31 Days After Ms. Kathy

  After a month of stressing, they finally put a BOLO out for me.

  Face plastered everywhere.

  Every news anchor saying my name like they’re auditioning for a true?crime documentary.

  I’m the “17?year?old serial murderer who killed his mother and father in a disturbing, ritualistic display.”

  They made it sound theatrical.

  Dramatic.

  Like I was trying to send a message.

  Sandra is probably thrilled.

  She always said something was “off” about me.

  Congratulations, Sandra. You win.

  Anyway—time’s ticking.

  Getting out of here is essential.

  ---

  40 Days After Ms. Kathy

  I finally found a way to get to my aunt.

  Through her eight?year?old daughter.

  No—I didn’t hurt her.

  I don’t touch kids.

  That’s a line I don’t cross.

  But fear?

  Fear is honest.

  Fear is leverage.

  I needed her alone, away from parents and cameras.

  After school was the only window.

  I followed at a distance—close enough to intervene, far enough not to be noticed.

  When the moment opened, I stepped in like I belonged there.

  “Your mom told me to come get you.”

  She hesitated.

  Looked at her phone.

  Looked at me.

  Up close, the resemblance hit me harder than before. The hair. The eyes. Too bright, too soft—Mother’s eyes, copied and pasted onto a smaller face. It made something twist in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. I wasn’t looking at Tabby anymore; I was looking at a ghost wearing a child’s features. No wonder my tick had been clawing at me since the moment I saw her. She wasn’t the problem. She was the reminder. The echo. The proof that Louis got to keep a daughter who looked like Mother while I got left with the memories.

  A little pressure in my voice, a little urgency, and she followed.

  Kids freeze before they think.

  The abandoned parking garage was close enough to reach without being seen.

  Fifteen minutes later, a bright pink Mercedes-Benz convertible rolled in.

  Of course.

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  That’s her car.

  A bougie ride for a bougie woman.

  I crouched behind a concrete pillar, watching her heels click across the floor like she owned the place.

  Alone.

  Perfect.

  “Peter… is that my mom?” Tabby whispered behind me.

  Not fear—just confusion.

  I nudged her forward.

  Not hard.

  Just enough for Louis to see her.

  “Tabitha?!” Louis’s voice cracked instantly. “Baby, is that you?!”

  Her pitch scraped down my spine.

  “Come to me, baby!”

  My eye twitched.

  “I’m coming—”

  Stop.

  “Mommy’s here—”

  Stop.

  “Don’t move!”

  Enough.

  I stepped out before I even realized I’d moved, crossing the distance in seconds.

  I grabbed Louis by the arm and shoved her back against the car, pinning her there with my forearm.

  Her designer jacket muffled her breath as she struggled.

  “Don’t scream,” I said. “You won’t like what happens if you do.”

  “Please—just don’t hurt her—”

  My jaw clenched.

  My tick flared.

  “I’m not here for her,” I said. “I’m here for you.”

  Her breath stuttered.

  Good.

  Fear meant she was finally paying attention.

  ---

  Recognition

  I rolled her over and propped her against a pillar.

  Her head hung low.

  “Look at me.”

  Her eyes lifted—slow, unfocused—then widened.

  “I know you,” she whispered.

  For a second, I thought she meant it.

  Recognition.

  Regret.

  Something human.

  Then—

  “You’re that kid from the news… Who are you? What do you want with us?”

  Of course.

  Of course she didn’t recognize me.

  “Do you really think you’re in any position to play dumb?” I stepped closer. “Lisa Heinzburg. Formerly Lisa Haufman. My mother’s sister.”

  “I don’t have a sister, you delusional little—” She scoffed. “You’re confused. Killing people has scrambled your brain. Your left eye keeps twitching. You need help.”

  She always did know how to make everything worse.

  “Listen carefully, Louis,” I said, voice low. “I’ve been patient. More patient than you deserve. And the only reason I’m not dragging you across this floor is because your daughter is watching.”

  Her breath hitched.

  Finally.

  “I’m not here to hurt her,” I said. “But I am done pretending you didn’t ruin me.”

  Her face twisted—confusion, irritation, disbelief.

  “Who are you… really?” she whispered.

  I almost laughed.

  Not because it was funny—

  but because it proved everything.

  “You don’t remember me,” I said softly. “Not even now.”

  Her brows knit together, searching my face for something familiar.

  “I’m your sister’s son,” I said. “Your godchild. The boy you were supposed to take in. The one you kept in the back room. The one you ignored for four years.”

  Her expression shifted—confusion, then realization, then dread.

  “You turned me away ten years ago,” I said. “Ring a bell?”

  Her hand flew to her mouth.

  “Oh my god… Peter?”

  There it was.

  Recognition.

  Too late to matter.

  ---

  The Drug Problem

  She started crying. Loud, messy, dramatic.

  I hated crying.

  Especially when it wasn’t real.

  “Oh, my beautiful nephew,” she whined. “I’m so sorry I turned you away. I just wasn’t in the right headspace—”

  “Right headspace?” I cut in. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

  Her breath hitched.

  “Funny,” I said, “because your ‘Pilates friend’ told me something different.”

  Her face went still.

  Completely still.

  “Samantha Tibit,” I continued. “Ring a bell?”

  Louis’s eyes widened — not with recognition, but with fear.

  “Before my face hit the news, I paid her a visit. Asked a few questions. She was very… cooperative.”

  I let that hang in the air.

  “I have everything,” I said. “Dates. Times. Transactions. Videos. Enough to ruin you in ways you haven’t even imagined.”

  Louis’s voice cracked. “Peter… please—”

  “Don’t.” I stepped closer. “You don’t get to beg now. You don’t get to pretend you cared. You left me to rot, and you built a whole life on pretending none of it happened.”

  Her shoulders shook.

  Her whole body folded in on itself.

  Good.

  She needed to feel something real for once.

  “You’re going to tell Samuel everything,” I said. “The drugs. The lies. The neglect. All of it.”

  Her breath stuttered.

  “And if you don’t?” I leaned in. “I won’t come back for you. I’ll come back for your reputation.”

  She broke.

  Completely.

  ---

  Bloodvex Entry — “The Law of Proximity”

  “Bloodvex never struck from afar.

  He closed the distance.

  He breathed the same air as his prey.

  A villain’s power is not in the blow—

  it is in the moment before it lands.”

  — From Mother’s Stories, Night 22

  ---

  Louis was still sobbing into her hands when I stepped back.

  Her whole body shook like she was freezing, even though the garage was warm.

  Tabby clung to my sleeve, silent, overwhelmed, eyes wide and glassy.

  I should’ve felt something.

  Relief.

  Closure.

  Satisfaction.

  Instead, my tick flared again — sharp, electric, crawling under my skin.

  I needed to breathe.

  I needed to anchor myself.

  I needed the journal.

  I slipped my hand into my backpack and pulled out the leather?bound notebook.

  The cover was worn, edges frayed, pages swollen from weather and time.

  It felt heavier than it should — like it carried every version of me I’d ever tried to bury.

  I flipped to the next blank page.

  My handwriting shook for a moment before settling into its usual sharp, slanted rhythm.

  ---

  Lesson 2: The Law of Proximity

  “A proper villain does not lash out blindly.

  He closes the gap.

  He studies the breath, the tremor, the heartbeat.

  Distance is safety — and safety is for the weak.”

  Louis’s sobs echoed through the garage.

  “Proximity is power.

  Control the space between you and your target,

  and you control the outcome.”

  I underlined the last sentence twice.

  The tick eased.

  My pulse steadied.

  The world sharpened back into focus.

  I closed the journal and slipped it into my bag.

  Louis was still crying.

  Tabby was still staring.

  And I was still me.

  Lesson 2 was complete.

  ---