CHAPTER 8: "The Note"
Camila narrowed her eyes at Samuel, his figure leaning against the bike like he belonged in the shadows.
"You're not going to answer me, are you?" she asked, arms folded.
Samuel tilted his head just slightly. "Some answers aren't worth giving."
His voice was smooth, cold, and calm—as if everything about him was locked behind walls too high to climb.
Camila studied him carefully. "You talk like someone who's seen too much."
He met her gaze, unmoving. "Maybe I have."
They stood in silence for a moment more, tension coiled between them like smoke curling from fire.
"I don't know if I should be curious or concerned," she said finally.
Samuel gave a faint, unreadable smile. "Both would be smart."
And with that, he straightened, kicked his bike into gear, and rode off into the night—leaving her standing in the quiet street, wondering why his words echoed in her chest long after he was gone.
---
Next Morning – 9:12 AM – Camila's Apartment
Camila yawned as she opened her apartment door to grab the morning mail—and froze.
A small, folded paper had been slid under her door. No envelope. No stamp. Just plain, crumpled white paper.
She bent down, picked it up, and unfolded it slowly.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"YOU'RE NEXT."
The handwriting was jagged. Rushed. Like it had been scribbled with urgency—or madness.
Her fingers tightened around the paper. She knew that handwriting.
Jack.
She didn't need forensics to tell her that. Her gut screamed it.
He was watching.
He was getting closer.
---
1 Hour Later – Camila's Apartment
Freshly showered and dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, Camila dialed a familiar number. It rang once.
Twice.
"Detective Mateo Johnson," his sarcastic voice answered.
She sighed. "It's Camila. I need you to come over. Something happened."
Silence.
Then, "I'm on my way."
---
10:38 AM – Camila's Apartment
Mateo stepped in, glancing around. "Still alive, I see. Where's the demon?"
She handed him the note.
He read it once, his jaw tightening. "Son of a—"
"I know it's him," Camila said, arms crossed. "He's taunting me."
Mateo looked at her. "Which means we're getting close."
They sat on her couch, papers spread out, Jack's case files laid out across the coffee table like puzzle pieces.
"We're missing something," she muttered. "There's a pattern… I just haven't cracked it yet."
"Well," Mateo said, taking a sip of the coffee she'd handed him, "maybe we'll find it after five more mugs of this toxic sludge you call coffee."
She kicked his leg gently. "You're welcome for the hospitality, jerk."
"You only invite me over when a killer threatens you," he teased. "Romantic."
Camila rolled her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself."
They bickered while going through the files—occasionally arguing over details, occasionally laughing at each other's ridiculous notes (Camila had doodled devil horns on Jack's mugshot, Mateo had renamed a suspect "Creepy McCreepface").
At one point, while standing up to stretch, Camila tripped on one of the cushions and accidentally stumbled right into Mateo's chest.
He caught her effortlessly, hands steady on her waist.
Their eyes locked.
He smirked. "Falling for me, Wilson?"
She stepped back quickly, cheeks burning. "I really hate you, Mateo."
"Sure you do."
---
Evening – 7:03 PM
After ordering food, a movie neither of them finished, and more sarcastic banter than necessary, Mateo finally stood to leave.
He pulled his jacket on and gave her a once-over. "Lock your doors. Call me if anything weird happens."
"I'll be fine," she said, trying to sound confident.
He paused. "You're not alone in this, Camila."
She gave him a soft nod.
Then he left.
---
1:03 AM – Camila's Apartment
The room was dark. Silent. The glow of the streetlight poured through the window.
Camila lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.
And then—
A knock.
Not on the door.
On the window.
Sharp. Deliberate.
Her blood ran cold as she sat up slowly, heartbeat in her throat.
She reached for her phone with trembling fingers, slowly turning toward the sound.
Another knock.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
---
TO BE CONTINUED…