Page 12 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Carson

I shouldn’t be staking out Derik. He hasn’t done anything illegal. Not today.

Unless you count taking his lunch break at a strip club. Which, yeah, I kind of do. It’s not a crime to eat greasy tacos under a neon sign that says “Double D’s,” but it should be. Tacky as hell. Who combines titties and Tex-Mex?

Still. Not an arrestable offense. Yet.

His record’s exactly what I expected: minor charges, domestic disturbances, a restraining order from 2018 that somehow vanished. Same pattern I’ve seen before. Just enough rage simmering under the surface to be dangerous. Just enough charm to make women second-guess their gut.

Just Jennifer’s type.

And I hate that. I hate thinking about his sweaty hands anywhere near her. Her hips. Her throat. That mouth of hers that jokes about killing so casually. That smile that dares a man to underestimate her and digs his grave the second he does.

The thought of him touching her, that makes my hands twitch around the steering wheel. Not because I’m a jealous asshole. Because I know what kind of man he is.

I should arrest him. Trump something up. Drugs in the glove box. Outstanding warrants. Make sure he never makes it to the date I shouldn’t know is happening tonight. The one I only found out about because I pulled her phone records.

I tell myself it’s for safety.

It is. Mostly.

His place. She’s going there. That’s not just a red flag. That’s a warning siren. A bloodstained bat signal.

But she’s done this before. She’s methodical. Cold. Controlled.

It’s not about me. It’s about keeping her alive long enough to finish what she started.

Still. Just in case, I brought her a burner phone.

Tucked it in a gift bag with snack cakes and a damn rose.

Because I’m old-school. She deserves sweetness with her strategy.

If she’s going to keep playing the part of predator, she deserves a man willing to kneel beside her in the dark and make sure her knives stay sharp.

And if I have to become complicit in order to protect her, then so be it. I’ll set my badge on fire and hand her the ashes like a love letter.

Sitting here isn’t helping her. So I head back to the office, but not before swinging by her place.

She’s not home, so I slip the gift bag into her mailbox, tucked neatly beneath a stack of circulars and junk.

The mail’s already come; it’ll be safe until she finds it.

My version of a care package. Practical. Sentimental. Protective.

On the drive, I can’t stop thinking about where she is.

Maybe with Edgar. That doesn’t bother me the way it should.

There’s something about him, calculated, clinical.

A piece on the board that doesn’t threaten her safety, just shifts its shape.

No violent history with women, no restraining orders, no charges.

A few people disappeared after crossing him, but honestly, if you manage to piss off a mortician, you probably earned your plot.

If it turns out there’s something happening between them, I’ll have a conversation. Man to man. See where he stands. See what he’s willing to do to protect her.

Back at the precinct, I start digging. Not out of jealousy. Not curiosity. It’s insurance. I need to know what ghosts might crawl out of the dark looking for her. And I need to be ready to bury the ones with teeth.

Her childhood doesn’t set off alarms. Which, statistically, is often the case. People think all serial killers are born in bruises and broken homes, but not always. Sometimes they come from clean, well-lit kitchens and family game nights.

Her parents are still married. No records.

No substance abuse. No arrests. I scroll through family photos from old social media accounts, two overachievers smiling with straight teeth and matching fleece vests.

The kind of couple who push perfection until it snaps.

Maybe they were always gently disappointed in her.

Maybe they had a plan for her life, a spreadsheet of milestones: perfect grades, perfect husband, perfect white-picket coma.

She got close. Her academic record’s decent. High marks in literature and science, some struggle with math. I get that. I wasn’t exactly passionate about geometry either, too many angles, not enough sense.

She wasn’t an athlete. No teams, no trophies. Probably always more curves than coordination. Not that I’m complaining. Those curves make my mouth go dry. Her yearbook photos are enough to knock the breath out of me, wide eyes, soft jawline, hints of who she’d become.

I chew absently on a protein bar, the kind with the texture of wet cardboard, while flipping through documents. It’s all bland until… Wedding.

Shit.

I sit up straighter, crumbs sticking to my shirt. Of course a woman like her would’ve been married. Of course some smug bastard got there first.

I jot the name down: Walter Lane.

“Walter,” I say it out loud, let it rot in my mouth like sour fruit. I hate him already. I don’t even know why yet. I just do.

It doesn’t take long to find out it’s justified.

Hospital visits. A pattern of “accidents.” Fractures, bruised ribs.

A concussion labeled as a fall down the stairs.

Then come the restraining orders, two of them.

Both dropped. Then the divorce. I pull the file.

It’s ugly. Legal mud flung back and forth, but the shape of it’s clear: he steamrolled her.

Crushed her voice under paperwork and pressure until all that was left was a girl in therapy, starting over in a new zip code.

No, not starting over. Building something new. Safe. Hers.

And now she hunts the Walters of the world.

I keep chewing, the bar long gone but my jaw still working like I can grind the rage into dust. But Walter Lane? He’s still breathing. Not buried in her garden. Not ashes in Edgar’s crematory. Alive.

I pull his DMV photo. His face flickers onto the screen and I freeze. Dark hair. Dark eyes. That same smug, oily smirk. And suddenly, it clicks.

These men she dates, these monsters she makes disappear, they look like him. Same bone structure. Same eyes you wouldn’t trust to watch your drink. They’re not just behavioral matches. They’re reflections. Echoes.

A pattern wrapped in pain. Is it still too raw to face him? Is she afraid she’ll hesitate if he looks at her the wrong way? Or are the others just practice runs? A slow, spiraling prelude to the one man who really deserves to suffer?

Why, Jennifer? Why did you let him walk away?

I stare at his photo until my vision starts to blur, eyes burning, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

This is the man who broke her. The one who taught her to sharpen her instincts into weapons. The reason she builds her safety like a fortress, brick by bloody brick, with hands that should’ve been holding love, not shovels.

And he’s still breathing. Still walking in the world like he doesn’t owe her anything. Like he didn’t take something sacred from her and grind it under his heel.

I don’t know if she plans to kill him. But if she does, I won’t stop her.

And if she doesn’t… I just might.

I close the file with a click that sounds louder than it should in the quiet hum of the office. Power down the screen, the image of his face still seared behind my eyes.

Tonight, I’ll shadow her. Keep just enough distance to let her play it how she wants with Derik, but close enough to intervene if he forgets who he’s playing with.

Tomorrow, I’ll tuck a second care package into her mailbox. Another burner. More snacks. Something soft and sweet tucked between the violence.

Because if she ever decides it’s time… If the moment comes when she finally turns her eyes back toward Walter Lane, she needs to know she won’t be doing it alone.

Not this time.