Page 9 of The Arbiter
Is she actually the light? Or am I simply starving in the dark?
The question lingers. Then it dissolves. I haven’t touched a woman in six years. Didn’t even look at one. It doesn’t matter. Light or not, she chose not to expose me. And that choice binds us more than she realizes.
Madeline’s hand hovers over the steel table. Then slowly, she reaches for the paper again. Not as evidence. As a temptation. She unfolds it. And this time, she reads it.
My little storm,
you’re wasting your brilliance on the dead.
They can’t appreciate how beautifully your mind works.
How your fingers dance across their secrets.
But I do.
I’ll be watching your conclusion with great interest.
Your devoted shadow,
A.
Madeline folds the paper again. Not for the police. For herself. She slides it into the inner pocket of her coat. That small decision doesn’t escape me. It brands something into my chest I don’t have the vocabulary to name.
She cleans up mechanically after that. Controlled. But I can see it now, the slight tremor in her fingers when she adjusts the light. The way her jaw tightens when she looks at the cavity again. She finishes faster than usual. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t speak.
When she turns off the overhead lights, the room sinks into a muted gray. For a moment, she stands there. Listening. Waiting. I stay perfectly still in my hidden place. Even my breathing obeys me.
Then she leaves. The door shuts softly behind her. Silence expands.
I count to sixty. Slow. Measured. Giving her time to reach the hallway. To convince herself that nothing else will happen tonight.
Then I move. I don’t rush. Predators don’t rush. I step out from the shadows into the room she just vacated. The metal table is still warm from the lights. Her scent lingering in the sterile air, faint perfume beneath the antiseptic. My fingers brush the exact spot where she stood.
Soon. I turn off the last remaining light.
The corridor outside is darker. Quieter. I already know the blind spots between the cameras. I created them.
Her footsteps echo faintly ahead. Alone. Unaware. I follow. Not close enough to be heard. Close enough to reach her whenever I decide to.
And tonight.I decide.
CHAPTER 4 - Madeline
The note burns in the pocket of my coat. I can feel it even through the layers of fabric. A thin, jagged square of paper that feels heavier than the body I just opened. Weightless. Insignificant. Except it isn’t.
“My little storm.”
The words replay in my head, a rhythmic chant keeping time with my racing heart as I push through the swinging doors and into the corridor. The autopsy room falls silent behind me, but the metallic scent of blood clings to my senses, making the air feel thick and iron-stained.
This is ridiculous. It’s a note. From a serial killer. That should terrify me. It does terrify me. So why does it also feel like being truly seen for the first time in my life?
The hallway stretches ahead, washed in sterile, blindingly white light. Too bright. Too empty. My footsteps echo in a hollow rhythm I can’t control. Left. Right. Left. Too loud. I reach the corner and turn.
That’s when I hear it. A shift. Subtle. Like the building settling. Or a predator adjusting its stance. I freeze. Listen. Nothing. My pulse starts climbing anyway.
“Bryan?”
I call out, immediately hating myself for it. My voice sounds small, fragile, like glass about to shatter.
