The email arrived at 3 PM, just as Lucia was picking up her kids from school. She didn't see it until later, after dinner and homework and bath time, after she'd finally collapsed on the couch with a glass of wine and her laptop.
The subject line read: Need to ask you something. -Maya
Lucia's stomach tightened. She knew what this was about. She'd known since Marcus Chen's call that Maya wouldn't let it go, that her sister's obsession would eventually circle back to her.
She opened the email.
Luce,
I know this is hard, and I'm sorry to ask. But I need you to look at something. There's a mark on one of the recent victims that might match what you remember from your attack. I'm attaching a photo. I need to know if it looks familiar.
I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.
Love you,
M
Lucia's hand hovered over the trackpad. She could close the laptop, delete the email, pretend she'd never seen it. She could protect herself, maintain the careful distance she'd built between her present life and her past trauma.
But Maya needed her. And despite everything, despite the years of therapy and the hard-won peace, Lucia couldn't ignore that.
She opened the attachment.
The photo showed a woman's shoulder, pale skin marked by a small circular burn. The sight of it sent Lucia back fifteen years in an instant—the smell of burning flesh, the searing pain, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "So you'll remember me."
She'd never told anyone about the whisper. It had felt too intimate, too terrible to share.
Her hand went to her own shoulder, fingers finding the spot where her scar was hidden beneath her sweater. The mark had faded over time, become almost invisible, but she could still feel it. A permanent reminder that she'd been chosen, marked, claimed by something evil.
The burn in the photo was identical.
Lucia closed her laptop and stood, pacing to the window. Outside, her quiet suburban street was dark except for the glow of porch lights and the occasional passing car. Her husband was upstairs putting the kids to bed, reading them stories in his patient, gentle voice. This was her life now: safe, normal, boring in the best possible way.
But the past was never really past, was it? It lived in her body, in her nightmares, in the way she still checked the locks three times before bed and couldn't stand to have anyone walk behind her.
And now it was killing again.
She picked up her phone and called Maya.
"Did you see it?" Maya answered immediately, her voice tight with tension.
"I saw it."
"And?"
Lucia closed her eyes. "It's the same. Exactly the same."
Silence on the other end. Then, quietly: "Thank you. I know that wasn't easy."
"Maya, there's something else. Something I never told anyone." Lucia's voice was shaking now, and she gripped the phone tighter. "When he did it—when he burned me—he said something. He said, 'So you'll remember me.'"
"Jesus, Luce—"
"I need to come to Seattle. I need to help with this."
"No. Absolutely not. You have kids, a life. You don't need to—"
"He's killing again, Maya. And if it's really him, if it's the same man, then I'm the only person who's seen his face and lived. I'm the only witness you have."
"You were eleven. It was dark. You saw him for a few seconds—"
"I remember." Lucia's voice was steel now, surprising even herself. "I've spent fifteen years trying to forget, but I remember. His face, his voice, the way he moved. I could work with a sketch artist. I could help."
"Luce, I can't ask you to do that."
"You're not asking. I'm offering." Lucia looked up at the ceiling, hearing her daughter's laughter from upstairs, her son's voice asking for one more story. "I have to do this. For them. So they grow up in a world where he's not still out there."
Maya was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was thick with emotion. "Okay. But we do this carefully. You come to Seattle, you work with our sketch artist, and then you go home. You don't get involved beyond that. Deal?"
"Deal."
"I'll arrange everything. Can you come this weekend?"
"I'll make it work."
After they hung up, Lucia sat in the dark living room for a long time, listening to the sounds of her family above her. Her husband's footsteps, the creak of the kids' bedroom doors closing, the house settling into its nighttime rhythms.
She was terrified. But she was also, for the first time in fifteen years, ready to face the monster from her past.
Upstairs, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Looking forward to meeting you, Lucia. It's been too long.
Her blood turned to ice.
She stared at the message, her hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped the phone. It had to be a wrong number. A coincidence. There was no way he could have her number, no way he could know she'd just agreed to come to Seattle.
But even as she tried to rationalize it, she knew. Deep in her bones, in the place where trauma lived, she knew.
He was watching.
He'd always been watching.
And now she'd just agreed to walk right into his trap.