I should have known he wouldn't wait until midnight.
The package was sitting on my doorstep when I got home, wrapped in black paper with a silver ribbon that caught the afternoon light like it was made of real metal. No delivery truck in sight, no record of anyone coming to my building. It had just appeared.
Like magic.
My hands were shaking as I picked it up. The paper was thick and expensive, the kind you'd use for wedding invitations or funeral announcements. There was no return address, but I didn't need one. I could smell that same scent clinging to the package - midnight and expensive cologne and something that made my pulse race.
I should have called Marcus. Should have treated it as evidence and had it processed by the lab. Should have done a dozen things that would have been smart and professional and safe.
Instead, I carried it inside and set it on my kitchen counter like it was a normal delivery.
The ribbon came off with barely a touch, and the black paper fell away to reveal a white box that looked like it cost more than my monthly rent. Inside, nested in black tissue paper, was an envelope made of heavy cream-colored stock.
My name was written on the front in elegant handwriting that looked like it belonged in a museum. Below it, in smaller letters: "Personal and Confidential."
I opened it with the same fascination you might feel watching a car accident in slow motion.
The invitation inside was a work of art. Thick cardstock with gold edges, the text printed in script so perfect it had to have been done by hand. But it was the message that made my blood run cold.
Ms. Aria CrossYou are cordially invited to an intimate gatheringTonight at 8:00 PMThe Blackthorne Estate1247 Lake Shore DriveCocktails, dinner, and conversationDress code: Elegant
I do so hope you'll join me.We have much to discuss.
Yours in anticipation,Your Dream Stalker
At the bottom of the invitation was a phone number. A real one this time, not the untraceable number he'd used for the texts. Like he wanted me to be able to contact him.
Like he was daring me to call.
I stared at the invitation for a full minute, my mind racing. This was insane. He was openly inviting me to his house, signing it with a reference to our previous conversation. It was either the most arrogant thing I'd ever seen, or he genuinely didn't think he had anything to fear from the FBI.
Maybe both.
My phone buzzed. A text from Marcus.
Digital forensics came back on those messages. Number's a dead end. Burner phone, probably ditched already. Any more contact from our guy?
I looked at the invitation in my hands, then typed back: Nothing yet.
Another lie. But what was I supposed to tell him? That our suspect had hand-delivered a formal invitation to his house? Marcus already thought I was losing my grip on reality.
And maybe I was.
I walked to my bedroom and opened the closet, staring at the rows of professional clothes that made up my FBI wardrobe. Blazers and slacks and sensible shoes. Nothing that could remotely be considered "elegant."
But in the back, behind the winter coats I never wore, was a black dress I'd bought for my sister's wedding three years ago. Silk, with thin straps and a hemline that hit just above my knees. I'd worn it exactly once and then forgotten about it.
I pulled it out and held it up to the light. It was beautiful, and it fit perfectly. Everything Damien Blackthorne would expect his female guests to wear.
The thought made me sick.
But it also made me angry. Seven women were dead, and this monster thought he could just invite me to dinner like we were old friends. Like he hadn't been stalking me in my dreams for a decade.
Maybe it was time to turn the tables.
I called the number at the bottom of the invitation. It rang twice before a smooth male voice answered.
"I was wondering when you'd call."
The voice was rich and cultured, with just a hint of an accent I couldn't place. British, maybe, or European. The kind of voice that belonged in expensive restaurants and private clubs.
The kind of voice that could convince women to trust him.
"Is this Damien Blackthorne?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"It is. And you're Aria Cross, FBI criminal psychologist and the most fascinating woman in Chicago. I'm so pleased you received my invitation."
"You're under investigation for multiple homicides. You know that, right?"
He laughed, and the sound sent chills down my spine. Not because it was threatening, but because it was genuinely amused. Like my accusation was the funniest thing he'd heard all day.
"I'm under suspicion, perhaps. But investigation implies evidence, and we both know you don't have any."
He was right, and we both knew it. Everything I had was circumstantial at best, delusional at worst.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"To meet you properly. To answer your questions. To show you things that will change everything you think you know about the world."
"And all I have to do is walk into your house alone? Forgive me if that doesn't sound appealing."
"You'll be perfectly safe, Aria. I give you my word."
"The word of a serial killer isn't worth much."
Another laugh, softer this time. "I'm not what you think I am. Come tonight, and I'll prove it."
"And if I don't?"
Silence on the other end. When he spoke again, his voice was different. Quieter. More serious.
"Then more women will die, and you'll spend the rest of your life wondering if you could have stopped it."
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, my heart pounding. He was right. If I didn't go, if I didn't find out what he really wanted, the murders would continue. And I'd be the only one who knew how to stop them.
But going to his house alone was suicide. Even if he didn't kill me outright, there was no guarantee I'd leave the same person who walked in.
I called Marcus.
"I need a favor," I said when he answered. "And you're not going to like it."
"Already don't like the sound of this. What's going on?"
"I got an invitation to a party tonight. From our suspect."
Silence. Then: "Please tell me you're joking."
"I wish I was. He invited me to his house. Tonight at eight."
"Absolutely not. No way in hell. We're calling this in, getting a warrant—"
"Based on what? An invitation to a party? Marcus, you said it yourself. We have no evidence."
"We have threatening text messages!"
"Which could be from anyone. A judge will laugh us out of court."
More silence. I could practically hear Marcus thinking, running through the same logical dead ends I'd already explored.
"There has to be another way," he said finally.
"Maybe there is. What if I go, but with backup? You and a surveillance team, watching from outside. If something happens to me, you'll know exactly where I am."
"If something happens to you, it'll be too late."
"Not necessarily. I'll wear a wire. Keep an open channel. If things go bad, you can be inside in under a minute."
"Aria—"
"Marcus, seven women are dead. And he just told me more will die if I don't show up. I can't live with that."
Another long pause. Then a heavy sigh.
"I hate this plan. You know that, right?"
"I know. But it's the only plan we have."
It took two hours to set everything up. Marcus arranged for a surveillance van and a tech team to monitor the wire I'd be wearing. Three tactical officers would be positioned around the Blackthorne estate, ready to move if I gave the distress signal.
It wasn't perfect, but it was better than going in blind.
The Blackthorne estate was exactly what I'd expected from a billionaire's home. A massive stone mansion set back from Lake Shore Drive, surrounded by perfectly manicured gardens and a wrought-iron fence that probably cost more than most people's houses.
The driveway curved up to a front entrance that looked like it belonged in a European castle. Valets in black uniforms were taking keys from guests and parking their cars - all expensive models that gleamed under the estate's lighting.
"Jesus," Marcus's voice crackled through my earpiece. "This place is bigger than my apartment building."
I smoothed down the black dress and checked my reflection in the car's side mirror one more time. The wire was hidden beneath the silk, invisible unless you knew exactly where to look.
"Remember," Marcus continued, "distress signal is 'the weather's getting cold.' Say that, and we're coming in."
"Got it." I took a deep breath. "Wish me luck."
"Just be careful. And remember - you're not alone in there."
But as I walked up the stone steps to the front entrance, I felt very alone indeed.
The door opened before I could knock. A butler in a formal suit smiled politely and gestured me inside.
"Ms. Cross, I presume? Mr. Blackthorne is expecting you. Right this way, please."
The interior of the house was even more impressive than the outside. High ceilings, marble floors, and artwork that probably belonged in museums. Everything was expensive and tasteful and intimidating as hell.
But it was the other guests that really caught my attention.
They were all women. All young, all beautiful, all dressed in cocktail attire that complemented the elegant atmosphere. Blonde, brunette, redhead - every type you could imagine, but all stunning in their own way.
All the same demographic as the murder victims.
"Welcome to the party," one of them said, approaching me with a champagne flute. She was tall and willowy with silver-blonde hair and blue eyes that sparkled with something that might have been genuine friendliness. "I'm Christina. I don't think we've met."
"Aria," I said, accepting the champagne. "This is quite a gathering."
"Isn't it? Damien throws the most amazing parties. We're all so lucky to be here."
There was something off about the way she said it. Too enthusiastic, like she was reading from a script. And her eyes, despite the sparkle, seemed slightly vacant.
"How do you know Damien?" I asked.
"Oh, we all met him the same way. Through our dreams."
My blood turned cold. "What do you mean?"
But Christina had already drifted away, moving toward a group of women who were laughing at something that didn't seem particularly funny. They all had the same slightly vacant look, the same artificial brightness.
Like they were under some kind of influence.
"Aria Cross."
The voice came from behind me, smooth and familiar. I turned around and came face to face with Damien Blackthorne.
He was even more devastating in person than he'd been in the coffee shop. Tall and lean in a perfectly tailored black suit, with those dark eyes that seemed to see straight through me. His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his fingers through it, and when he smiled, it was the kind of smile that could make women forget their own names.
"I'm so glad you came," he said, taking my hand and raising it to his lips. The kiss was barely a touch, but it sent electricity shooting up my arm. "You look absolutely beautiful."
"Thank you for the invitation," I managed. "Though I have to say, the guest list is interesting."
"You noticed." His smile widened. "I thought you might. You're much more observant than the others."
"The others meaning your previous victims?"
"Careful, Aria. Accusations like that could be considered slander."
But he was still smiling, like he enjoyed the verbal sparring. Like he'd been looking forward to this conversation for a long time.
"Ladies," he said, raising his voice to address the room. "I'd like you all to meet someone very special. This is Aria Cross, my guest of honor tonight."
Every head turned toward us. Twenty pairs of eyes focused on me with varying degrees of curiosity and what might have been jealousy. I felt like a specimen under a microscope.
"Aria is here because she's been asking questions about me," Damien continued. "Important questions. Questions that deserve answers."
The room had gone completely silent. Even the soft background music seemed to fade away.
"But first," Damien said, his hand settling on the small of my back, "let's enjoy dinner. We have so much to discuss."
The dining room was as impressive as the rest of the house. A long mahogany table set for twenty-one, with crystal glasses and silver cutlery that reflected the light from an enormous chandelier. The other women took their seats with the same vacant smiles, leaving the chair next to Damien empty.
For me.
"The guest of honor sits at my right hand," Damien said, pulling out the chair. "It's tradition."
I sat down, hyperaware of how close he was. He smelled like expensive cologne and something else, something that reminded me of storms and midnight air. When he leaned over to pour wine into my glass, I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
"Tell me, Aria," he said as the first course was served, "what do you dream about?"
The question caught me off guard. "Excuse me?"
"Dreams. We all have them. But yours are special, aren't they? You don't just dream - you travel."
I glanced around the table. The other women were eating and making small talk, but I could tell they were listening. Waiting.
"I don't know what you mean," I lied.
"Of course you do. You've been walking through other people's dreams for years. Helping trauma victims, solving cases the conventional way couldn't touch. It's a remarkable gift."
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. How could he know about my ability? I'd never told anyone, not even Marcus.
"You're wrong," I said.
"Am I? Then how did you know how Sarah Mitchell really died?"
The words hit me like a physical blow. Around the table, the other women had stopped eating. They were all looking at me now, their vacant smiles replaced by something that looked almost like pity.
"You see," Damien continued, his voice conversational, "I know exactly what you are, Aria. The question is - do you?"
"The weather's getting cold," I said quietly, hoping the wire would pick it up.
Damien's smile widened. "Oh, I'm afraid your friends can't help you here. This house exists in a space between worlds. Your little electronic devices won't work."
I touched my ear, and my heart sank. The earpiece was dead. No static, no connection. Nothing.
"Don't look so frightened," Damien said, reaching over to touch my hand. "You're perfectly safe. I told you that, and I meant it."
"Then let me leave."
"After dessert. I promise."
But something in his tone told me that dessert was going to be very different from the soup course.
The meal continued, but I barely tasted any of it. Damien kept up a steady stream of conversation, asking about my work, my life, my dreams. Always coming back to dreams.
The other women gradually grew quieter as the evening progressed. By the time the main course was cleared away, most of them were simply sitting and staring at nothing, their eyes glassy and unfocused.
Like they were asleep with their eyes open.
"What did you do to them?" I whispered.
"Nothing they didn't ask for," Damien replied. "They wanted to escape their ordinary lives. I simply provided the means."
"By drugging them?"
"By giving them perfect dreams. Dreams where they're loved and desired and never have to face the harsh realities of the waking world."
"You're killing them."
"I'm freeing them."
The dessert course arrived - some kind of elaborate chocolate creation that probably cost more than my car. But I couldn't eat. I was too busy watching the other women slip deeper into their trance-like state.
"It's time for them to go to sleep," Damien said, standing up. "Ladies?"
As one, the twenty women rose from their chairs and filed out of the dining room. They moved in perfect synchronization, like sleepwalkers following some unheard command.
Leaving me alone with a man who had just admitted to murder.
"Now," Damien said, settling back into his chair, "we can talk properly."
"About what?"
"About who you really are. About why you can do the things you do. About the family you never knew you had."
"I don't have any family."
"Everyone has family, Aria. Even those of us who aren't entirely human."
The words hit me like ice water. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Damien smiled, and for a moment, his perfect features seemed to shift in the candlelight. For just an instant, I thought I saw something else underneath - something ancient and beautiful and terrifying.
"It means," he said, "that your real education is about to begin."
End of Chapter 3