Chapter 3

"Sleep. I'll take care of everything else," Doran said softly.

He leaned down and pressed a goodnight kiss to my forehead.

There was a faint hint of blood on his lips.

I closed my eyes, feeling a chill run through me.

I knew I couldn't escape anymore.

Ever since I kicked open that door, I'd been the sole witness to his flawless crime.

For the next few days, I was basically confined to the house.

He didn't take my phone or laptop. I could still go online and call anyone I wanted.

But he was always there, never letting me out of his sight.

Wherever I went, he followed.

He'd make me the most exquisite breakfasts, sit through those cheesy soap operas with me, and like before, he'd pull me into his arms from behind while I read.

His tenderness and care surpassed anything I'd ever known from him.

It was as if the bloody massacre at the hotel was nothing but a bad dream.

But I knew it wasn't a nightmare.

Every night, I'd jolt awake from nightmares. The gruesome scene in the bathroom and flesh and blood were burned into my mind.

Each time I woke up, Doran was instantly at my side, wrapping me in his arms and murmuring comfort.

"Don't be scared. I'm right here," he'd whisper.

His arms used to be my warmest haven.

Now, that same embrace had become a prison, keeping me captive.

I didn't dare call the cops.

I'd seen firsthand how he operated. He was calm, meticulous, and flawless.

He knew every investigative technique the police might use, inside out.

If I went to the cops, I'd tip him off and speed up my own death.

Eloise had called and texted me countless times, but I never replied.

I didn't dare.

I was terrified Doran would find out.

All I could do was play along, pretending I'd actually bought into his absurd claim of "doing it all for art."

I even started bringing up the plot of "Blood Puzzle" with him, acting like I was genuinely interested, to keep up the act.

"Doran, that method of dumping the body you wrote in your novel, is it really airtight?" I asked while trying to sound like it barely mattered.

He was in the kitchen, cutting up fruit for me. When he heard that, he turned and gave me a relaxed grin.

He said, "Absolutely. Every package's weight, size, and shipping address are calculated to perfection.

"All the shipping info is fake. Even if the police manage to intercept one or two, they still can't piece together the complete trail."

He said it so casually, but it sent shivers down my spine.

"What about the hotel? The cameras, and those two bodyguards..." I stammered.

"Wynne, did you forget who you're talking to?" Doran said, with a hint of a smile.

He brought the fruit platter over, speared a piece of apple with a toothpick, and held it out for me.

He replied, sounding almost bored, "The hotel's surveillance? I had it overwritten with my own program before I even walked in.

"As for those two bodyguards, you really think the cops would believe a couple of shady guys with records?"

My heart sank.

He'd already mapped out every detail.

Even my plan to bring people and catch him red-handed had been anticipated by him.

I felt that this couldn't be right.

If he'd really planned it all out, I wondered why he would let me witness it?

He could've taken care of everything and come home like nothing had happened.

Unless me witnessing it was another step in his plan.

The thought sent a chill down my spine.

I needed to dig up real proof of what he'd done and something he could never erase or cover up.

That was my only shot at staying alive.

That night, I faked sleep, waiting for Doran's breathing to settle into that steady rhythm beside me. When I was sure he was out, I slowly cracked my eyes open.

Carefully, I peeled back the covers and crept out of bed.

The answers had to be hidden in his study.

That room was totally off-limits. No one could step inside except me.

But I knew there was a locked drawer in there. I wasn't even allowed to mess with it.

He claimed it was where he kept all his inspiration and the biggest plot twists for his novels.

I never really paid much attention to it before.

But now, I was sure that the secret had to be inside that drawer.

I tiptoed up to the study door, my heart racing.

To my surprise, the door wasn't locked.

I eased it open and slipped inside.

Bathed in moonlight pouring through the window, I found the drawer.

It had an old-school keyhole. A hairpin should do the trick.

I took a hairpin from my hair, straightened it, and, with my hands shaking, jammed it into the keyhole.

My hands were trembling so much that it took several tries before I finally heard a faint click.

The lock clicked open.

I took a deep breath and slowly slid the drawer open.

There were no files on other victims like I'd expected.

The entire drawer was crammed full of things, notes, photos, papers, all centered on me.

There was the hairpin my teacher took away after I got in trouble for fighting back in grade school.

There was my middle school diary, packed with girlish confessions and secret crushes.

There was a photo of me crossing the finish line at a high school sports day.

There was a trophy from the first design competition I ever won in college.

There was even a lock of my hair, carefully tied with a red thread, with a label underneath. It read: [Wynne's hair, lost on her eighteenth birthday.]

My mind went blank, and my blood froze in my veins.

I'd lost some of these things ages ago. I'd completely forgotten that some of them even existed.