The next victim wasn't personal. That was the point.
Her name was Marla Quinn. She lived alone. She wrote true crime podcasts — amateur ones. Andres had seen her mention his books online.
It wasn't about rage. Or obsession.
It was balance.
He needed to remember what he was. Not just an author. Not just a man. A killer.
He followed her after a live recording event. Quiet streets. Wrong time. Wrong man.
It was clean. Methodical.
This time, he left nothing behind. No piano key. No symbolism. Just silence.
Back home, he played a piece Thana had performed — slowly, note by note. As if cleansing the guilt.
But guilt wasn't the right word.
It was restraint.
He couldn't stop thinking about Thana. And that terrified him more than any crime he'd ever committed.