It was late at night when a phone buzzed. Puzzled, she walked over to it, wondering who could be messaging her at this hour. Perhaps it was Ledford—maybe he had made another discovery that needed her attention.

But before she could reach her phone, it buzzed again. She picked up the flat device, read the first few lines, and felt her heart quicken. The phone was unlocked so she could reread the messages and confirm that her eyes weren't playing horrific tricks on her.

'Hello Prosecutor,' greeted the first message. The second one read, 'I'm not happy with what you've done.'

The number was unknown. The first three digits weren't even the Krimson City area code—she wasn't quite sure where it came from. She remembered how, a while back, Ledford's phone had been doxxed by furious La Contessa fans and wondered if the same had happened to her as a result of the preliminary hearing. Well, the fallout was hardly unexpected. But then the messages continued.

'You should know that, as one who takes great pride in their work, I like having credit given where it's due.'

Her blood ran cold, and she was starting to get a very, very bad feeling she knew who was sending her these messages.

'You're at the front of the false accusers, you know. I'm aware that you have doubts that she has the capacity, the artistry, to craft such pieces. And you'd be right. So, may I ask, what are you doing then?'

Quickly, she took a screenshot of the message thread, including the bubble that showed that this unknown contact was still typing. She switched over to the thread she shared with Ledford and was on the verge of sending him the screenshot when a banner appeared at the top of the screen—a new message from the unknown sender.

'Stop what you're doing,' it commanded. 'Unless you want me to give 1202 Parkway Drive #521 a little visit.'

Her finger froze over the send button. It lowered, and then quickly withdrew from the screen. She returned to the conversation with the unknown sender.

'Do I have your attention now?'

Her heartbeat grew faster—a flurry of terrified palpitations. The Krimson City Killer had already proven they knew whom to target. Ledford's sister had already fallen victim. But this killer couldn't—just couldn't—get near her.

'I'll give you a chance. Just one. Otherwise I'll be working on my next piece and there's nothing you can do to stop me.'

Madison Chen was currently attending the University of Southern California. She was in her sophomore year and lived close to campus at 1202 Parkway Drive, apartment 521.

'You can notify the police. You can tell them to track this number. If you do, I hope you feel terribly guilty when she goes missing. And I'll be sure she carries with her the knowledge of what you did to the afterlife.'

It was then she sent the only response to the unknown contact. 'What do you want?'

'I want you to drop the case. Stop giving La Contessa the credit she doesn't deserve. Nor that photographer husband of hers. Did you really think those two spoiled fools could possibly do what I do? I'm offended you even entertained the possibility.'

She paused, frantically deliberating. She considered calling Madison to warn her, but didn't want to scare her daughter. Furthermore, she didn't know if the Krimson City Killer would find out—and maybe just even a warning would make them act on their threat. She felt utterly terrified.

But the Krimson City Killer had offered a way out. Once again, she thought about Ledford's sister and knew what she had to do.

Gripping the thick glass tumbler in his hand, he used a finger to push the orange peel down through the floating ice and deeper into the dark amber drink. Still with his eyes lowered, he took a sip of the Negroni and let it burn a bitter, smoky trail down his throat.

They were settled in the large, extravagant living room of the Denevor manor. His company sat across the coffee table from him on a matching plush chair. She had a similar drink in her hands. Her eyes had scrunched and her lips were pursed, having just taken a small sip.

"Such an awful taste!" Clarissa commented cheerily despite the expression on her face.

"It's an acquired one," Stefano replied. He swirled his glass, letting the ice gently clack inside.

"I suppose you're right." Clarissa let out an airy laugh, sitting back in her chair and crossing one leg over the other. "I have a friend who loves her whiskey shots. Won't start a night out without one. Me myself—I'll admit I'm rather feminine with my drinks. Just like Cellie, you know. We're the ladies at the bar ordering Cosmos and Cucumber Fizzes." The look on her face suddenly dropped. "Speaking of which… how is she doing?"

"Not good, I'm afraid," Stefano sighed. "Everything that's happened so far—it's surreal. I'm just hoping this is all a nightmare I'll soon awake from."

"You poor thing," Clarissa said. "I can't imagine what you must be going through. Why, you must hardly get a wink of sleep these nights."

"It's been tough, I won't lie," Stefano admitted. He hovered the tumbler closer to his lips and continued, "I've been with her for so long that I find this glimpse of life absent of her unbearable." Suddenly, he was alarmed that perhaps a crack of truth had appeared in his façade and quickly hid behind another drink of his Negroni. With the burning aftertaste still lingering on his tongue, Stefano began, "Which is why I wanted to ask—."

"You know," Clarissa piped up at the same time, and the sudden change in her tone made Stefano pause. Her voice had adopted a wicked tint. Stefano's grip on the tumbler tightened ever so slightly. "I can… help take some of that stress away."

Stefano choked down his shocked scoff, letting it instead only come out as a sharp, heavy exhale through his nose. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh sweetie." Clarissa's words had turned into a purr. Stefano felt the impulse to jam something long and sharp into his ears at the sound. "You and Cellie act like you've got this perfect little marriage going on, but I see you—you've got the look of a starved man." Clarissa sat forward. "Mark is going to be away for at least another three weeks, and Cellie… well, she doesn't have to be any the wiser. When her trial's over and the police let her go, I won't tell. What happens between us could stay between us."

Stefano was silent for a moment, and then leisurely laid on his arms on either armrest. He was never one to lose his composure for long, even with… unexpected confrontations like this one. "You're bold," was all he responded with.

"And you're a fine piece of a man, you know," Clarissa replied. She uncrossed her leg and leaned forward. "So what do you say, big boy? Shall we head upstairs?"

This time, Stefano couldn't suppress his chuckle. "You misunderstand me, dear," he replied, still reclined in his seat. He swirled his glass, letting it gently clatter next to his head. "I don't know what gave you the impression to the contrary—I only bed women, not plastic dolls."

There was a heartbeat of silence before Stefano's companion was suddenly bereft of her eagerness. "Excuse me?" was the sharp response.

"You heard me perfectly well and clear, you daft woman!" Stefano suddenly hissed. He was the one to lean forward this time, slamming his tumbler heavily down onto the coffee table. "Do you think me a Neanderthal? Barreling at you with my tongue hanging out just because you waggled your finger? I see your true colors now, you sad, sad harlot! Now I've no hesitation—none whatsoever—to show you mine!"

With his hand still squeezed over the rim of the tumbler, Stefano stood. The thick glass bottom scraped against the polished tabletop as he leaned across the coffee table towards the nervous Clarissa. "What are you afraid of, dear?" he mused, his voice still saturated with cold anger. "I don't even need to ask, do I?" The fear in this pathetic creature's eyes was beyond beautiful.

He wouldn't kill her, though, as much as he yearned for the sensation of running a blade deep enough through her throat to scrape bone. For the sound of her scream to stroke his ears once he liberated that repulsive tongue from her mouth. No, he wouldn't kill her because she was still useful.

Stefano withdrew, sitting back in the armchair. Clarissa watched him, still speechless and frozen in place. "I know," he began slowly, his voice growing eerily pleasant as he picked his tumbler back up from the table, "that hidden away in Bermuda is a little secret of yours—a shell company silently pulling cash from your personal and company accounts. What delightful little things have you helped yourself with using that unpaid tax money, my dear? Oh, but hold on… a little bird also told me some of that money goes into foreign, silk-lined pockets. Bribery is a serious crime in this country, dear Clarissa. And considering your husband, it might even be pushed to treason."

He reveled in the shock on the woman's face. "Wh—what are you talking about?" she demanded in a shaking voice.

Instead of answering her, Stefano continued, "But… what happens between us can stay between us. You see, my dear, I came here with a favor to ask you."

"A… favor?" Clarissa repeated weakly.

"Yes," Stefano replied. "So listen closely—otherwise the little bird and its secret might fly off. I'll clip its wings for you if you go to the KCPD and give them an alibi for Celestina. Tell them she was with you on November 6. Tell them the two of you went out for drinks—ordering your Cosmos and Cucumber Fizzes. Make the alibi watertight and make sure they believe you. If not…" Stefano fluttered a hand, imitating a creature taking off. Still holding Clarissa's gaze, he tilted his head back and downed the last of the alcohol from the tumbler before rising to his feet.

"So…" he heard Clarissa mutter softly in her trembling voice. "You… or Cellie… or both of you… really are the Krimson City Killer."

Stefano had already turned to leave, but looked back over his shoulder with a finger touched to his lips. "What happens between us," he told her gently, "stays between us."

How she was overjoyed at the news. And when the officers walked her out, she saw him there waiting for her. My, she was impressed. He'd been quite busy these past few days—being quite the puppeteer himself.

Alessandra had heard of how the prosecutor had quickly dropped from the case, citing 'urgent family matters' as the reason. The new one they appointed was far too unfamiliar with the details to be a decent replacement. The detective hardly had time to debrief him—not that he got the chance to. A witness had come forth, giving an alibi that the police weren't able to knock aside. Maybe they didn't even want to. It was so much easier to give in to the doubt—to finally end the gnawing and take the easy way out. Why would anyone accuse La Contessa, anyway? The way she complied so easily. The way she seemed so scared. The way she carried her baby in her.

They decided the evidence on hand really hadn't been enough, and that there hadn't been any to begin with. The hair, they determined, had been on the stolen dress and transferred to the victim when she was dressed in it. With that, they let the suspect go.

And when she was finally freed, she rushed to him when she saw him, crying, "Oh darling! Just take me home!"

With his lips still pressed in her hair, Stefano murmured back, "I told you I'd keep you safe from the bad detective, didn't I?"

And speak of the devil. Suddenly, from behind her, Alessandra heard a loud, furious, "NO!" She pulled away from Stefano and looked back to see an officer pulling Ledford back before he could rush towards them.

She saw it in his eyes—that entirely different animal. Crazed. Desperate. Nursed by the betrayal from the people around him.

"What are you doing?" Ledford demanded to the officer holding him back. Then, he looked up and around. "What are you doing?" he repeated, his voice growing louder. "She killed her! She killed my sister!"

Watching the detective with frightened eyes, Alessandra pressed herself against Stefano, who bundled her close. "Oh… oh my!" she gasped, making sure those nearest heard her. "Is he okay?"

"Don't worry, amore."

Ledford suddenly pushed the officer away, but he didn't take one step closer to the couple. And even though he hadn't moved closer, Alessandra couldn't help but feel as if he had become that wolf again. It was certainly there in his eyes.

"This," Ledford growled in a low voice, "isn't over."

Alessandra pushed herself a bit away from Stefano to turn her head and meet the detective's glare in its entirety. "I think it is," she replied softly.

With joy and love, we welcome our angel

GELSOMINA VALENTINI

Born on July 23, 2014

Weight: 6lb, 10oz

Height: 17 in

To proud parents CELESTINA AMONTE and STEFANO VALENTINI

"She loves me. She truly loves me."

Things were now… strange. Different. The boundary had been breached, and there was no turning back now.

Little Gelsomina. Alessandra had picked the name, wanting the child to be as pure and beautiful as the jasmine flower itself. And as she said those words, cradling the small bundle, Stefano wondered once again what was wrong with him.

He had been there when the baby first touched air. It was a moment, he had heard, that was supposed to be life changing. And, well—yes, it was true that the experience was one he would not soon forget. But Stefano was sure the men who had expressed that sentiment hadn't reveled in the agonized screams like he had. That unadulterated pain that the little one put her mother through was unbelievable in the best way possible. It had been almost enough to let Stefano ignore the fact that Alessandra was crushing his hand into dust.

And then he had heard it—that dreadful sound. That cacophonous interruption of shrill wailing. That had been his first reaction to it. Disgust.

It was a sound he subsequently heard quite often. It was astounding that the windows of this home were still intact. He watched as Alessandra held the shrieking child and cooed to her until the racket mercifully died down. Stefano had even held the baby himself a few times, but she only ever felt like weight in his arms. That was it—he felt nothing else. And it made him wonder what was wrong with him.

But no matter. There were other issues to be concerned about. Their departure from Krimson City continued to be pushed further and further back. First the birth, and not to mention that Stefano was finding it harder and harder to pull in new material for his departing pieces. Security in the city had gotten much tighter, and Alessandra had grown too busy with Gelsomina to be his cohort.

And then came the call.

Like before, someone was asking for Celestina. Stefano didn't recognize the woman's voice on the other end of the line. Whoever it was, they wanted to talk with La Contessa. With that, Stefano passed the phone over to her. As Alessandra wandered away with it, Stefano stopped by the crib and looked down.

Little Gelsomina was asleep. Her black curls swooped down over her forehead. Every now and then, her small limbs would shift underneath the blanket. As Stefano watched, his mind focused on the conversation he overheard from the other room.

"Oh, I don't… well…" Alessandra sounded flustered. "Yes, it's true that we're planning to move—… yes, yes, leave Krimson City. I know. It breaks my heart as well. I'll always be Krimson City's sweetheart, but…" Alessandra paused. Suddenly, her voice grew startled and quiet. "Oh… I see. That is… No, I love the idea. It's just that I'll need some time to think about it. Can I get back to you?"

Gelsomina shifted again. A few moments later, Alessandra walked back into the room. The question was spring-loaded on Stefano's tongue, but he waited.

Alessandra took him by the hands and pulled him into the next room. In a bright voice that matched the excitement in her eyes, she told Stefano that La Contessa hadn't sung her last.

"Meaning…?" Stefano replied.

"That woman who called was the managing director of the Amaliene Opera House," Alessandra said. She tilted her head, and with a smile added, "Don't you remember, darling? That's where we first met face-to-face. Well, they heard about our plans to leave the country. Obviously they were devastated. That director insisted to me that Krimson City's sweetheart couldn't leave without one final, departing performance." She gave a tinkling sigh. "I thought none of the stages here wanted me anymore."

"Oh amore, you mustn't think like that."

"I suppose you're right. And to think people consider the notion of a mad artist to be outlandish. To pour one's heart and soul into a loveless passion, well… that's enough to drive anyone mad, isn't it?"

"And are you going to take the offer?" Stefano asked.

"Am I… well, yes," Alessandra replied. "I have always loved the stage. It's where I can feel the warmth of that spotlight." A bittersweet smile touched her lips. "My last performance. You'll be there, won't you?"

"Of course," Stefano said. "I'll bring my camera."

The first few weeks of August saw Alessandra busy, going to the opera house often for stage rehearsals. She bought a long silver gown for the night, and never once did she touch that curling iron. They had hired a sitter to look after Gelsomina, though Alessandra went home often in between rehearsals. There was nothing, she insisted, that could replace a mother's touch.

Often times Stefano would accompany Alessandra. She wanted a photographer capturing shots of her departing performance, and Stefano knew there was no one else fit for the role. During rehearsals, Stefano would be told where and how to move around the stage as to not be spotted by the audience and detract from the performance. Once again, he mused, he was the unseen photographer. Standing to the side—a spectator to it all, just as he had been all those years ago on the battlefield. The silent observer waiting for his masterpiece.

August was busy indeed. As such, neither of them noticed the brief flash of news that Detective Jackson Ledford had seemingly disappeared. No one had heard from him in months, and the worst was suspected. Some even wondered if the Krimson City Killer, the target Ledford had been chasing after for years, had something to do with it.

When the night of La Contessa's final performance arrived, the opera house was a hub of activity. The audience was enormous—made up of old, loyal fans, curious newcomers, and those who had grown familiar with La Contessa's name from the news.

A seat at the very edge of the front row had been reserved for Stefano for the times he wouldn't be photographing the stage. He wanted to sit back and watch La Contessa in all her glory—sing like the muse she was.

Stefano reclined in his plush seat, watching the lights softly illuminate the stage. The choir was lined on either side of the large staircase at stage center. At the top of the stairs was a decorated archway. A harp and a piano sat at either ends of the stage.

It began with the choir singing the preluding chords of Ave Maria. There was movement at the top of the stairs. A spotlight focused underneath the floral archway, and the light reflected off of the silver of her trailing gown. The pianist began playing, and moments later La Contessa's voice joined it.

Among the dark sea of faces, Stefano watched as she delicately made her way down the steps as she sang, her heels peeking out from underneath her hem with each step. She stopped at the center of the stage, where she stood and continued the song. As he listened to her dulcet voice, Stefano closed his eye and found his mind drifting.

It'd been a while since he had gone home—a while since he had seen his family. But this would be different. He'd be bringing his own family. Alessandra would find no trouble being welcomed to the stage in Italy. And Gelsomina…

Stefano would teach her how to use a camera. He'd teach her how to develop film. He'd have her nurture her own style, all the while ensuring that it was a worthy one to succeed him. He'd encourage her to find her own muse. And if she insisted that she didn't need one, he'd tell her, "I used to be like you. And then I found your mamma."

The song ended and the audience clapped. Stefano opened his eye. He lifted his gloved hands and joined in the last of the ovation. Then, as the last of the applause was dying away, he quickly slipped from his seat. The Veritas camera that had been resting in his lap was clutched in his hand as he made his way silently through the aisles so that he could crouch close to the center of the stage. He raised his Veritas to his face and, through the viewfinder, focused on La Contessa. He watched her carefully, finger posed over the shutter button to press down milliseconds before she struck elegant poses during her song.

This Veritas, though heavily outdated, was like a dear, old friend. It had never let him down, and he reserved its use for his most important shoots. The photographs it produced, he believed, still blew any digital camera's out of the water.

This was the camera he would use for the majority of the performance. And then, waiting off to the side of the stage, was another posed on a tripod. It was already pointed to where La Contessa would stand when she took her final bow to her audience. There was no need to adjust it further, and all Stefano needed to do was make sure the focus was steady and take the picture.

He waited for that moment. For now, it was time for Stefano to return to his seat. As he did, he found himself antsy. Quickly, he willed himself to focus on La Contessa's singing. He gazed up at the woman on the stage. Ah, his Alessandra.

No doubt they would leave Krimson City with it still abuzz about her sudden deviation from her iconic curls. They would wonder what the motivation was behind her change of style. And no one would know, save the two of them. Yet another dirty little secret tucked beneath their picture perfect image.

Stefano recognized La Contessa's last song when she began it. Once again, he stole away from his seat and entered the corridor that would lead him backstage. There was only one photograph left to take.

He stopped at the posed camera, still watching La Contessa over it. During the intermission, the stairwell had been rolled off the stage. Now, for this last song, even the accompanying choir and musicians had gone. The orchestra pit was still. This final song consisted of only La Contessa and her piano.

Stefano remembered this song. She had played it when he first saw her on stage. And then, for the several years that followed, she had played it for him in their home while he sat in his armchair and listened.

It felt almost bittersweet when he heard the end approach—those chords that told him nothing lasted forever.

Her last note touched the air. Following shortly after it was the grand applause. Stefano saw La Contessa rise from the piano seat. He moved behind the posed camera and stooped down. Through it, he watched her step into the composition. She stood there, placed exactly in her designated spot, and gave a low bow to the raucous audience. Her hair slipped from her shoulders and draped down on either side of her face. She let her bow linger for another heartbeat—just a little moment longer—and then rose. La Contessa was once again in focus.

And then a horribly loud noise ripped sharply through the air. It cut through the noise of the applause, and the theatre immediately silenced. The hands of the people were frozen in front of them as though trapped in place by a photograph.

Stefano wasn't sure what that sound had been. All he knew was that it hadn't ever gone off during rehearsal, and so he wasn't supposed to hear it. If not for the reaction of the audience, he wouldn't have even been sure he actually heard it.

He was still looking through the viewfinder at La Contessa—at his Alessandra. But something was off about her. She stood, rigid. Stefano watched her take a step back, and it was then that he realized she was clutching her neck tight in one hand. She had moved from her spot, and now Stefano could see her face. Her eyebrows were tensely knitted together in a look of shocked confusion. A horrible feeling was beginning to settle in the pit of Stefano's stomach.

He saw her twitch as she took a breath. And then she spasmed again. Brilliant red suddenly flooded out from behind her clutched hand and between the tightened fingers. It was the most beautiful color Stefano had ever seen, and he watched as it streamed down and coated her pearls. Red took over white seamlessly.

The confused audience was quickly snapped out of its trance at the sight of blood. To them, it screamed of danger even though La Contessa did not—was not able to—make a sound. Shrieks of panic stained the air as audience members flooded out of their seats and pushed for the exits. The pleas of the opera house staff to please remain calm and evacuate in an orderly fashion fell on deaf ears. No one stopped for La Contessa as she choked.

But there was one who had not moved. Through the eyes of the camera he watched more and more blood escape. It leaked from behind her hand and dribbled down her chin from her mouth.

Art in every sense of the word. He couldn't have asked for a more perfect piece. But for some reason, he couldn't quite recall what made this one so perfect.

Then he saw her stumble back and catch herself on the piano. The abrupt movement seemed to jolt Stefano awake.

No… No! NO! Not her! Not my—!

The photograph was never taken. Stefano tore his face away from the camera, peering over it with a widened eye before barreling onto the stage. As he flew past it, his shoulder hit the camera and tipped the tripod. The glass lens shattered on the ground.

La Contessa crumpled. Stefano caught her before she sank to the floor and held her so that she gazed up at him. Her distressed eyes were confused and afraid, and all Stefano could do was stare down at them. She coughed, and more blood erupted from her mouth to coat her already slick chin. A shaking hand rose up to grip his blazer. The cloth underneath was immediately stained. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Stefano could see the bullet wound that had punctured her throat.

He didn't realize how much he was shaking until he found trouble in unclasping the single button on his glove. When it was free, he tore it from his hand so that he could bring it to her face—his Alessandra. His muse and his inspiration… now another masterpiece. As he stared into the fading light in her eyes, he wanted to plead for her to stay. To leave the city with him. To keep him from being the entirely different animal on his own.

But the pleas stayed with him, and only one thing emerged from him for her to hear.

"Amore," he told her, "look how beautiful you've become."

He could feel it when she left him alone—a blow more painful than any physical wound. She had become the most stunning piece he had ever laid eyes on, but he couldn't bear to look at it. Her hand had dropped from his blazer and lay limp on the stage floor. Her body was still draped in his arms—a perfect visage of death. But from the way he fit so flawlessly with the contours of her corpse, Stefano couldn't help but feel as though he was also part of this piece.

And so be it. Let this artist finish their work.

Stefano's crazed eye swept across the empty auditorium. There wasn't a soul in sight. "Well?" his wilted voice demanded angrily across the echoing chamber. "What are you waiting for?"

But nothing came. No one was there to deliver the final brush stroke.

Defeated, Stefano dipped his head down. He pressed his lips against her forehead. It was still warm. She still could have been there. But he knew better. He was all too familiar with death.

Stefano squeezed his eye shut and listened to the distant sirens. Don't go, amore, he begged. Don't leave me. I still need you.