Page 6

MEANT FOR SACRIFICE

Isolde

“I came as soon as I could,” Casper’s voice fills the air with its authority, coming closer from behind all the police investigation commotion.

They’ve taped off a larger section of the woodland, yellow lines marked Do Not Cross flapping in the heavier wind that drives snow into my face, so much so that I have to hide behind the blanket the paramedic offered me.

I snuggle deeper into it as she checks me over, making sure I have no physical injuries.

I’ve been distant since finding the body—a state of shock born from pure terror.

Everything feels colder, more sinister, than before. As if a perpetual shadow has settled over the town, sweeping through it with a wave of helplessness. This is the second murder to shake our quiet streets since my parents died, and it’s no wonder people are curious.

A cluster of onlookers gathers beyond the perimeters in a bustle of excited activity, journalists joining them while scribbling in notepads and snapping photos in bursts of flashes to try to capture whatever happens inside the taped-off area.

One camera flash nearly blinds me for a second when I realize it’s aimed directly at me. I turn my back on them sharply.

I’m in the back of an ambulance, my legs dangling back and forth above ground as the paramedic finishes checking me over. Once she’s satisfied I’m unharmed, she steps away, leaving me alone with Casper.

Heavy tension lingers in the air, turning into something acidic the more seconds that pass. I stay silent, not knowing what to say. Does he suspect it’s me this time, too?

“Is this the same motive as the Duskvik family?” a reporter shouts through the crowd of people, trying to get the attention of a police officer who swiftly ignores their question.

The question, in turn, makes me blanch. A thick cloud of poison that’s destroying everything in its path, making the air harder to draw into my lungs, much like tar.

I still recall the commotion around my parents.

How the reporters used to stand outside my house day after day, shouting their intrusive questions and trying to peek inside my house when the curtains were the slightest bit open, all the while ultimately harassing me.

It was as if some mediocre respect never was on their radar.

I couldn’t even leave my house without being swarmed by them.

Eventually, I was forced to move. A few months later, I met Casper in a local pub while drowning my sorrows in a drink or two. He was the town’s new police deputy, having moved to our small town after being offered a promotion.

I’ve been with him ever since.

“Isolde?” Casper asks, catching my attention and making me realize I zoned out.

I lift my gaze to meet his stoic eyes, his cheeks flushed red from the frigid air, and his hands buried deep in his coat pockets.

One might assume he’s uncomfortable standing like that—rigid in the cold while trying to keep his hands warm—but he’s the opposite; completely at ease, without a care in the world.

And I’m the sole focus of his attention.

Somehow, that plants a sour feeling deep in my stomach.

He’s not on duty, but he acts like he is with the way he assesses the grounds, silent and on guard, as if the murderer can jump out at any second and strike again.

I open my mouth to reply, but no words escape. I’m all empty —a sheer shell.

“Sir?” One of the forensics walks up to Casper briskly. Casper turns to look at them, and the loss of his gaze on me makes me slightly relax. “The tests came back negative.”

My boyfriend offers the forensic a curt nod, watching the man walk away before turning to look at me. “The DNA for the first murder,” he supplies.

My shoulders stiffen, taking in his gaze that doesn’t look remotely guilty. Everything suddenly makes sense—why he was at my apartment, why he came here late when I called him over an hour ago. I tighten the grip around the blanket, the only shield protecting me from him.

“What do you mean?”

I know what he means, but he needs to confirm it using his own words.

“I tested your DNA. Negative. You’re safe. For now.”

Fists clenching around the blanket, I’m on the verge of tearing the fabric apart with my bare nails while tar radiates through me like a tide. Sick and ugly. My eyes flare. “What the actual fuck, Casper?”

Those broad shoulders merely shrug, as if this is no big deal. Only a minor misconception that will be forgotten within the next minute. He’s pouring gasoline on an already raging fire, erupting inside me until it’s inextinguishable.

“A relationship comes with trust!”

Scoffing, he casts me a meticulous look I cannot even begin to comprehend. “You’re one to talk,” he fires back.

I stop what I’m doing, freezing in place. I’m sure my face drains of all color as I stare at him, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. His expression doesn’t give anything away, nor does the flat line of his lips. “We’ll take this later,” he curtly says.

I’m about to protest, wanting to spit out every hurtful comment I can come up with, when he suddenly stops me. He grabs something from his pocket.

It’s a black envelope.

The one he was talking about on the phone earlier.

Swallowing the lump forming in my throat, I stare at it for a beat before daring to reach out for it.

My hands shake worse than an aspen leaf, and it feels as if the forest spins around me.

Uncontrollable in its force, about to sweep me off my feet and suffocate me in the cold snow.

“Open it,” Casper demands.

At his words, I think about how much I, despite everything, truly hate him.

How I never truly loved him. He only entered my life when all I needed was someone by my side, seducing me into a one-night stand, and finally giving me the attention I had sought for so long.

Lonely and desperate, he became the sole reason for my existence when my entire life was shredded to the tiniest of pieces.

Ripping open the envelope, the sound of tearing paper amplifying the anxiety inside me, I let the paper pieces fall into the snow. They disappear out of sight, blending in with the blinding color of nature.

And then it hits me, like a punch to the gut. My eyes stay fixed on the letters, but the world around me seems to tilt as if I’ve stepped off solid ground. A cold wave washes over me, and I forget to breathe.

The words are written in delicate, feminine handwriting, so neat it makes me nauseous. Utterly fucking nauseous. Like I might puke right here, and with it, drag my intestines out onto the ground. As if the nightmares have finally torn their way out of me, cutting me open from the inside out.

“What does it say?” Casper demands, but I block out his voice. I’m so tired of him. I just want to get away from him.

My eyes stay glued to the piece of paper, reading and rereading the words engraved there.

Five days until your birthday. Counting down until we get to taste your blood again.

Xoxo.

Casper becomes impatient, and instead of waiting for me, he rips the paper from my hands, frowning. I try to grab it to prevent him, but he’s too quick. When I stand up to retrieve it, he merely pushes me down so I land on my ass in the back of the ambulance again. I stare, shocked, at him.

“What is this?” he growls, reading the words written. He stares at me, seeing my face drained of color, but he doesn’t give a shit. He takes one step closer to me, grabs the collar of my shirt, and nearly spits in my face. “What the fuck is this, Isa?”

I sputter and breathe heavily, feeling the world spinning around me. It’s not him I’m worried about. I’m worried about those fucking words on the paper.

“What is it?!” he shouts, making a few officers turn our way before they look away again when Casper smiles calmly at them. He’s still the deputy, after all.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

“Someone clearly knows your birthday,” he growls. “I thought you didn’t have any friends, hmm?”

His voice is condescending, taunting. I flinch, watching his lips twitch.

Fuck him.

I don’t know why he’s mad at me. It’s not like I have done something wrong. Staring into his eyes, I tell him again that I don’t know, ignoring his attempts at starting an argument.

Sighing heavily, he gives me that cold gaze that could freeze water. “I’m going to need to claim this as evidence,” he tells me, as if I’d somehow rage about that.

“Burn it for all I care.”

“Watch your tone with me,” he warns, a tick in his jaw letting me know he’s agitated.

Narrowing my eyes, I clench my fists. I can’t cause a scene now. Not here.

Relief sags my shoulders as another officer shouts for his attention.

“Go home, Isolde,” he mutters, turning to leave with that tick in his jaw still visible.

I stand up, letting the blanket drop from where I sat as I turn my back to the vehicle, not looking back at him or the body now covered in a black bag. It’s only the soft crunch of my boots hitting the snowy forest floor as I make my way from the smell of death and engine oil.

The crowd is thicker now, more people having caught up to the news. Curious onlookers, desperate to get a glimpse of the tragedy. A journalist pushes past me to get a clearer view. His hand snakes back, intentionally, and grabs a full handful of my ass.

I startle, my body flinching before my mind can catch up. He’s already disappeared in the throes of people before I can even see his face. No apology or hesitation.

Don’t cause a scene.

With a deep breath to steady my mood, my fists involuntarily clench as I force myself to keep walking away.

I leave the crime scene and the corpse behind, nauseous, tired, and feeling empty in a way that sleep won’t fix.

But most of all; scared out of my fucking mind.

—————

DAYS PASS AGONIZINGLY SLOW as I try to maintain a modicum of normalcy when my life has been turned upside down. Again.