Chapter 5: The Villa on the Cliffs

The road to the cliffs was empty, swallowed by fog and ocean spray.

It felt familiar.

Too familiar.

The villa perched on the edge of the rocks like a secret someone tried to forget. I remembered this place, but I'd never been here before. Not physically. But something in my bones knew the scent of sea air and rotting wood. Knew the way the path curved, the sound the gravel made underfoot.

Lucian's trail had led me here. Quietly. Deliberately.

The number from the Hale case—burner phone—had last pinged just outside this area. Too convenient. Too deliberate.

The villa loomed ahead, half-swallowed by ivy and time. The windows were dark, and the front door was ajar, like it had been waiting for me to return.

I stepped inside.

Dust coated every surface, but there were no cobwebs.

That was the first thing that struck me.

This place was old, abandoned—but not neglected. Someone had been here. Recently. Someone who knew the value of presentation.

The entrance hall smelled of old pine and decay. Paintings lined the walls, their subjects faded or slashed. The house sighed around me, wood bending under the weight of history.

And then—footsteps.

Not real. Just echoes in my head. I tightened my grip on my flashlight and moved through the corridor.

That's when I found the room.

At the end of the hall. The door slightly open. A thin sliver of light leaking through the gap, soft and golden.

I pushed it open.

And stopped breathing.

The room was a shrine.

Flowers—so many flowers. Arranged in neat rows across the floor, the desk, the walls. Roses, lilies, marigolds, daisies, violets. Some fresh. Some pressed in frames. Others painted—large, haunting oil paintings hung crooked on the walls.

Each canvas depicted a body.

A woman sprawled across a chaise longue, roses in her mouth.

A man hanging from a tree, daisies falling from his hands.

A child asleep in a bed of violets, skin pale, eyes hollow.

Every flower matched a real case.

Every pose… was one I had used.

I staggered back.

My hand brushed something on the desk—a book.

A leather-bound journal.

I flipped it open.

Drawings. Notes. Precise, clinical entries. Sketches of body placement. Lists of flowers. Some pages even had photographs clipped to them.

My photographs.

My crime scene photos.

How did he get these?

Page after page, case after case. It wasn't just mimicry—it was study.

And on the last page: a drawing of me.

Back turned. Coat blowing in the wind. A single white lily behind my ear.

No face. Just the name beneath it: Aesira.

I slammed the book shut.

That's when I heard it.

A soft creak upstairs.

Someone else was here.

I moved silently, gun drawn, heart pounding. The staircase groaned under my weight, but I didn't hesitate. My pulse was screaming now, but I forced myself to move slowly, carefully.

The upstairs hallway was empty.

But one door was open—just barely. A faint flicker of candlelight inside.

I pressed my back to the wall, listened.

Nothing.

Then, a whisper:

"She's here."

I kicked the door open.

But the room was empty.

Just another shrine. This one… newer.

In the center, a mannequin dressed in a long coat. My coat. A wig that matched my hair. And in the mannequin's hand, a single marigold.

I took a shaky breath.

On the mirror behind it, scrawled in what looked like charcoal:

"You see now, don't you?"

I didn't remember driving back.

I just remember sitting in my car, parked outside my apartment, staring at the marigold in my hand.

It was fresh.

Still warm from the room.

I didn't sleep that night.

I couldn't.

Because now… now it wasn't just about murder.

This was performance. Worship.

This was personal.

And I had no idea how close he was willing to get.