I sat across from Destiny, watching her tear through a whole plate of crab like she hadn't eaten in days. The smell of butter and spice filled the air, and I nursed my margarita slowly, letting the ice melt between my fingers.
She'd been distant lately — replying late, canceling plans, always with some excuse that somehow traced back to him. Her new boyfriend.
I couldn't take the silence anymore.
"Did you see the news?" I asked, keeping my voice casual.
Destiny looked up, lips glistening with sauce. She wiped them quickly, took a sip of her drink, and frowned. "The one about the murder?"
"They found another body," I said. "Same place Tenashe was found."
Her eyes widened. "Oh my God. Those poor women…" She nearly choked, then laughed nervously. "What's going on in this town? I'm actually getting scared …"
Her phone buzzed, slicing through her sentence. I didn't have to ask who it was.
She smiled at the screen, that soft, stupid kind of smile that said he's the one.
"I'll just be a sec," she said, already standing and walking out to take the call.
A few minutes later, she came back, purse in hand.
"Babes, I've got to go now," she said, leaning in to hug me. "I'll text you, okay? Love you."
And just like that, she was gone.
The bill sat between the half-eaten crab and my melting margarita. I stared at it for a moment before letting out a bitter laugh.
It hurts watching her choose him over me again.
But what could I say? I was the girl who couldn't keep a boyfriend, couldn't keep a friend, and is always getting called out at work .
The whole killing-in-the-woods situation was beginning to fade into background noise. No one knew who or what was behind the deaths — only that they were connected somehow. The forum threads had gone cold, replaced by celebrity gossip and scandals that burned brighter and faster than grief ever could.
So I took the opportunity to breathe.
To chill out.
Before long, I was back on the dating apps, swiping between strangers who looked like variations of the same man — half smiles, gym selfies, vague bios. Then I met one who seemed… tolerable.
Not especially handsome, but he had a job, a sense of humor, and a golden retriever he apparently worshipped. I saved his number under Dog Man.
We'd been chatting for a week when we finally set a date. I kept glancing at my phone, waiting for his reply to my last message — "What do you like to read?" — sighing every few minutes like I was sixteen again.
"I'm going on a date tomorrow," I told Claire the next morning at work.
"Oh wow, with who?" she asked, finally looking up from her screen.
"I met him on a dating app—"
She didn't even let me finish. "Dating app? Hell to the no, girl. That's dangerous."
"I know," I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. "But life's full of risks, right? I gotta move on from Max somehow."
She sighed, then smiled and tapped my shoulder. "Just… be careful, Zee."
That night, I texted Destiny to tell her about my plans. No reply. I called — twice. Straight to voicemail. I stared at the screen a little too long before giving up.
Fine. Whatever.
The restaurant smelled like grilled steak and cheap wine. Dog Man — real name, Ethan — looked exactly like his pictures: ordinary in a clean, nice sort of way.
"You look even prettier in person," he said, smiling nervously as the waiter poured our drinks.
I smiled back. "You look… like someone who'd never ghost me."
He laughed, which earned him points. We talked about music, jobs, his dog — apparently named Rufus — and for once, I wasn't thinking about Max or Sophie or Mrs. McWell's voice in my head.
Just when I started to relax, my phone buzzed.
I almost ignored it, but something about the number caught my eye — it was from Claire.
I swiped it open
Claire: see they found another body tonight and it's trending already
My stomach twisted. The words blurred on the screen.
"Everything okay?" Ethan asked, mid-bite.
I pushed my chair back, heart racing. "I—I'm sorry. Work emergency."
He blinked, confused. "Wait, you're a journalist, right? Is everything—"
"I'll text you," I said, already grabbing my bag.
Outside, the night air hit me hard. My heels clicked against the pavement as I ran toward my car, phone trembling in my hand.
Joan — the third victim.
A fitness goddess with abs sharp enough to cut glass and a smile that sold every lie of perfection. She was a personal trainer, the kind everyone wanted to be or be with. Her videos flooded the internet — ten-minute routines, meal plans, transformation reels. People swore by her workouts, posting "before and after" pictures like she'd changed their lives.
But behind the bright lights and yoga mats, she also worked as a massage therapist — private, appointment-only. That's where I started digging.
I put it on myself to check all her recent clients . I even got claire to help with a few, though she ended up accidentally posting the names on her Facebook instead of searching for them and I had to help her delete the posts.
The name Clifford Welch was on my list. Later, I would look back and blame myself for not figuring it out sooner. In my defense, there was nothing about Clifford that screamed "serial killer." His online presence was limited. He had an Instagram account where he mainly posted pictures of scenic places that he'd visited. There were a couple of shirtless post-run shots and I admired his attractive physique. He didn't have a Facebook page or a X account that I could find. There was a link to the law office where he worked, and though the name niggled at the back of my brain,
I didn't put together that it was the same company where Tenashe had gone to influence
The truth was that I couldn't imagine a man like that wanting to murder anyone. His life looked good, peaceful, and if movies had taught me anything, it was that serial killers always had someunderlying trauma. What kind of trauma could this rich, attractive white man have experienced?
"No luck on my end," I posted on the forum.
At least this time, we weren't the last to post it.
Our firm actually broke the story within minutes — photos, headlines, everything. For once, we weren't playing catch-up.
But Mrs. McWell still wasn't satisfied.
"Getting there first isn't the same as getting it right," she said during the emergency meeting the next morning, her voice slicing through the hum of reporters typing. "I want names. Motives. Connections. Someone out there is killing women, and I'll be damned if another outlet beats us to the truth."
Her words lingered like smoke long after she walked out.
Sophie leaned back in her chair, arms folded smugly. "Well," she said, glancing at me, "guess we're going hunting."
I rolled my eyes, pretending not to feel the heat of her stare. Deep down, though, she was right. We had to dig — harder, deeper — before anyone else did.