Page 101 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

My attention drifted to Derek. He was standing beside Elias, laughing so hard he had thrown his head back, sunlight catching the silver bar through his eyebrow.

Everything about Derek invited trust. His smile reached his eyes. His shoulders bounced when he laughed. He spoke with his hands. Even his stance was open, balanced toward people instead of away from them.

It was... suspicious.

Real monsters rarely looked dangerous. They learned very early that kindness was camouflage. Predators who bare their teeth don't eat nearly as well as predators who smile. Derek smiled beautifully. Far too beautifully. The corners of his bright blue eyes wrinkled with genuine amusement, making him look like the sort of man children would run toward without hesitation. Maybe he really was exactly what he appeared to be. Or maybe he simply understood performance better than most. I hadn't decided yet…

Then there was Mason. He barely moved. He didn't need to. Some people occupied space by speaking. Mason occupied space by existing. Silence bent around him. Arms folded across the black tactical vest hugging his broad chest, he stood with the absolute stillness of someone who understood that movement was a choice, never a habit. His dark hair sat cropped close against his scalp, exposing the knife scar that disappeared into his left eyebrow while black Celtic tattoos crawled over his hands like ink refusing to stay beneath the skin.

If Derek resembled sunlight...

Mason resembled the storm rolling over the mountain behind it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just inevitable. Watching him reminded me of watching avalanche warnings.

Nothing happens...until everything does.

Without thinking, my hand slipped into the pocket of my cardigan. The phone felt familiar against my palm. I unlocked it. Not hurriedly. Not nervously. Deliberately.

I lifted it toward the old Methodist church across the street, angling the camera upward as though I had suddenly become fascinated by weathered brickwork and faded stained-glass windows.

A tourist. An author. A woman admiring history.

Click.

Perfectly believable. My thumb slid across the screen. The church quietly disappeared beneath the slow pinch of my fingers.

Closer.

Closer.

Past the peeling white paint. Past the cracked stone steps. Past Derek's moving hands. Past Mason's impossible stillness. Until only Elias remained.

The sunlight caught the edge of his jaw. The tiny pale scar beneath his left eye. The rough shadow was beginning to grow along his jawline. The tiredness hidden behind those observant green eyes. My lips unconsciously brushed together. As if remembering exactly how that stubble felt beneath them.

Click.

I stared at the photograph for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Light. Shadow. Composition. The way his expression never truly rested.

Beautiful.

I saved it without another thought before slipping the phone back into my pocket. One photograph. That was enough.

After all,

The best collections aren't built by taking everything. They're built by knowing exactly what is worth keeping.

"Seraphina."

The voice reached me before the footsteps did. I don't trust people who use your first name before you've given them permission. Names are funny things. The wrong person saying them can make them sound like fingerprints.

I turned slowly.

Deputy Collins crossed the pavement with an easy confidence that didn't belong to him. His uniform was immaculate, every crease pressed razor-sharp, his polished badge catching the afternoon sun. Everything about him looked rehearsed. Too clean. Too deliberate.

Some people wore uniforms. Others hid inside them. He stopped just a little too close. Not close enough for anyone watching to think twice but close enough that I could smell the stale wintergreen mints on his breath mixed with cheap aftershave.

Close enough that if I stepped back...I'd be the rude one.

"Deputy."