That night, Andres returned home and didn't write.
He played instead.
It wasn't a song he knew. He just let his fingers wander across the keys of his mother's Steinway, creating something dissonant and slow. He didn't try to make it beautiful.
He tried to make it true.
And in that moment, he didn't feel like a killer. He didn't feel like a liar. He just felt... human.
Then the buzz of his phone shattered it.
It was from a blocked number.
A single photo.
A crime scene — one of his.
But blurred. Out of focus. Like someone had taken it from afar.
Beneath it:
"We all have fans. Some are just more devoted than others."
Andres froze.
His heart didn't race — it slowed.
Someone knew.
Or thought they did.
He looked at the piano again. The moment was gone.
He wasn't safe.
And neither was Thana.