Page 2

2

EDEN

A s I walk through the carnival entrance, the evening air carries the sweet scent of cotton candy and caramel apples. My press badge hangs around my neck—a perfect cover for observing without raising suspicion. The carnival sprawls across the fairgrounds, red and gold tents casting long shadows in the setting sun.

Children dart past me, squealing with delight. Their parents trail behind, clutching stuffed animals and sticky treats. My attention, however, is focused on the staff, the permanent fixtures of this traveling show. A tattooed man adjusts the controls of the Ferris wheel. Two acrobats stretch near the main tent. Each face could belong to my killer.

I grab my phone from my pocket, pretending to check messages while snapping quick photos. The layout matches descriptions from the forum—games section to the left, rides to the right, and food vendors creating a central corridor that leads to the big top.

My research indicated that most victims disappeared after dark when crowds thinned, and shadows deepened. I check my watch—there are still two hours until sunset.

I stop at a cotton candy stand, studying the vendor as he spins pink clouds onto paper cones. His weathered face and kind eyes don’t match my profile. Too old, too settled. My killer would be younger, someone capable of overpowering victims.

The crowd parts, and I catch my first glimpse of the main tent’s entrance. A man stands there, tall and commanding, in a ringmaster’s costume. His presence draws the eye—not just because of his formal attire but also because of something magnetic in how he carries himself. He surveys his domain with calculated awareness.

Movement near the Ferris wheel catches my eye. A man lifts heavy metal barriers with impressive strength, muscles flexing as they work almost effortlessly under bronzed skin. Sweat glistens on his shoulders, highlighting defined contours as he works. My breath catches.

I’ve studied countless killers, dissected their psychology, and analyzed their methods. Still, something about the first glimpse of this worker makes my blood heat.

My hand grips the phone tightly as I raise it to capture his image. The camera lens feels inadequate to contain his presence. Dark hair falls across his forehead as he checks another barrier. His focus is absolute, aware, yet detached from the crowd flowing around him.

“Stop ogling the guy, Eden,” I whisper to myself. I’m here to investigate disappearances, not check out the staff. But my usual clinical detachment crumbles as he straightens, scanning the area with penetrating eyes.

I smoothly duck behind a game booth, not wanting to get caught peeping on the guy. I press my back against the wooden panel. My heart pounds against my ribs—a foreign sensation for someone who stays cool while interviewing murderers. This visceral reaction disturbs me. I’m the observer, the analyzer. I don’t get rattled.

When I peer around the corner again, and see that he’s moving another section of fencing. His forearms flex, making his veins prominent. A tattoo snakes up his bicep, disappearing under his sleeve. I want to trace its path to uncover where it leads.

My fingers itch to take notes and document this unexpected response. For the first time since my obsession with death and killers started after my father’s incarceration, I’m not thinking like a researcher. The predator-prey dynamic I’ve studied so carefully (is beginning to blur. At this moment, I’m not sure which role I’m playing.

His gaze sweeps across the fairground, and for a heartbeat, our eyes lock. The world stops spinning. I’m lost… and found. I can’t look away. His dark eyes pierce through me, freezing me in place and stripping away my carefully constructed facade.

His gaze abruptly moves on, looking around and returning to his work as if I warrant less attention than a gnat being swatted away. My fingers grip the edge of the game booth, knees weak. His carefree dismissal of me stings more than I should let it.

I fumble with my phone’s camera, holding my breath as I frame him. The screen captures his fluid movements—the flex of his shoulders as he lifts another barrier, the subtle shift of muscle beneath his shirt. Each photo feels like a stolen secret—my secret.

The crowd flows around me, but I barely notice them now. My podcast, the missing persons cases, and the investigation all fade to background noise. I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

My thumb swipes through the photos I’ve taken. In one, his head is turned slightly, jaw clenched in concentration. Another catches him mid-lift, power radiating from every hard line of his body.

The excitement coursing through my veins isn’t professional curiosity anymore. This is something darker and obsessive. I want to know everything about him—his routines, habits, and the path he takes when the carnival closes each night.

I snap another photo as he wipes sweat from his brow. The thrill of watching him, of collecting these private moments, overwhelms my senses. I haven’t felt this alive since I received that first prison letter with a scrap of uniform inside.

The investigation that brought me here feels inconsequential. All that matters is capturing one more image, a glimpse of this man who’s awakened something insidious inside me.