Chapter 102

~BRIAN~

The docks had always felt like home to me—if home could be defined by salt air, rust, and the groan of old ships shifting against their ropes. Tonight, though, it felt different. The storm had passed, leaving behind a slick sheen on the concrete and a weight in the air that pressed against my lungs.

Cami had come. I could still see the imprint of her fire in the mist, her rage barely contained, her grief naked and raw. I’d told her we were bound, and it wasn’t a lie. But bonds like ours were forged in blood, not trust. And I knew trust was the one thing she’d never give me again.

I leaned against a rusted railing, lighting another cigarette, though I’d already smoked half a pack waiting. The truth had started spilling, piece by piece, but it was only a fracture of the whole story. If she knew everything… hell, I wasn’t sure if she’d pull the trigger on me or collapse under the weight of it.

The lighter clicked shut in my hand. I took one last drag before crushing the smoke beneath my boot. The nicotine did nothing to dull the gnawing edge in my gut. Because the truth was clawing closer, and Cami wasn’t ready.

But neither was I.

When I left the docks, the city stretched before me, restless and alive. Streetlamps flickered, their glow fractured in puddles. I drove aimlessly at first, letting the streets decide for me. My father’s face haunted the edges of my vision. His voice echoed like gravel, deep and commanding, always reminding me of the line between loyalty and betrayal.

I could still hear her voice, ragged with fury. '*One chance. That’s all you get.'*

She didn’t know it yet, but that one chance was going to destroy us both.

Half an hour later, the safehouse was quiet when I arrived. Too quiet. Gillian sat in the corner with her laptop, her pale face lit by the screen’s glow. She didn’t look up as I entered, just muttered, “You smell like rain and regret.”

I smirked. “You’ve always had a poetic streak.”

Her fingers froze over the keyboard. “You saw her.”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“I'm still breathing. That’s enough for now,” I returned.

Gillian finally looked up. Her gaze was sharp, unflinching, the kind of gaze that had always seen through me. “You can’t keep dancing around her, Brian. If you want her on your side, you have to give her everything. Not pieces. Everything.”

I didn’t answer right away. My hands were restless, rubbing against the stubble along my jaw. “Everything would break her.”

Gillian tilted her head. “Or it might be the only thing that saves her.”

Her words hit harder than I wanted them to. Because deep down, I knew she was right. Cami wasn’t fragile. She never had been. But she carried her pain differently than I did. She let it consume her until it reshaped her. I hid mine behind smoke and steel.

The clock on the wall ticked past two a.m. I couldn’t sit still. I grabbed my coat and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Gillian called.

“Ghost hunting,” I muttered.

~~
The city was empty at that hour, save for the echoes of tires splashing through puddles and the occasional hum of neon. I drove until I reached the river, the same river where the last two bodies had been found. The crime scene tape still clung to the fence like shredded skin.

I parked, stepped out, and let the cold air bite into me. The water moved sluggishly, black and reflective, like a mirror that showed nothing but shadows. My boots crunched against gravel as I walked the perimeter, scanning, thinking, piecing together the puzzle that had become my life.

He was taunting us. No, taunting me. The killer wasn’t random. The precision of his work, the familiarity of his patterns, it was deliberate. Personal.

And when I thought of personal, I thought of Andre.

I shut my eyes, the memory clawing forward. My father’s voice, hard and unyielding. *You don’t get to choose your blood, Remington. But you get to choose what you do with it, as I’d chosen not to be called Remington. I’d learned to hate the name and had chosen to go by my middle name, Brian, instead.*

The sound of footsteps pulled me out of the memory, and eyes snapping open, I reached instinctively for the gun at my hip.

“Easy,” came a voice from the shadows.

Turner. Our profiler. His expression was grim as he stepped into the faint light. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

I let my hand fall but kept my muscles coiled. “Sleep’s for people who don’t have bodies stacking up.”

He studied me for a long beat. “You’re wound tight. More than usual. What aren’t you telling us?”

I didn’t answer. Because the truth wasn’t his to carry. Not when it tied back to Cami, to the night that had ruined both our lives. The night a desperate man had done what he had to.

Turner narrowed his eyes, like he could read the silence between my words. “Whoever this guy is, he’s not just killing for ritual. He’s killing for legacy. For connection.”

Legacy. That word again. It dug into me like a blade.

Turner sighed. “Just don’t let your ghosts get in the way of the case.”