Scarlett's POV
The bracelet.
Julian was wearing the same bracelet on the day we met.
I'm frozen in Zara's living room, phone on the floor, FBI agent's voice still echoing from the speaker: "Julian Cross is a person of interest in the Courtship Killer investigation."
"Scarlett, talk to me." Zara grabs my shoulders. "What bracelet? What are you talking about?"
My mind races back to that first day. Julian in his expensive suit. Me spilling coffee on him. His wrist visible when he reached out to shake my hand. A silver bracelet catching the light.
The same design as the one the stalker left me.
"He was wearing it," I whisper. "The day we met. Before the stalker ever contacted me. Which means—"
"Which means he's been planning this from the beginning," Zara finishes, her face pale.
A knock pounds on the door. Hard. Urgent.
We both jump.
"NYPD! Open up!"
Zara looks at me. I nod. She opens the door to reveal two uniformed officers and a man in a dark suit who looks like he could break someone in half without breaking a sweat.
He's tall—maybe six-two—with dark hair and eyes so intense they seem to look straight through me. His jaw is sharp, his shoulders broad, and there's something dangerous about him that has nothing to do with the FBI badge clipped to his belt.
"Scarlett Hayes?" His voice is deep, commanding.
"That's me."
"Special Agent Dante Russo." He walks past the officers into the apartment like he owns it. "We need to talk. Now."
There's something about the way he moves—controlled, predatory, like he's constantly analyzing threats. His eyes scan the apartment, then land on me and stay there.
"Am I in trouble?" I ask.
"That depends." He pulls out his phone, shows me a photo. "Do you know this man?"
It's Julian. Looking relaxed and happy. The photo is recent.
"Yes. We've been... seeing each other. Sort of."
"For how long?"
"A week. Maybe less."
Dante's jaw clenches. "And in that time, did he ever seem strange? Disappear at odd hours? Show any violent tendencies?"
"No. He's been nothing but nice." I feel defensive, even though I just discovered the bracelet connection. "What evidence do you have against him?"
"That's classified."
"But you just told me he's a suspect! I deserve to know—"
"You deserve to stay alive." Dante steps closer, and I catch a scent of cologne and something else—coffee, maybe. "Four women are dead. All of them looked like you. All of them were dating someone new. Julian Cross has connections to every single crime scene."
"Connections aren't proof."
"His DNA was found at two locations. His alibi for three of the murders doesn't check out. And we've discovered he's been using a fake identity." Dante's eyes bore into mine. "His real name is Julian Blackwood. He has a sealed juvenile record and a history we're still uncovering."
The floor feels unsteady beneath me. "That doesn't mean he's a killer."
"No. But it means he's dangerous." Dante's voice softens slightly. "When did you last see him?"
"This morning. At my work."
"Did he mention going anywhere? Meeting anyone?"
I shake my head. "We were supposed to have dinner tonight."
"You're not going."
"I figured that out, thanks." I cross my arms. "But someone else texted me. Someone claiming to have kidnapped Julian. They said to check the news in an hour."
Dante goes still. "Show me."
I retrieve my phone from the floor, pull up the texts. Dante reads them, his expression darkening with each message.
"When did you receive these?"
"The first ones were three days ago. Right after I met Julian. Tonight's threats came about twenty minutes ago."
Dante exchanges a look with one of the officers. "Could be an accomplice. Or someone else stalking her."
"Or Julian could be innocent and the real killer has him," I say.
"Or Julian sent these messages himself to throw off suspicion," Dante counters. "Make himself look like a victim."
"But the bracelet—"
"What bracelet?"
I explain about the jewelry box, the engraving, and seeing Julian wear an identical one. Dante's expression grows grimmer.
"Do you still have it?"
"In my apartment. I can get it—"
"You're not going anywhere near your apartment." Dante pulls out his phone, makes a call. "I need a team at—" He looks at me.
I give him my address.
He relays the information, then hangs up. "You're staying here until we sort this out. Officers will be posted outside."
"Wait, I'm under house arrest?"
"Protection," Dante corrects. "There's a difference."
"Feels the same to me."
His eyes flash with something—annoyance? Amusement? "Would you rather I let you walk into a trap? Because that's what tonight was. Whether Julian's the killer or the victim, that restaurant was going to end badly for you."
He's right, but I hate it. Hate feeling helpless. Hate being told what to do.
Dante seems to sense my frustration because his tone gentles. "I know this is scary. But my job is to keep you safe while we catch this guy."
"And what if you're wrong about Julian?"
"Then we'll find the real killer and Julian will be fine." He pauses. "But if I'm right? Then I just saved your life."
The officers leave to take positions outside. Zara excuses herself to make tea, clearly giving us space.
Dante and I stand in the living room, the air thick with tension.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"Shoot."
"Why do you care so much? I'm just another witness."
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe, or memory. "You're not just another anything."
The way he says it makes my stomach flip.
"Eight years ago, my mother was murdered by a man she was dating," he continues, voice flat. "He seemed perfect. Charming. Successful. By the time we realized what he was, it was too late." His eyes meet mine, and they're full of ghosts. "So when I see a woman who matches a serial killer's victim profile, dating someone suspicious? I take it personally."
"I'm sorry about your mother."
"Don't be sorry. Just be careful." He hands me his card. "My personal cell is on there. Any time, day or night, something feels wrong—you call me. Not 911. Me. Understood?"
I take the card. Our fingers brush, and electricity shoots up my arm. From the way his eyes widen slightly, he felt it too.
"Understood," I whisper.
He clears his throat, steps back. "I should go. We're setting up surveillance on Julian's apartment and the restaurant. If he shows up anywhere, we'll know."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we start looking for a body."
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
Dante heads for the door, then pauses. "Scarlett? That electric thing that just happened when we touched?"
My face heats. "Yeah?"
"Terrible timing." He almost smiles. "But good to know I'm not crazy."
Then he's gone, leaving me standing there with my heart racing for entirely different reasons than fear.
Zara returns with tea. "So. The hot FBI agent who looks at you like you're the only person in the room. Want to talk about that?"
"Not even a little bit."
She grins. "Liar."
We sit on the couch, and I try to process everything. Julian might be a killer. Or a victim. Or something in between. And now there's an FBI agent who makes my pulse race and seems determined to protect me.
My phone buzzes.
Text from Julian: Where are you? I'm at the restaurant. Did you forget about our date?
My blood runs cold. "Zara, look."
She reads the text, face paling. "But the FBI said—"
Another text: Scarlett, I'm worried. Please answer. Are you okay?
Then another: There are police here. They're asking about you. What's going on?
"He's at the restaurant," I breathe. "Which means he's not kidnapped. Which means the stalker lied. Which means—"
My phone rings. Unknown number.
I answer with shaking hands. "Hello?"
Heavy breathing. Then a voice I don't recognize, distorted like it's going through a filter: "Smart girl. You didn't show up. But now your FBI agent will pay the price instead."
"What?"
"I saw him leave. Saw him touch you. Saw the way you looked at each other. He's the threat now. Not Julian."
"Leave him alone!"
"Can't do that. He needs to learn: nobody touches what's mine. Check the news, Scarlett. Ten minutes. You'll see what happens to men who think they can protect you."
The line goes dead.
I immediately call Dante. It rings once, twice, three times.
No answer.
I call again. Straight to voicemail.
"No, no, no." I'm shaking so badly I can barely hold the phone. "Zara, I think the killer is going after Dante."
"Call 911. Call the FBI. Call someone!"
I try the main FBI number from Dante's card. They transfer me three times before someone finally takes me seriously.
"Agent Russo left the office twenty minutes ago," a woman tells me. "He should be—"
"He's not answering his phone. Someone just threatened him. You need to send help!"
"Ma'am, I need you to calm down—"
I hang up and pull up the news on my phone. Refreshing. Refreshing.
Nothing yet.
Zara holds my hand. "Maybe it was just a threat. Maybe—"
My phone pings. News alert.
BREAKING: FBI Agent Shot in Manhattan Parking Garage
I can't breathe.
Can't think.
I click the article with numb fingers.
Special Agent Dante Russo was found shot multiple times in a parking garage near Greenwich Village. He was rushed to Metropolitan Hospital in critical condition. Authorities believe this may be connected to the ongoing Courtship Killer investigation.
The phone slips from my hands.
I did this.
The killer shot Dante because of me.
Another text comes through. Unknown number.
"This is your fault, Scarlett. Every person who tries to get close to you will end up like this. Your FBI agent. Julian. Even your best friend. Everyone you care about will die. Unless you do exactly what I say. Tomorrow. Midnight. Come to the address I send you. Come alone. Or I start killing everyone you've ever loved. Starting with Zara."
I look at my best friend, my only real family.
The killer knows her name.
Knows where she lives.
And tomorrow night, I have to walk into a trap to save everyone I love.
Or watch them all die.