Chapter 3 – The Town Holds Its Breath
Clara gripped the phone so hard her knuckles turned white. The message glowed against the darkening sky, the symbol mocking her from the screen. Her first instinct was denial—maybe it was a hoax, someone trying to rattle her. But the way the lines slashed across the house in the photo, bold and confident, left no doubt. It was the same hand.
The killer was taunting her.
She dialed Holden immediately.
“Where are you?” His voice came through, gruff and wary.
“By the cliffs. I just got a message.” She forced the words out evenly. “Another house. Marked.”
The silence on the other end stretched until Holden finally said, “Send it to me.”
She did. A curse hissed through the line.
“That’s Maple Street,” he said. “Belongs to the Linwoods.”
Clara’s heart lurched. David Linwood—the husband who would later vanish. But she didn’t know that yet. All she knew was that a family’s life was now under a ticking clock.
“I’m heading there now,” Holden said.
“I’ll meet you,” Clara replied.
She was already back in her car, the engine roaring to life.
---
The Linwood house sat at the corner of Maple Street, its porch light glowing warmly, curtains drawn as if the world outside couldn’t touch it. Nothing about it screamed danger. There were no broken locks, no forced entries, no bloodied walls. Just an ordinary suburban home in a town that wanted to believe it was safe.
Which made Clara’s stomach twist harder.
The symbol was gone.
She circled the perimeter with Holden, searching the siding, the windows, the porch steps. Nothing. Not even a smear of chalk dust.
Holden muttered, “It’s clean. Like it was never here.”
“No,” Clara whispered, showing him the photo again on her phone. “It was here. Someone wiped it.”
The realization set in: the killer hadn’t just marked the house—he had erased it, playing with them, dangling proof only long enough to send Clara spiraling.
Inside, the Linwoods looked confused and frightened when the detectives explained why they’d come. Martha Linwood, a neat woman in her early forties with a habit of wringing her hands, shook her head. Her husband David—tall, broad-shouldered, with the first signs of gray at his temples—looked irritated more than worried.
“There’s no mark on our house,” David said. “We’d have seen it.”
“You weren’t supposed to see it,” Clara replied quietly.
The words made the air heavier.
Holden broke the silence with routine questions, but Clara’s instincts tugged her elsewhere. Her eyes fell on the couple’s daughter—Sophie, maybe thirteen, perched on the edge of the sofa, fiddling nervously with a loose thread on her sweatshirt. She hadn’t said a word.
Clara crouched down, lowering her voice. “Sophie, has anyone been by the house today? Maybe while your parents were out?”
The girl hesitated, biting her lip. Her parents turned sharply to her, confused.
“Well… yeah,” Sophie said finally. “Someone came earlier. I almost forgot.”
Martha straightened. “What do you mean, forgot? We weren’t home.”
Sophie’s voice wavered. “I thought it was just a delivery or something. He didn’t say much. Just left a box and told me to give it to you when you got back.”
Clara’s pulse quickened. She kept her tone calm. “Where’s the box now?”
“In the kitchen,” Sophie said.
David was already moving, opening a cupboard near the counter. A small cardboard box sat there, taped shut. Innocuous. Plain. Harmless-looking.
But Clara felt the hairs on her arms rise.
“Don’t touch it,” she said sharply. “Let me.”
She pulled on gloves and slid the box onto the counter. Holden joined her, his jaw tight. Slowly, Clara cut through the tape and lifted the flaps.
Inside, cushioned in plain brown paper, was a knife.
Its blade gleamed under the kitchen light, polished, spotless. Too clean. Its very neatness made it sinister, as though it were waiting to be used.
Martha gasped. Sophie whimpered and clutched her mother’s hand. David swore under his breath.
Holden muttered, “Son of a bitch.”
Clara stared at the weapon, her mind racing. It wasn’t just a threat. It was a message: I can walk into your home, stand inches from your child, and you won’t even notice until I want you to.
The killer was escalating.
And worse—he was watching.
---
For the next hour, the kitchen became a crime scene. Evidence bags, gloves, photographs. Clara directed the process with steady commands, though her thoughts churned like a storm. No fingerprints on the box. None on the knife. Not even a smudge. Whoever handled it wore gloves, careful, meticulous.
The Linwoods answered questions between bouts of panic. Martha cried quietly, asking if they should leave town. David grew defensive, pacing the living room, muttering about not being “driven out of his own house.” Clara noted the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clenched into fists. Fear, anger, pride—volatile fuel in moments like this.
But Sophie lingered in the corner, shrinking into herself. Clara approached her again.
“You did the right thing, telling us,” Clara said gently. “Can you remember what he looked like? Anything at all?”
Sophie’s eyes darted to her parents, then back to Clara. “I… I didn’t really see him. He wore a cap. Kept his head down. I thought it was, like, a delivery guy. He didn’t stay long.”
“Did he say your name?” Clara asked.
Sophie hesitated. “No. Just said, ‘Give this to your parents.’ Then he left.”
Clara’s stomach sank. The killer had approached the girl in broad daylight, disguised as an ordinary stranger. No rush, no panic. Calm. Confident. He wanted this interaction.
Holden joined them, his voice low. “Whoever it was, he’s bold. Doesn’t care if someone sees him. He’s daring us to catch him.”
“No,” Clara said, eyes fixed on the knife inside the evidence bag. “He’s daring me.”
---
By the time they left, the Linwoods were rattled, clinging to one another. Martha locked the door twice. David stood stiffly by the window, arms crossed, scanning the street like he could chase danger away with sheer stubbornness. Sophie avoided everyone’s gaze, retreating upstairs without a word.
Outside, the night was thick with mist. Porch lights glowed faintly, but every shadow stretched longer than it should have, every rustle of branches sounded too deliberate.
Clara paused on the sidewalk, her gut churning.
The killer had erased the mark from the Linwoods’ house. He had walked to their door, faced a child, and placed a knife into her hands. Then he had vanished, leaving nothing but fear behind.
It wasn’t about the family. It wasn’t even about Holden.
It was about her.
Somewhere in the quiet streets of Seabreeze, the killer was watching, smiling at how neatly he’d turned an ordinary night into a nightmare.
And Clara knew this was only the beginning.