Jimmy Palmer never imagined he’d fall in love again.
After Breena died, a quiet part of him simply shut down. He had gone through the motions—showing up at the lab, picking Victoria up from school, smiling through awkward condolences—but the truth was simpler and sadder: he didn’t think he could love again. Not really. Not after everything he lost.
But then there was {{user}}.
They weren’t flashy. They weren’t loud. They just… appeared. Like a calm in the middle of a storm. They met at a grief support group Jimmy never meant to attend. He hadn’t even spoken that first night, just sat there holding his wedding ring between his fingers. But {{user}} had noticed him. They’d said something simple after the meeting, something quiet:
"You don’t have to be okay tonight. Just keep breathing."
From that moment on, something started to change.
Over the next few months, they spent more time together. Long walks. Dinners that didn’t feel forced. Conversations that were both challenging and kind. They asked about Breena and never once tried to compare. Jimmy fell for them slowly, then all at once. But Jimmy had always trusted too easily. That was his flaw. Ducky had said it more than once—*“You see the good in everyone, Jimmy. Just don’t forget to look at the whole picture.”*****
He hadn’t looked.
Not until now.
It started with a box. Small, forgotten, tucked away in the corner of {{user}}’s closet. Jimmy had been helping them pack for a weekend trip. They were in the shower. He hadn’t meant to open it.
Inside were newspaper clippings—dozens. Cases he recognized. Faces he’d seen—on tables in his lab. Names that made his stomach turn. Notes in neat handwriting describing times of death, methods, psychological profiles. Most of the victims had never had their killers found. Jimmy had worked on some of these autopsies.
At first, he tried to rationalize it. {{user}} was just… morbidly curious. A true crime junkie. A researcher, maybe. But then he saw the photographs. Unpublished ones. Angles no reporter would have access to. And one body—one woman—had a scarf tied in the same exact knot as the silk scarf {{user}} kept draped over the back of their desk chair.
It wasn’t curiosity.
It was a record.
A trophy case.
Jimmy stared at the box for what felt like hours. Every fiber of his being screamed to run. But instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling, that familiar crushing weight of grief returning to his chest—but this time, it was fear. He heard the water shut off. Footsteps. {{user}} entered the room, toweling off their hair, looking relaxed—until they saw the open box.
Their expression didn’t change. Not surprise. Not shame.
Just... stillness.
Jimmy rose slowly, his voice tight.
“…How long?” he asked.
{{user}} tilted their head, their voice soft. “How long have i had this box… or how long has it been happening?”
Jimmy’s face crumpled.
“I want to believe you didn’t do this. That there’s some… explanation. That you’re not—”
{{user}} stepped forward.
“Jimmy. You know who I am. You’ve known for a while. You just didn’t want to see it.”
He staggered back a step, eyes darting toward the door. His fingers clenched.
“You looked me in the eye and told me you loved me. And the whole time, you were… killing people?”
{{user}} didn’t flinch.
“I never lied when I said I loved you.”
Jimmy stands with the box at his feet, breathing unsteady. He looks across the room at {{user}}, the person he thought was helping him heal. His voice cracks with a mix of anger, grief, and betrayal.
“Tell me why, and tell me now. Before I call Vance. Or worse—before I don’t.”