Hargreave left a note on the café table where Carmen always sat.
Folded. Deliberate. Tucked beneath her untouched espresso like an offering.
Or a dare.
One sentence, scrawled in perfect, angry ink:
"The spiral leads somewhere."
She didn't show it to Julian.
Didn't need to.
She picked up a lighter from her coat pocket.
Lit the paper.
Watched it curl in her palm, embers licking her skin like a secret.
And smiled.
That night, she chose a girl.
Not a target.
A message.
Her name was Mae.
She ran a gossip column, liked to sniff around blood she didn't understand. Recently printed a quote from "an anonymous detective" linking the murders by "a sense of style."
She asked too many questions.
So Carmen gave her the answer.
By dawn, Mae was a sculpture.
They left her in her own bed.
Arms folded like prayer.
Eyes wide. Mouth sewn shut with black thread.
No spiral on her skin.
But in the mirror beside the bed—
etched in blood
scraped with her own fingernails—
a perfect spiral.
And a note, tucked softly into her hairline.
"You're not following a pattern. You're in it."
It took the press three days to tie Mae to Hargreave.
When the article came out, he didn't blink.
Didn't curse.
Just sat at his desk, poured whiskey into a glass, and stared at the photos on his wall.
His hand trembled.
Not from drink.
From something colder.
Recognition.
That evening, Carmen saw him again.
Same butcher's. Same parcel of red. Same fog curling around her heels like sin.
She turned to him. Held the bloody package like an afterthought.
"You asked if I left footprints."
He didn't blink.
"You think I'm afraid?"
She leaned in.
Breath warm. Smile colder.
"You should be."
Back at the flat, Julian watched Vivienne scribble something into her leather-bound journal.
"You're documenting again."
Vivienne didn't pause.
"I'm remembering."
Julian stepped behind her. Close enough to feel the pulse in her spine.
"You'd better hope no one ever reads it."
Vivienne looked up. Calm. Eyes like calm fire.
"I hope someone does."
Carmen came home hours later.
Her coat bloody.
Gloves black.
Hair perfect.
She didn't speak.
Just poured a glass of wine.
Stood at the window.
Watching the city like it was sleeping——and deciding who she'd wake up next.