Page 13 of Traithorn

Ripping open the envelope, the sound of tearing paper amplifying the anxiety inside me, I let the paper pieces fall into the snow. They disappear out of sight, blending in with the blinding color of nature.

And then it hits me, like a punch to the gut. My eyes stay fixed on the letters, but the world around me seems to tilt as if I’ve stepped off solid ground. A cold wave washes over me, and I forget to breathe.

The words are written in delicate, feminine handwriting, so neat it makes me nauseous. Utterly fucking nauseous. Like I might puke right here, and with it, drag my intestines out onto the ground. As if the nightmares have finally torn their way out of me, cutting me open from the inside out.

“What does it say?” Casper demands, but I block out his voice. I’m so tired of him. I just want to get away from him.

My eyes stay glued to the piece of paper, reading and rereading the words engraved there.

Five days until your birthday. Counting down until we get to taste your blood again.

Xoxo.

Casper becomes impatient, and instead of waiting for me, he rips the paper from my hands, frowning. I try to grab it to prevent him, but he’s too quick. When I stand up to retrieve it, he merely pushes me down so I land on my ass in the back of the ambulance again. I stare, shocked, at him.

“What is this?” he growls, reading the words written. He stares at me, seeing my face drained of color, but he doesn’t give a shit. He takes one step closer to me, grabs the collar of my shirt, and nearly spits in my face. “What the fuck is this, Isa?”

I sputter and breathe heavily, feeling the world spinning around me. It’s not him I’m worried about. I’m worried about those fucking words on the paper.

“What is it?!” he shouts, making a few officers turn our way before they look away again when Casper smiles calmly at them. He’s still the deputy, after all.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

“Someone clearly knows your birthday,” he growls. “I thought you didn’t have any friends, hmm?”

His voice is condescending, taunting. I flinch, watching his lips twitch.

Fuck him.

I don’t know why he’s mad at me. It’s not like I have done something wrong. Staring into his eyes, I tell him again that I don’t know, ignoring his attempts at starting an argument.

Sighing heavily, he gives me that cold gaze that could freeze water. “I’m going to need to claim this as evidence,” he tells me, as if I’d somehow rage about that.

“Burn it for all I care.”

“Watch your tone with me,” he warns, a tick in his jaw letting me know he’s agitated.

Narrowing my eyes, I clench my fists. I can’t cause a scene now. Not here.

Relief sags my shoulders as another officer shouts for his attention.

“Go home, Isolde,” he mutters, turning to leave with that tick in his jaw still visible.

I stand up, letting the blanket drop from where I sat as I turn my back to the vehicle, not looking back at him or the body now covered in a black bag. It’s only the soft crunch of my boots hitting the snowy forest floor as I make my way from the smell of death and engine oil.

The crowd is thicker now, more people having caught up to the news. Curious onlookers, desperate to get a glimpse of the tragedy. A journalist pushes past me to get a clearer view. His hand snakes back, intentionally, and grabs a full handful of my ass.

I startle, my body flinching before my mind can catch up. He’s already disappeared in the throes of people before I can even see his face. No apology or hesitation.

Don’t cause a scene.

With a deep breath to steady my mood, my fists involuntarily clench as I force myself to keep walking away.

I leave the crime scene and the corpse behind, nauseous, tired, and feeling empty in a way that sleep won’t fix.

But most of all; scared out of my fucking mind.

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