Barely Heard by Molly Black

Author:Molly Black [Black, Molly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Molly Black
Published: 2024-03-22T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

He was humming a song as he descended the creaking wooden stairs into his sanctuary. Something from the 80s that he couldn't' quite place, one of those earworms that seemed relentless. A single naked bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a jaundiced glow over the room that had become a shrine to his twisted obsession.

The basement was a cavernous space, concealed beneath the innocuous facade of suburbia, where no one would think to look for the macabre gallery he had painstakingly curated. He had another area off in the woods, a forgotten cabin that he'd moved away from once he realized there was a thick police presence in the area.

What the hell had he been thinking, having the pendants delivered through the mail?

No matter. He’d moved, left no trace evidence, and he still had work to do.

He moved through the cramped quarters with a sense of reverence, brushing past the relics of his fixation. His eyes, sharp and alert despite the dim light, scanned the walls plastered with of triumph. First, there were the headlines from local papers. Elana had come first, and he had a few different papers reporting on her murder. Only one had picked up Rachel’s murder because it only happened about thirty-eight hours ago. And it would be at least another day before any local papers printed anything about Emily.

Still, scant or not, he was quite proud of it. Was it foolish to hang such things from the walls? Yes, of course. But it was also a huge encouragement to him—a reminder of how well he’d done.

But he had photos, too. Things he’d found online and even picked up at live events where he’d watched and scouted his victims. The photographs showcased the brightest smiles of female athletes frozen in their moments of glory—on podiums, crossing finish lines, holding trophies aloft. These women had been the darlings of the sporting world, their faces beaming with the kind of success that had always eluded him. Their images formed a grotesque mosaic, a constellation of stars whose light he had extinguished one by one.

His fingertips grazed the edges of a frame, tracing the outline of a skier caught mid-jump, her form perfect against a backdrop of snow and sky. The killer's breath hitched ever so slightly, a quiet sound swallowed by the stillness of the lair. He lingered on the image, absorbing the details—the bend of her knees, the poise in her posture, the sheer audacity of flight—and felt a surge of something akin to admiration, or perhaps envy.

In this clandestine chamber, removed from the scrutiny of the world above, he allowed himself a moment of reflection. With each piece of memorabilia, he had claimed a fragment of their excellence, their vitality. It was a collection borne of darkness, yes, but also a tribute to the light they once held—a light he believed was now his alone to possess.

He turned away from the wall, his silhouette merging with the shadows as he made his way to a worn desk in the corner of the room.

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