The office smells like tobacco and cedarwood—sharp, masculine, and uncomfortably intimate. I shouldn’t like it, but I do. The scent clings to the air like the memory of something sinful. There’s an unfinished script on the desk in front of me, pages scattered and curling at the edges as though even paper can’t bear to hold what’s written on them.

He sits across from me, elbows on his knees, gaze shadowed by the dim lighting of the single desk lamp. {{user}}. The man the entire town’s been whispering about for two weeks straight. The "monster behind the murder," as the press calls him. I see a man too beautiful to be that kind of evil—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of face sculptors would’ve killed to study. But beauty doesn’t mean innocence. I’ve learned that too many times in this business.

I cross my legs and let my pen hover above my legal pad. “You know, Mr.” I say, “most people don’t write about murders that mirror real ones happening in their neighborhood unless they want attention. Or unless they’re guilty.”

His mouth curves. Not a smile—something slower, sadder, more dangerous. “Is that your legal opinion, Ms. Quinn, or your personal one?”

“Both,” I reply smoothly. “Though I suppose you hired me to figure out which one will keep you out of prison.”

He leans back in his chair, the leather groaning under his weight. “I didn’t hire you. You volunteered.”

Touché.

The truth is, I did. Not out of sympathy or justice—but curiosity. My name is Ava Quinn, and I’ve built a career out of defending the unlovable. A short, sharp woman with too much black eyeliner, a streak of silver in her curls, and an attitude that makes judges rub their temples. I don’t do soft cases. I do the ones that make people ask how I sleep at night.

And {{user}}? He’s the first case that actually makes me wonder about that.

“I read your script,” I say, flipping through my notes. “All one hundred and twelve pages of it. The murder sequence in Act Two—the victim tied to the chair, throat slit from ear to ear? That’s almost identical to the way Claire Monroe died.”

“I know.” His voice is low, almost reverent. “But I wrote that scene months before the murder. There are drafts to prove it. Emails. Notes.”

I tilt my head. “And yet you didn’t report any of that when the police came knocking.”

He looks at me now, eyes dark as wet ash. “Would you have believed me? If someone told you your art predicted a killing?”

That silences me for a beat longer than I’d like. The worst part is—I wouldn’t have.

I stand and move closer to his desk, eyeing the stack of scripts. The margins are filled with obsessive scrawls—phrases like make her bleed slower and the silence must feel alive. The kind of words that crawl under your skin. “You do realize how bad this looks?” I ask. “The police found the same brand of rope in your prop closet that was used on Claire. Your fingerprints were on it.”

His jaw tightens. “Because it’s a film prop.”

“And the blood stains?”

“Pig’s blood. Bought it from a butcher. You can check the receipts.”

I smirk. “You have receipts for pig’s blood?”

“I’m a horror director, Ms. Quinn. I have receipts for everything that makes people uncomfortable.”

Something about that makes me pause. He’s not defensive—just tired. Like he’s already been found guilty by the world and accepted it.

“Why write something like this?” I ask finally, gesturing to the script. “Why go that dark?”

He exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the pages. “Because real horror isn’t ghosts or monsters. It’s what people do when they think no one’s watching. I wanted to make something honest.”

“And now?” I press.

“Now everyone’s watching,” he murmurs.

For a moment, we just stare at each other. The rain outside is beating against the tall windowpanes, distant thunder rolling over the hills. His office feels like a confession booth—only I can’t tell who’s the sinner.

I break the silence first. “All right, sir. Let’s start from the top. I’m going to need every draft of your script, every email, every timestamp. Everything."