Annika stood in the far corner of the café, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, hood up, iced coffee sweating in her hands — untouched. She was all nerves and silence. Not her usual aesthetic. Not the curated, chaotic, PR-polished version of herself the world had gotten used to on Instagram. This was the real Annika. Stripped down. Unfiltered. And for once, she wasn’t here for the likes.

Her eyes lifted when she saw you walk in. She gave the smallest nod — barely perceptible — then turned away like she didn’t know you at all.

You took the booth across from her, the seat creaking beneath you. Neither of you spoke for a moment. The air between you felt tight. Old grief. Fresh rage.

She finally broke the silence.

“Ten million views,” she said, pulling out her phone and showing you the TikTok. “Hashtag Joe Goldberg. True Crime TikTok is eating him alive.”

The video played silently. Montage clips of Joe’s face, his trail of victims. Beck. Peach. Delilah. Natalie. Love.

You winced slightly at the last one.

Annika noticed. “I’m sorry. I know she was your sister.”

You nodded slowly. “And Beck was yours.”

A heavy silence passed.

Annika leaned forward, voice low. “I should’ve seen it, you know? With Beck. With Peach. He was always lurking. Always in the background like a bad script. I told her. I told Beck he gave me the creeps, but she thought I was being dramatic. She said he listened. That he understood her.”

She scoffed. “Of course he did. Stalkers usually do.”

You placed a USB drive on the table. Her eyes darted to it.

“What’s this?” she asked, already knowing it was something that mattered.

“Footage,” you said. “From Love’s old laptop. She kept notes, saved files. She knew something was wrong. Maybe not the full truth, but she knew Joe wasn’t what he pretended to be.”

Annika hesitated, then reached for it with care. Like it might be hot to the touch.

“I spent years,” you said, “trying to believe my sister died for a reason. That maybe she did something wrong too. But she didn’t. She just loved the wrong person.”

Annika looked up at you, for the first time, really looking. “You think he’ll get away with it again?”

“I think he’s slippery,” you said. “But I also think he’s cornered now.”

Annika smiled bitterly. “He’s famous now. That makes him dangerous. But it also makes him vulnerable. Everyone’s watching. And he can’t hide in plain sight anymore.”

You leaned in. “That’s where we come in.”

She sipped her coffee now, just once, before setting it down. Her fingers trembled slightly. “You’re the first person I’ve talked to about this who gets it. Everyone else thinks it’s just another story to scroll through.”

You nodded. “It’s not a story. It’s a pattern. And we’re the only ones left who know all the pieces.”

She reached into her bag and slid you a folder. Inside — names, timelines, online handles, burner emails. “I’ve been working on this since Peach died,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “Everyone thought I was just spiraling. But I wasn’t. I was watching. I kept track of every woman who crossed paths with him. Most of them don’t even realize how close they came.”

You stared down at the file. It was obsessive. Detailed. Perfect.

You looked up at her. “Why me?”

Annika’s expression shifted — a flicker of something softer behind her sharp features. “Because you don’t want justice. You want him to pay.”

You nodded slowly. “We take him down. Publicly. Irrevocably. No more shadows. No more bodies.”

Annika’s voice hardened. “This time, he dies in the light.”

And as you both stood to leave, no hug, no smile, just a shared look of grim purpose, you knew this wasn’t just about revenge.

This was about ending him.

For Beck. For Peach.

For Love.