"People like to believe in miracles.
But miracles don't come without a cost.
And when they do, someone's always paying the fucking price."
⸻
I hate hospitals. The scent of bleach and old blood clings to the walls like a desperate soul begging to be noticed. I've walked through crime scenes with organs still warm, and even that felt less sterile than this place.
Carol said the murders started near St. Eileen's General Hospital, three victims so far. No signs of forced entry, no sexual assault, nothing stolen. Only one thing in common:
All of them were kneeling.
Palms together. Eyes shut.
Like they died mid-prayer.
Oh, and yeah, each body had a note. Neatly folded, carefully inked:
"God doesn't forgive everyone."
Whoever this Collector is, they've got a thing for divine justice. Probably thinks they're doing heaven's laundry. I don't buy that crap. But you know what? Some people really do.
⸻
Victim number four was a priest. Of course.
Fucker had a history, buried deep, but not deep enough.
We caught a glimpse of her through hospital surveillance: young, average height, light brown hair, clean scrubs. A face so forgettable it loops back around to being dangerous.
Carol paused the footage. "You see it?"
Yeah, I saw it.
She touched the rosary around her neck… and smiled.
⸻
The bitch's name is Evelyn Mark. Twenty-three. Nursing intern. No criminal record, no psychiatric flag. Got into a car crash six months ago, survived with barely a scratch. Everyone else? Toast. Her mom said she was "different" after that. More quiet. More… pure.
Pure my ass.
⸻
We followed her trail like the scent of burning incense, sweet at first, but it turns your stomach the longer you inhale. She didn't hide. She wanted to be found. Invited us, really. One more note, this time left on her apartment door:
"I hope you're clean, Mr. Paper Crane.
God is watching."
Creepy handwriting. Slanted right. Almost elegant.
I kicked the fucking door open anyway.
⸻
Inside, it was like walking into a fucking chapel.
Crosses everywhere. Candles. Photos of her victims, framed and clean. She didn't hate them. She mourned them. Called them "corrupted lambs" in a journal filled with prayers and murder plans.
Carol found her in the bedroom, kneeling beside a basin of water. Her hands were red. Not from blood, from washing.
She looked up at me, smiled again, and whispered:
"I knew you'd come. You're not one of them."
"You killed four people," I snapped. "God's not fucking hiring."
"He's not. But He spoke to me. I'm only a vessel."
⸻
Carol read her rights. Evelyn didn't resist.
She hummed all the way to the station. Calm. Like a fucking angel in a straitjacket.
I watched her through the glass. She just sat there, smiling.
Not a twitch. Not a blink.
Then she turned to the mirror, looked straight through it and mouthed:
"He's still talking to me."
I don't know who the hell she meant.
But that night, one of the cops on duty swallowed a bullet.
Left a note:
"She was right."
⸻
"Some people kill for power. Some for revenge.
But the ones who kill for faith?
They're the hardest to break,
Because they don't think they're monsters.
They think they're martyrs."