I didn't go home that night. I couldn't.
Instead, I spent the next six hours digging through every piece of digital evidence I could get my hands on. Social media profiles, phone records, internet search histories. Anything that might connect the seven victims beyond their peaceful deaths and mysterious lip marks.
Marcus had gone home around five AM, promising to check with the families about journals or diaries. He'd looked worried when he left, probably thinking his partner was having some kind of breakdown. He wasn't wrong.
But I was also onto something.
By seven AM, I'd found it. The connection I'd been looking for.
All seven women had followed the same Instagram account: @MidnightDreamer_Chi. The profile was sparse, just a handful of posts showing dark, artistic photos of Chicago at night. The profile picture was a silhouette of a man's face, deliberately blurred so you couldn't make out any features.
But you could tell he was handsome. Even in shadow, there was something magnetic about the curve of his jaw, the way he held his head. Something that would make women stop scrolling and hit follow.
The account had over fifty thousand followers, mostly young women from the Chicago area. The posts themselves were innocent enough. Nighttime cityscapes, quotes about dreams and destiny, photos of expensive restaurants and hotels.
Nothing that screamed "serial killer."
But when I dug deeper into the account's activity, I found something that made my blood run cold. The account had personally messaged each of the seven victims in the weeks before their deaths. Private messages that wouldn't show up in any investigation unless you knew exactly where to look.
And I was the only one who did.
I tried to access the message threads, but they'd been deleted. Every single one. Professional level deletion that would take serious tech skills to accomplish.
Or serious money.
My phone rang, making me jump. Marcus.
"Please tell me you went home and got some sleep," he said without preamble.
"Found something better than sleep." I pulled up the Instagram account on my laptop. "All seven victims followed the same social media account. And that account messaged each of them privately before they died."
Silence on the other end. Then: "Are you sure?"
"I've got the digital forensics to prove it. Someone's been hunting these women online, Marcus. Building relationships with them before..."
"Before what? Killing them through their dreams?" I could hear the skepticism in his voice. "Aria, you need to hear how that sounds."
I knew how it sounded. Crazy. Impossible. But I also knew what I'd seen in Sarah's dream, and there was no way that had been normal.
"Just meet me at Caffeine & Co on State Street in an hour," I said. "Bring the case files. We need to figure out who's behind this account."
"Why that coffee shop?"
Good question. The truth was, I'd been going to Caffeine & Co every morning for the past two years. It was routine, familiar. And right now I needed something familiar to keep me grounded.
"Good coffee," I lied. "And it's quiet enough to work."
Marcus agreed, though I could tell he was humoring me. After hanging up, I stared at the @MidnightDreamer_Chi profile for another few minutes, trying to decode something from those artistic night photos.
There was something about them that bothered me. Something beyond their obvious connection to the murders. They were too perfect, too carefully composed. Like they were trying to create a specific mood.
A specific fantasy.
I closed the laptop and gathered my things. Time to get some real coffee and figure out how to track down a killer who might not technically exist in the real world.
The morning air was crisp as I walked the six blocks to State Street. Chicago was fully awake now, the sidewalks crowded with commuters and early morning joggers. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that something was hunting in their sleep.
Caffeine & Co was busy but not packed. I found my usual table in the back corner, where I could see the entire coffee shop but keep my back to the wall. Old habits from FBI training.
I ordered my usual dark roast and spread the printed screenshots of the Instagram account across the small table. From a distance, they probably looked like marketing materials or art prints. Nothing that would draw attention.
But up close, they told a different story.
Each photo had been taken from a specific vantage point, high above the city streets. The kind of view you'd get from a penthouse office or luxury apartment. Expensive real estate in Chicago's most exclusive neighborhoods.
Blackthorne Industries owned buildings in every area where these photos had been taken.
I was so focused on the images that I almost missed him walking in.
Almost.
The coffee shop door chimed, and something made me look up. A tall figure in an expensive black coat was scanning the room like he was looking for someone specific.
Like he was looking for me.
My heart stopped.
It was him. The man from the dreams. The man from the Instagram photos. Damien Blackthorne, in flesh and blood, standing ten feet away from me.
He was even more beautiful in person, which shouldn't have been possible. Tall and lean with perfect posture, black hair that looked like he'd just run his fingers through it, and those same dark eyes that had watched Sarah Mitchell die. His face was carved perfection, the kind of bone structure that belonged on magazine covers.
Which, I realized with growing horror, it probably did.
I fumbled for my phone, trying to be casual as I pulled up a browser. It took me three tries to type "Damien Blackthorne" because my hands were shaking so badly.
The search results were immediate. Business articles, society page photos, interviews in financial magazines. And there, on the cover of Chicago Business Weekly from last month, was the same perfect face that was now ordering coffee twenty feet away from me.
"The Prince of Chicago Business: How Damien Blackthorne Built an Empire Before Age 30."
The magazine was sitting on the counter next to the register. Someone had left it there, folded open to exactly that page. Like it was waiting for me to find it.
I looked back at Damien, and my blood turned to ice.
He was staring directly at me.
Not glancing in my direction. Not accidentally making eye contact. Staring. With a small smile that said he knew exactly who I was and exactly what I was thinking.
I grabbed my phone, fingers flying over the screen as I typed 911. But before I could hit call, a text message popped up.
From an unknown number.
Tonight, in your dreams.
I dropped the phone like it had burned me. It clattered on the table, and several people turned to look. Including Damien.
His smile widened.
I snatched up the phone and checked the message again, hoping I'd imagined it. But it was real. Sent thirty seconds ago from a number I'd never seen before.
How did he get my number? How did he know I was here? How was any of this possible?
My hands were shaking as I gathered up the photos and shoved them into my bag. I needed to get out of here. Now. Call for backup, get somewhere safe, figure out how to arrest someone for murders that happened in dreams.
But when I looked up, Damien was gone.
The coffee shop was busy with the morning rush, but I couldn't see him anywhere. The barista was helping other customers like nothing had happened. The magazine was still on the counter, his face smiling up from the glossy cover.
But the man himself had vanished.
I stood up so fast my chair scraped against the floor. People were staring at me now, but I didn't care. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to think.
The door chimed again as I rushed outside, nearly colliding with a businessman checking his phone. The sidewalk was crowded, full of people in suits and workout clothes and everything in between.
None of them were Damien Blackthorne.
But I could still smell that scent from the hospital parking garage. Midnight and expensive cologne and something that made my skin prickle with awareness.
He was close. Watching.
My phone buzzed again. Another text.
You look beautiful when you're scared.
I spun around, scanning the crowd. Office workers, tourists, a group of college students laughing about something. No mysterious billionaires with perfect faces and dark intentions.
But he was here somewhere. I could feel eyes on me, that familiar sensation that had followed me since I was sixteen. The feeling of being watched by something that shouldn't exist.
Another text.
I've been waiting so long to meet you properly, Aria.
He knew my name.
Of course he knew my name. He'd been watching me for ten years. In my dreams, in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to step into the light.
And now he had.
Marcus chose that moment to appear, jogging down the sidewalk with a worried expression. "Aria! I saw you run out of the coffee shop. What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Close enough.
"It's him," I said, my voice coming out as a whisper. "The killer. He was in there. He sent me these." I showed Marcus the text messages.
Marcus read them, his frown deepening. "These came from an unknown number? When?"
"Just now. While he was standing right there, looking at me."
"Who was standing where?" Marcus looked around the crowded sidewalk. "Aria, there's no one here who matches any suspect description."
"Damien Blackthorne. CEO of Blackthorne Industries. He's the man from the Instagram account. He's the one killing these women."
Marcus stared at me. "The billionaire? Aria, that's a pretty serious accusation. Do you have any proof?"
I pulled out my phone and showed him the Instagram account, then the magazine cover I'd photographed. "Look at the photos. They're all taken from buildings his company owns. And the profile picture - it's him. I'm sure of it."
"This is a shadow, Aria. You can't identify someone from a silhouette."
But I could. Because I'd been seeing that same silhouette in my dreams for a decade.
"We need to bring him in for questioning," I said. "Check his alibi for the nights of the murders. Search his properties."
"Based on what evidence? A social media account and your gut feeling?" Marcus looked worried again. "Aria, you're talking about one of the most powerful men in Chicago. We can't just accuse him of serial murder without solid proof."
Another text came through.
Tell your partner he's right to be concerned. You're in way over your head.
I showed Marcus the message. His face went pale.
"How could he know what we're talking about?" Marcus looked around the street again. "Is he listening? Watching us?"
"He's been watching me for years," I said. "This is just the first time he's made contact."
"What do you mean, years?"
I'd said too much. But there was no taking it back now.
"I have dreams," I said carefully. "Nightmares, really. And there's always been someone watching me in them. A man in the shadows. I thought it was just my subconscious, but..."
"But what?"
"But it's him. I saw him kill Sarah Mitchell last night. In her dream. And now he's here, in the real world, sending me messages."
Marcus was quiet for a long moment. Then he put his hand on my shoulder, the way you might touch someone who was having a breakdown.
"Aria, I think you need to take a step back from this case. Maybe see someone. A counselor, or—"
"I'm not crazy, Marcus."
"I didn't say you were crazy. But you're under a lot of stress, and this case is clearly affecting you more than usual. Seven women are dead, and you're the lead profiler. That's a lot of pressure."
He was trying to be kind, but I could see the doubt in his eyes. He thought I was losing it. And maybe I was.
My phone buzzed again.
He'll never believe you. No one will. Meet me tonight and I'll explain everything.
I stared at the message. There was something different about this one. Less threatening, more... personal.
The penthouse at Millennium Tower. Midnight. Come alone.
"What does it say?" Marcus asked.
I showed him, and he immediately shook his head. "Absolutely not. If this guy is really our killer, you're not going anywhere near him. We'll set up surveillance, get a SWAT team—"
"With what evidence? You said it yourself, we have nothing concrete."
"Then we'll get evidence. The right way. Through proper investigation."
But I knew it wouldn't work. Damien Blackthorne was too smart, too careful. He'd been killing women through their dreams for months without leaving a trace of physical evidence. Whatever he was, he wasn't going to be caught through normal police work.
Because nothing about this was normal.
My phone buzzed one more time.
You have questions, Aria. I have answers. But only if you're brave enough to hear them.
I looked at Marcus, who was watching me with growing concern. He was a good partner and a good friend, but he lived in a world where serial killers used knives and guns and left DNA evidence behind. He couldn't help me catch someone who killed through dreams.
"I'm going home," I told him. "To get some sleep and think this through."
"Good idea. And Aria? Turn off your phone. Don't respond to any more messages from this guy. We'll figure out how to trace the number and get some real evidence."
I nodded, but we both knew it was pointless. If Damien Blackthorne could send messages from an untraceable number while standing in a crowded coffee shop, he probably wasn't worried about digital forensics.
Marcus walked me to my car, still looking worried. "Promise me you won't do anything stupid," he said as I got behind the wheel.
"I promise," I lied.
Because I was already planning to do something very stupid.
I was going to meet the monster who'd been hunting in my dreams for ten years.
And maybe, finally, get some answers.
The drive home was a blur of traffic and racing thoughts. Every time I stopped at a red light, I found myself checking the rearview mirror for a familiar face. But Damien Blackthorne had vanished as completely as he'd appeared.
Like he'd never been there at all.
Except for the messages on my phone, which were very real. And the memory of those dark eyes watching me with interest that went beyond casual observation.
He'd been waiting for this moment. Planning it. And now that he'd made contact, there was no going back.
Tonight, I would finally meet my dream stalker face to face.
The question was whether I'd survive the encounter.
End of Chapter 2