It’s always raining when you think about him.

Not in the dramatic way no thunder, no warning. Just that endless, dirty drizzle that stains trench coats and turns streetlights into halos. The kind of rain that makes the city feel complicit.

You’re still at your desk when everyone else has gone home. Case files spread out like a confession you can’t quite read. Polaroids clipped to the board. Red string. A pattern you swear only you can see.

Six victims. Same ritual. Same patience.

Same handwriting.

You tap your cigarette into an overfilled ashtray and stare at the last photo the one he meant for you to find. No blood. No body. Just a message carved carefully into wood.

You’re close.

The phone rings.

You flinch. Everyone does the first time. You pick it up anyway.

“Detective,” you say.

A pause. Long enough to feel intentional.

“I was wondering when you’d stop pretending you weren’t waiting,” a man’s voice says. Calm. Cultured. Too gentle for the things he’s done.

Your grip tightens on the receiver.

“You shouldn’t call here,” you reply. “This line’s traced.”

A soft chuckle. “You traced the last one too.”

You close your eyes. You know this voice now the cadence, the way he smiles through certain words. You’ve heard it in interrogation rooms, on tapes, echoing in your head at three in the morning.

“You sound tired,” he continues. “They’re working you too hard.”

You should hang up.

You don’t.

“What do you want?” you ask.

Another pause. Closer this time. Like he’s leaning into the phone.

“I wanted to see if you’d figured it out yet,” he says. “Why I keep leaving you pieces instead of disappearing.”

Your eyes drift to the case board. To the dates. The locations. The way every crime scene curves closer to your apartment.

“Because you want to be caught,” you say.

“No,” he replies softly. “Because I want to be understood.”

The rain taps against the window like static.

“You’re different from the others,” he adds. “You look where I look. You linger where I linger.”

Your jaw tightens.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

A smile—audible this time.

“I know you haven’t slept,” he says. “I know you drink your coffee black because cream reminds you of something you won’t name. I know you reread my letters even when you pretend not to.”

Silence stretches. Dangerous. Electric.

“You should stop calling,” you say again, weaker now.

“I will,” he agrees easily. “Soon.”

Then, quieter almost sincere:

“But not yet. We’re not finished.”

The line goes dead.

You sit there for a long moment, the hum of the city bleeding back in. Somewhere between fear and something far worse, your pulse refuses to slow.

On your desk, unnoticed until now, lies a manila envelope you know wasn’t there an hour ago.

Inside ; a photograph.

Of you.