ISLA POV
The morgue smells like death and chemicals trying to hide death.
I've been down here a hundred times, but today my stomach twists as I push through the metal doors. Rafe follows close behind—too close. I can feel him there, like a cold shadow pressed against my back.
"You're quiet, Detective," he says.
"I'm thinking."
"About?"
About how you knew exactly where the crime scene was this morning before anyone called you. About how your eyes flashed black in that conference room. About how every instinct I have is screaming that you're dangerous.
"About the case," I lie.
The medical examiner, Dr. Sarah Okafor, looks up from her desk. She's my best friend outside of work—smart, funny, takes no nonsense from anyone. When she sees Rafe, her eyes go wide.
"Damn," she whispers to me. "That's the psychologist?"
"Focus, Sarah," I mutter.
But I get it. Rafe looks like he walked out of a movie—perfect face, perfect hair, perfect everything. Except nothing about him feels right. It's like looking at a beautiful painting and knowing something's hidden underneath the paint.
"Dr. Okafor," Rafe says smoothly. "I'd like to examine the bodies. All twenty-three, if possible."
Sarah glances at me. I nod.
"They're in cold storage. Follow me."
The cold storage room is exactly what it sounds like—a massive freezer filled with metal drawers. Sarah pulls out the first one. Body number one. A rapist named David Chen who walked free after his rich daddy paid off the right people.
Rafe steps forward and does something that makes my blood run cold.
He touches the carved R with his bare hand.
"Don't!" Sarah snaps. "You'll contaminate—"
"I'm wearing gloves," Rafe says calmly.
Except he's not. I can see his pale fingers pressing against the dead man's chest, right on that burned R mark.
"No, you're not," I say, my voice sharp.
Rafe looks down at his hand like he forgot it was there. Then he pulls it back slowly. "My apologies. I got carried away."
But here's the thing—I saw his face when he touched that mark. For just one second, his silver eyes went completely black. Like someone flipped a switch inside him.
Just like in the painting from 1198.
My hand drops to my gun without thinking.
"Something wrong, Detective?" Rafe asks, turning those silver eyes on me.
"You touched evidence without gloves."
"A mistake. It won't happen again."
Sarah looks between us, sensing the tension. "Um, should I... give you two a minute?"
"No," I say, not taking my eyes off Rafe. "Show us the rest."
We go through all twenty-three bodies. Every single time, Rafe stares at the R marks like he's reading a language only he understands. He mutters things under his breath—words that don't sound like English. Old words. Ancient words.
By body number fifteen, my hands are shaking.
By body twenty-three, I'm sure.
This man is connected to the Reaper. Maybe he's studying the kills because he's obsessed. Maybe he's a copycat. Maybe—
Maybe he IS the Reaper.
The thought hits me like a punch to the stomach.
"I've seen enough," Rafe says, stepping back from the last body. "Detective Monroe, may I speak with you privately?"
Every alarm in my head goes off. "We can talk here."
"It's sensitive information. About the profile."
Sarah catches my eye. I see the question there: Are you okay with this guy?
I'm not. But I need to know what he knows.
"Fine. Five minutes."
We step into the hallway outside the morgue. It's empty—just me and possibly the most dangerous man I've ever met.
Rafe leans against the wall, studying me with those unnatural silver eyes. "You don't trust me."
"Should I?"
"No." He smiles, and it's not a nice smile. "You're smart not to. But we have a problem, Detective."
"What problem?"
"You've been asking questions. Researching symbols. Digging into history that should stay buried." He pushes off the wall and steps closer. Too close. "That makes you a target."
My heart hammers. "How do you know what I've been researching?"
"Because I know the Reaper better than anyone alive." His voice drops to a whisper. "And he knows about you now, Isla."
He used my first name. We've known each other for three hours, and he's using my first name like we're old friends.
Like he's been watching me longer than three hours.
"Stay back," I say, hand on my gun.
"I'm not going to hurt you." He sounds almost sad. "But others will. The professor who helped you? She got a warning last night. You'll get worse."
"How do you—" My phone buzzes, cutting me off.
Text from James: Get back here NOW. Emergency.
I look at Rafe. He's smiling that cold smile again.
"You should answer that," he says.
I back away from him, keeping my hand near my gun, and run for the stairs. My phone rings before I hit the first floor. James, calling now.
"What's wrong?" I answer.
"Isla, someone broke into your apartment." James's voice is tight with fear. "He didn't take anything. Just left a message."
My stomach drops. "What message?"
"You need to see it yourself. Get here now."
I'm already sprinting for my car.
My apartment door hangs open, the lock shattered.
James stands in the doorway with two uniformed cops. When he sees me, his face goes gray.
"Isla, maybe you shouldn't—"
I push past him.
My apartment looks normal. TV, couch, coffee table—nothing touched. Nothing stolen. But written on my living room wall in something dark red—please God, let it be paint—are words in that same perfect calligraphy from the professor's note:
YOU HAVE THREE DAYS TO STOP HUNTING ME.OR I'LL MAKE YOU MY TWENTY-FOURTH MARK.—R
My legs go weak.
The Reaper was in my home. In my space. He could have killed me while I slept.
But he didn't.
He gave me a warning instead.
"There's more," James says quietly. He points to my coffee table.
Sitting in the center, arranged carefully, is a photograph.
I pick it up with shaking hands.
It's a picture of Maya. My sister. Smiling, alive, beautiful. Taken the day before she died ten years ago.
I never showed this photo to anyone. It was in my bedroom drawer, hidden under old journals.
The Reaper went through my bedroom. Through my private things. Touched my sister's memory.
I'm going to kill him.
"Isla," James says carefully. "We need to pull you from the case. For your safety—"
"No."
"He threatened you. He knows where you live. He's escalating—"
"I said no." I turn to face him, and I know my eyes are wild. Desperate. "He killed Maya's murderer, James. Judge Pierce was on the list of people who let her killer walk free. The Reaper is going after everyone who destroyed her."
James goes very still. "How do you know that?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because I'm realizing something horrible.
The Reaper isn't just killing random guilty people.
He's killing everyone connected to Maya's death.
And I'm next on the list—not as a victim, but as...
What? A witness? A tool? Someone he's trying to warn away?
Or someone he's trying to protect?
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. I answer without thinking.
"Hello?"
"Three days, Detective Monroe." The voice is smooth, cold, beautiful. Rafe's voice. "Stay away from this case, or I can't protect you from what's coming."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, ice flooding my veins.
Rafe just called me.
Rafe warned me.
Rafe said "I can't protect you"—like he's been protecting me all along.
Oh God.
Dr. Rafe Ashford isn't just connected to the Reaper.
Dr. Rafe Ashford IS the Reaper.
And somehow, impossibly, he's trying to save my life.