on the line. Then he says, “You got her number?”
“What?”
“Her number. Or address. I just wanna check in. Make sure she’s holding up.”
I stare out the window at the empty street. Morning light catches on the frost over the grass. My gut twists. I know Dal and once he cares, he doesn’t stop.
“Dal.”
“I’m not gonna do anything stupid,” he says. “Just check on her. That’s it.”
I hesitate, then sigh. “Alright. I’ll text it to you. But keep it low key. Don’t freak her out.”
“Yeah. Got it.”
We hang up, and for a while I just sit there, phone still in my hand, listening to the silence stretch through the house.
The coffee’s cold now. The air’s heavy. My brain won’t stop looping that conversation, the way he said her name, careful, like it might break something.
Brooklyn shifts in bed, a soft sound escaping her, and I glance back at her. She looks peaceful in sleep, but I know it’s fragile. Everything feels fragile lately. Her. Dal. Me.
The world’s moving too fast and somehow still not fast enough.
I stand up, pour the cold coffee down the sink, and brace my hands on the counter.
Cheyenne’s not safe. Dal’s not gonna leave it alone. And if I’m right about this, none of us are ready for what’s coming next.
Because something is coming, I can feel it in my bones.

The sun’s barely up when I pull into the station. The air’s cold enough to bite and I can still see my breath when I step out. I didn’t sleep. Not even an hour. Brooklyn was out cold beside me, soft breathing, quiet. I should’ve stayed, but my brain wouldn’t quit.
The new case file’s waiting on my desk when I walk in. Photos clipped to the top. Same kind of layout as before, same tone in the report. But this one’s wrong. Different.
I flip through the pictures again. The man’s body was found next to some trash bins in a residential neighborhood, nothing at all connects him to the Beautician murders.
Everything is off.
Different weapon. Different wounds. The signature staging that used to scream Beautician is gone. No washed hair, no manicured nails, no makeup. Just bruises. Anger. Violence that didn’t look planned.
If this is him, he’s changed everything. His target. His method. Even his damn type.
And that’s what’s got my stomach twisted. Because if he’s changed this much, then he’s learning. Evolving. That makes him twice as dangerous. But if it’s not him, then we’ve got another killer on our hands.
Either way, Brooklyn’s face flashes in my head. Then Cheyenne’s.
If the Beautician’s not done, then the two of them might still be on his list. And if this is a new guy that’s starting up, I don’t know who could be at risk.
I lean forward and press my palms against my eyes, trying to shut the noise off in my head. My jaw aches from how hard I’ve been clenching it.
I can hear Morris’s voice from last week, telling me to take it easy, that I can’t carry all this on my own. Yeah, right. Easy’s not in my damn vocabulary.
I grab my pen, start making notes on the case board. The more I write, the less sense it makes. The Beautician’s pattern was precise, ritualistic. This one’s chaos. Rage.
Maybe a part of me wants them to be connected, so we’re only after one murderer instead of two.
Either way, we’ve got to get to the bottom of it.
I drop the pen and lean back, eyes burning.
I should be home. Brooklyn barely ate yesterday. She told me she was just tired, but I saw the dark circles, the way her hands shook when she thought I wasn’t looking. She’s fading.
She doesn’t talk about what happened. Not to me. Not to her therapist, from what I can tell and if she is, it’s not helping. It’s like she’s keeping it all locked down tight, like she’s scared that saying it out loud will make it real again.
And I get it, I do. But watching her pull away is killing me.
And now, with this new case on top of everything else, it feels like I’m waiting for something bad to happen. Like I’m missing a piece that could save someone, and I don’t know who yet.
I stare at the board again, the faces of the Beautician’s victims lined up like some grim gallery. Then I glance at the photo of Brooklyn taped beside my monitor, her smile bright, eyes alive. I took it one afternoon when I was able to take some time away. The sun is hitting her just right and she looks breathtaking.
Now I can’t stop picturing her name written in a report like this one.
I rub my hands over my face and curse under my breath.
If the Beautician’s still out there, and I’m sure that he is, I can’t help but wonder if he’s changing his playbook. If he’s not, then we’ve got two monsters walking around instead of just one.
Either way, I’ve got two names in my head I can’t shake, Brooklyn Reed and Cheyenne Walker.
And if something happens to either of them again, I don’t know what I’ll do.