It had been a few months since Becker and I started dating, and in those months, life had seemed... almost normal. There were no more nights spent lying awake, plotting my next move. No more hurried trips to my studio, where I'd paint my latest masterpiece—one that was drenched in blood and shadow. Instead, my days had been filled with simpler things. Quiet moments with Becker, long walks in the park, and casual dinners at small restaurants where we'd laugh about anything and everything. She was a grounding force in my life, and for the first time in a long time, I wasn't consumed by the dark thoughts that had once ruled me.
But even in the calm, there were cracks beneath the surface—cracks that had begun to show when the police found Claire's body.
It had been a mistake. The attention had been too much. The media, the detectives, the public outrage. It was as though every single thread of my carefully constructed life had started to unravel. Claire's death—her beautiful, lifeless form discovered in that alley—had set everything in motion. The case had gained too much traction. They'd linked it to Cooper's disappearance, and that's when everything really spiraled out of control.
I had thought I was untouchable. I had thought I could slip through the cracks, just like before. But now, the police had started to focus on the pattern. They were closing in on me, and it wasn't just any cop who had been assigned to the case. It was Detective Miller—one of the most highly decorated officers in the city, with a reputation for cracking the toughest cases. The kind of officer you didn't want on your trail.
I knew it wouldn't be long before he'd figure it out. The clues, the pattern, the way my paintings always seemed to match the dark truths behind each of my victims. It was all too perfect, too obvious for someone as sharp as him. I could already hear the questions, see the interviews. Where were you that night? What did you know about Cooper? Why did you start painting those grotesque portraits?
It was only a matter of time before my entire world came crashing down.
But I had stopped. At least, I thought I had.
Since Claire's body had been found, I had made a conscious decision to stop. I wasn't ready to be caught, and I wasn't ready for the inevitable consequences that would follow. The last thing I wanted was to drag Becker into this dark, twisted web I had woven. She didn't deserve that. She deserved the version of me that wasn't a monster.
Becker had no idea about the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of my life. She didn't know about the murders, the painting, the twisted obsession that had taken over me for so long. And I intended to keep it that way. I didn't want her to look at me the way I saw myself—a predator, a killer. She had enough faith in me to believe I was someone I wasn't. But I was terrified that one day, she'd see through the façade. That one day, Detective Miller would make a breakthrough and I wouldn't be able to keep the mask up anymore.
As much as I had tried to distance myself from the darkness, there was still a part of me that wanted to return to it. A part of me that felt alive when I painted the scenes of death, when I recreated the beauty of destruction. But those thoughts were fading. The thrill was gone. I couldn't keep living in that world without risking everything I had with Becker.
One night, as we sat together on the couch, her head resting on my shoulder, I felt the weight of everything pressing down on me. She was perfect. She made everything feel real, feel... human again.
"I was thinking," Becker said suddenly, her voice soft and contemplative. "What if we went away for a weekend? Just the two of us? Somewhere quiet, where we can just... breathe."
I turned to look at her, the corners of my lips lifting in a small smile. "That sounds amazing. Where would we go?"
She shrugged, her fingers tracing patterns on my arm. "I don't know. Just somewhere far enough that no one knows us. Somewhere peaceful. Away from all the noise."
I could tell she was searching for an escape of her own. She was always so calm, so composed, but I could feel the subtle restlessness in her. Maybe she sensed that something wasn't quite right with me, even if I hadn't told her. But for now, I wasn't going to let it ruin this moment. We could pretend. I could pretend.
"I'd like that," I said, my voice steady, even though my mind was racing. I wanted to leave. I wanted to take her away from everything, away from the potential danger that loomed over us, but I knew I couldn't run forever. The darkness had its grip on me, even if I wasn't indulging in it.
The police investigation was only getting more intense. Detective Miller had begun to show up at the places I frequented, asking questions I couldn't answer. He had even shown up at the gallery, staring at my paintings with a knowing look in his eyes. He didn't say it outright, but I knew he suspected something.
And still, I couldn't stop myself from thinking about what might come next. What would happen if the walls closed in on me? What would happen if Becker found out? Would she even believe it? Would she run in the other direction, or would she stay, as she always had, standing by me with that quiet understanding?
The fear of being found out lingered like a heavy cloud over every moment we spent together. But, for a little while, I allowed myself to forget. I allowed myself to enjoy the normalcy we had built together.
Later that night, as I lay next to Becker, the soft rhythm of her breathing lulling me into a false sense of security, I realized something. I had been fooling myself into thinking I could escape. I had been convincing myself that the life I was living now—this happy, normal life—could somehow be permanent.
But I knew better. Life doesn't work that way. It never had for me.
The past always catches up.
And as I closed my eyes, the nagging feeling at the back of my mind told me it wouldn't be long before my past came crashing through the door, demanding the reckoning it was owed.
The storm was coming. And I wasn't sure if Becker would be able to weather it by my side.
The days that followed were a strange mixture of calm and tension. Becker and I went on small dates, shared quiet moments, and continued to pretend that everything was normal. I went to work as usual, though it felt like every glance from someone I passed on the street might be hiding a suspicion, a clue, a question that could unravel everything.
The police had ramped up their efforts, following any and every lead they could find. Detective Miller was relentless. He wasn't backing down, and I could feel the walls closing in. The case against me, although not public, was undoubtedly growing. I couldn't help but wonder if he already had a few pieces of the puzzle.
But Becker didn't see it. She didn't notice the tension in my movements, the flicker of worry in my eyes when I heard a siren in the distance. She was blissfully unaware of the danger that lingered just behind us. She trusted me. She loved me. And I hated myself for keeping this secret from her, but I couldn't let her in on the truth.
I couldn't ruin her.
I couldn't ruin us.
The trip that Becker had suggested—away from the city, away from the chaos—was still on my mind. Maybe I could take her somewhere far, where the weight of everything didn't press so heavily on me. Maybe, if I could get far enough away from my past, I could leave it behind.
But deep down, I knew that wasn't possible. You can't outrun yourself.
And as I closed my eyes that night, the same feeling crept in once more: The storm was coming, and I wasn't sure if I could stop it.