The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of your bedside lamp casting shadows across the walls. Billy lay beside you, propped up on one elbow, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your arm. His presence was warm, familiar, safe.

But something gnawed at the back of your mind. The murders. The way Billy always seemed to disappear right before another body was found.

"You’re quiet tonight," he murmured, his dark eyes locked onto yours.

"Just thinking," you said, shifting under the sheets. "About everything happening in town… It’s scary."

Billy exhaled a soft chuckle, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "You watch too many horror movies, babe. It’s just some psycho."

His phone vibrated on your nightstand. He moved quickly, but not before you caught a glimpse of the message: Did she suspect anything?

Your stomach dropped. "Who was that?" you asked, your voice quieter than you intended.

Billy’s fingers wrapped around the phone as he turned back to you, his lips curling into that lazy smirk. "No one important," he said, but there was something in his tone—something off. His hand slid to your cheek, thumb stroking your skin. "You trust me, don’t you?"

And for the first time, you weren’t so sure.