From a distance, we could be mistaken for sisters. The same striking eyes, the same dark, cascading hair, round face and pointed nose, although mine seemed a bit more turned up.
"Oh my God..." I breathed, the realization crashing over me like a tidal wave.
We all looked the same.
I had always known that Gina and I had similarities, but Naomi too? I hadn't really looked at her properly before. This was a pattern. And I fit it.
Reid and Prentiss remained silent, their expressions somber as they stared at the photos. Part of me was waiting for them to explain it to me, to rationalize the growing dread, but they just waited, allowing the weight of the realization to settle.
Finally, I tore my gaze away from the photos and met Agent Reid's eyes. His face was etched with worry as he looked at mine - a face that could very well be the next victim.
Reid nodded solemnly. "It's possible there's a reason why these women share such striking similarities. We need to understand if there's even more connections."
I nodded, a chill running down my spine as the implications settled over me. This wasn't just about a missing girl - it was about a disturbing pattern that I was a part of.
"Serial killers often have a type," Reid continued, his voice steady but grave. "It's not unusual for the victims to share similarities. Thankfully, your looks and occupation are quite obvious. Sometimes, the similarities aren't obvious at all, and we have to dig deeper."
My mind spiraled into a vortex of fear and uncertainty. Had anything strange happened to me recently? Had someone been staring too intently at work or on the metro? Had I always locked my apartment door? What if he was already there, waiting for me? Where did he grab Gina? On her way home? At some bar? Where did he find Naomi?
It must have been at the club. We were all burlesque dancers. That couldn't be a coincidence. He was a client. I had seen him. I must have.
I tried to piece together faces from the club, sifting through the fog of stage lights and music. My heart pounded as I realized the danger wasn't some abstract threat - it was real, it was near, and it was targeting me.
My breath started to quicken, the room closing in around me. I could feel the panic building, each heartbeat louder and faster, thundering in my ears. My vision blurred, and the photographs of Gina and Naomi seemed to swim in front of me. They weren't just pictures - they were reflections.
Mirrors of what could happen to me.
The edges of my vision darkened as my chest tightened. My mind raced, thoughts crashing into each other like waves in a storm.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't think.
What if he was out there right now? Watching me? Waiting for me?
A faint ringing sound cut through the chaos, but it felt distant, almost unreal.
My phone.
It was my phone, but I couldn't focus. I couldn't move. The sound grew louder, insistent, but I was paralyzed by the fear gripping me.
"Hey, look at me. Look at me," Agent Reid's voice broke through, steady and calm. He moved closer, his presence a grounding force. I forced myself to look up, my vision clearing just enough to see him.
His hair was a fluffy, endearing mess, tousled in a way that suggested he ran his fingers through it often, perhaps in deep thought. It framed his face, softening the intensity of his expression. His eyes - brown like mine but softer, lighter - seemed like they held a depth of understanding and kindness. They were like warm pools of melted milk chocolate, inviting and comforting, a stark contrast to the stormy darkness of my own eyes.
His eyes matched his hair in a harmonious blend, both a gentle brown that seemed to catch and reflect the light in a way that was almost calming. If my eyes were dark chocolate, intense and almost bitter with fear and anxiety, his were the milky counterpart, smooth and soothing, promising safety and reassurance.
As I focused on them, I could feel the warmth emanating from his gaze, a silent promise that he was here to help, that I wasn't alone in this.
"Breathe," he said gently, his voice a lifeline. "Just breathe. In and out, slowly."
I tried to follow his instructions, focusing on his eyes. They were kind, filled with a concern that anchored me. My breaths came in ragged gasps at first, but gradually, they slowed, matching the rhythm of his calm, measured breathing.
"That's it," Reid encouraged softly, his voice soothing the raw edges of my panic. "You're okay. You're safe here."
As I regained control, the room came back into focus. The photographs, the files, the sound of my phone still ringing. But most of all, Reid's steady presence, his calm demeanor helping me piece myself back together.
He gave me a reassuring smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Better?"
I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes. Thank you."
Reid's expression was serious but kind. "We'll figure this out. We're here to help. You're not alone in this."
I didn't even notice when the phone stopped ringing, the insistent sound fading into the background of my panic.
"Who was that?" Prentiss asked, her voice breaking through the silence. I didn't have to check.
"My boyfriend," I replied, my voice shaky but certain.
"How do you know?" she pressed gently.
"He already called a few times," I said, my fingers twitching towards the phone. "I'll call back."
"Do you live together?" Prentiss asked, her tone probing but not unkind.
I wanted to say yes immediately, to cling to that semblance of normalcy and safety. But the truth was heavier, more complicated.
"No," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "No, we don't." Not anymore.
Reid and Prentiss exchanged a brief, meaningful glance before Reid spoke up, his tone measured and calming.
"We're going to give you some phone numbers," he said, pulling out a small notepad and a pen. "You'll have our direct lines, and the main FBI contact number as well. If you notice anything unusual, or if you remember more details, call us immediately. No matter how small or insignificant it might seem, it could be important."
Prentiss nodded in agreement, her expression serious yet reassuring. "We're here to help you. You're not alone in this."
Reid handed me a piece of paper with their numbers neatly written on it. His handwriting was precise and clear, just like his demeanor. "Here's my number," he said, pointing to it. "And here's Prentiss'. Below that is the FBI contact number. Don't hesitate to use it."
I took the paper, the texture of it grounding me a little. "Thank you," I murmured, feeling a bit more secure with these tangible connections to safety.
Prentiss placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "We're going to do everything we can to find out what's going on and keep you safe. Remember, you can reach out at any time."
I nodded, clutching the paper tightly as if it were a lifeline. "I will," I promised, my voice steadier now.
Reid gave me a reassuring smile. "Take care of yourself. We'll be in touch, and we'll keep you updated on any progress."
After Reid and Prentiss left, I took a moment to steady myself before heading downstairs. The air felt heavier as I descended, each step echoing in the silence of my thoughts. When I reached the bottom, I paused to take in the familiar sight of the club.
The room was bathed in dim, ambient light, casting shadows that danced along the walls. Velvet couches and armchairs were arranged in intimate clusters, their deep burgundy fabric inviting yet slightly worn from years of use. Dark mahogany tables were scattered throughout, their surfaces polished to a gleam, each one a silent witness to countless conversations and secrets.
My gaze shifted to the stage, the focal point of the room. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn back, revealing the expanse of the platform. It was where I'd performed countless times, where I'd felt the thrill of the spotlight and the rush of the audience's attention. But tonight, the stage felt different.
I had to go up there today. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. The show must go on, as they say, but now the stage felt like a battleground. Each step I would take, every move, every glance from the audience would be tinged with a new, unsettling awareness.
I walked slowly towards the stage, my fingers trailing along the edge of one of the tables. Memories of past performances flickered in my mind. My heart pounded as I reached the steps leading up to the stage.
Tonight, the performance would be more than just a dance. It would be a mission. He might be here tonight, hidden among the familiar faces in the audience. Watching. Waiting. But I would be watching too.
The club was packed that night, the usual hum of chatter and clinking glasses filling the air. The ambient lighting created an intimate, almost seductive atmosphere, perfect for a night of burlesque. I stood backstage, adjusting the last details of my costume, my mind a whirlwind of nerves and determination.
The music started, a sultry beat that signaled the beginning of my performance. I took a deep breath and stepped out onto the stage, the bright lights immediately enveloping me. The audience's applause was loud, enthusiastic, but I barely registered it. My focus was sharper than ever, my senses heightened.
As I moved to the rhythm, my eyes scanned the crowd, searching for any sign of him. I saw the usual patrons, faces I recognized, regulars who came for the show and the ambiance.
But tonight, everyone was a suspect. Every lingering gaze, every too-intense stare sent a jolt of suspicion through me.
I twirled, the sequins on my costume catching the light, sending sparkles into the dim room. My movements were fluid, practiced, but my mind was elsewhere.
I saw groups of friends laughing, couples whispering to each other, individuals watching with fascination. I tried to catch every detail, every flicker of recognition, every hint of something out of place.
A man at the back caught my eye - he was alone, his posture slightly tense, his eyes not leaving me for a second. Was it him? I felt a chill, but forced myself to stay composed. I couldn't jump to conclusions.
Another man, closer to the stage, seemed overly interested, leaning forward, his eyes following my every move. My heart pounded as I danced, my body moving on autopilot while my mind analyzed every face, every reaction.
Who among them was the one who had hurt Gina and Naomi?
My first routine neared its climax, and I pushed myself to perform with all the grace and allure expected of me. The audience cheered, but my eyes remained vigilant, my gaze sweeping the room one last time.
As the final notes played and I struck my last pose, I saw him.
A man near the exit, slipping out quietly, his face half-hidden in shadows. There was something about his demeanor, something that made my instincts scream. I held my pose, a smile plastered on my face, but my mind was racing.
The applause thundered, but all I could think about was that fleeting glimpse, the potential lead.
My heart skipped a beat as he turned briefly, the light catching his features. I knew him. He was one of the regulars. It wasn't him. He's been coming to Velvet Nights for years.
Was I losing my mind?
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, still catching my breath from the performance. My face was flushed, a mix of exhilaration and the heat of the stage lights.
But as I looked closer, it wasn't just my face staring back at me.
All day, every time I'd caught a glimpse of myself, I'd seen Naomi and Gina.
And my mom.
The resemblance was uncanny. The same cheekbones, the same full lips. My mom and I had always been mistaken for sisters, especially as I grew older and started to look more like a woman. We were each other's constant comparison that neither of us could escape, even in my own reflection.
I sighed, reaching up to touch my hair, a cascade of dark curls that had been carefully styled before the show. My mom had always joked that my hair was my crown, a fitting complement to her own mane of curls. Gina, with her hair a bit more straight and sleek due to overusing a flat iron, had envied me for it.
Now, looking at myself, I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. Naomi and Gina were gone, but they haunted me, their faces merging with mine every time I looked in the mirror.
I leaned closer, my breath fogging up the glass. The women's eyes stared back at me, dark and brown, filled with the same fire and determination that had driven probably all of them all their lives.
I reached for the makeup remover, the cool cotton pad a welcome relief against my heated skin.
Julia, another dancer, was in her own mirror, brushing out her long, blonde hair. She glanced over at me, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern.
"That was quite a performance tonight," she said, her voice warm but tinged with exhaustion. "But you seemed a bit off. Everything okay?"
I sighed, setting down the makeup remover and turning to face her. "Yeah, it's just… been a rough night. Rough day… days." I sighed again, running a hand through my hair, feeling the tangles that had formed from hours of performing.
She nodded, leaning against the counter. Her eyes were soft, but there was a glimmer of fatigue. "I know. It's been kind of crazy lately. But... They are gonna catch him. Or her. Who knows?" She shrugged nonchalantly.
Julia was sweet but... quite unserious. She had this light-hearted demeanor that made her seem almost detached from the grim reality we were living in. People were getting killed, but she acted like it was gossip, like something happening far away that had nothing to do with us. It had everything to do with us. With all of us.
"Besides," she added, her lips curling into a sly smile, "the FBI got involved, and I'm sure that cute Mr. Agent Doctor is gonna get that psycho."
"Who?" I asked, raising an eyebrow, trying to follow her train of thought.
"The guy. The cute one who talked to all of us today. There was also this woman. Honestly, I couldn't stop staring at both of them." Her eyes twinkled as she spoke.
"You mean Agent Reid?" I said, trying to sound disinterested, but the name brought a faint warmth to my cheeks.
"Yes, Misty. Whatever his name is. The cute one. Don't you think he's cute? Seems like a nerd. Not your type, I guess." She grinned, clearly enjoying this.
"I don't have a type," I replied, feeling a bit exasperated. I could feel a blush creeping up my neck.
"Yeah, sure." She rolled her eyes playfully.
"I don't. Besides, you only know Jimmy. That's the only guy I dated here. And speaking of Jimmy, he's here to pick me up so I don't get murdered the second I take a step outside." My voice dropped slightly, the humor in the statement dark but real.
"I thought you guys broke up," she said, tilting her head in confusion.
"We did. Bye." I gave a curt wave, ending the conversation.
I gathered my things, throwing my jacket over my shoulders and slinging my bag over my arm. The back doors creaked as I pushed them open, stepping into the dimly lit alley.
The cool night air hit my face, a stark contrast to the bright, stuffy dressing room. Jimmy was there, thankfully, leaning against the car door, his familiar silhouette a somewhat comforting sight.
"Hey, beautiful," he said, his voice soft and almost sensual. His eyes devoured me.
"Hey, Jimmy," I replied, feeling a wave of relief wash over me as I approached him. His presence was appreciated but I'd rather not be accompanied by him. I'd rather not be at all at this point. Not with my mind only focused on one thing - am I next?
But at least he was here and I couldn't help but smile, even if just a little, even if we were over, even if he still didn't wanna let me go.
"How was the show?" Jimmy asked, his voice gentle as he pushed off from the car door.
"It was… fine. Just a bit overwhelming, I guess. Long day."
He moved to hug me, concern etched on his face. "I'm okay," I said quickly, raising a hand to stop him, but he still stepped in front of me to open the car door. He was often a bit much, but he was a good guy.
"Thanks," I murmured, sliding into the passenger seat. He closed the door behind me and walked around to the driver's side.
As he settled in, he glanced over at me, his eyes searching mine. "You sure you're alright?"
I nodded, giving him a small smile despite the weight on my chest. "Yeah, just tired. Let's get out of here. Thanks for picking me up. It's just… you know." I trailed off, unsure if I should confide in him.
I wondered if I should tell him what I found out today. He probably didn't notice. He had a talent for not noticing things. He didn't know how much danger I could actually be in. But if I told him, he probably wouldn't leave me tonight, and he'd stay the night, and that's the last thing I wanted.
"I know. They're gonna catch him, though. Don't worry. I'll pick you up every day," he said, his voice filled with an earnest promise.
"Thanks." I looked out the window, the neon lights reflecting off the glass, casting fleeting shadows across our faces.
We drove in silence for a while. The hum of the engine and the distant sounds of the city filled the car. The city lights flashed by in a blur, creating a kaleidoscope of colors that made my head spin.
Suddenly, we were in front of my building. I had to get out onto the pavement and walk up to the third floor.
He could be there.
Waiting.
"Well… we're here," Jimmy said, his voice pulling me from my thoughts as I sat, paralyzed by fear and uncertainty.
"Could you… maybe... walk me upstairs? Just in case?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Oh, sure! No problem!" he said, his face lighting up with a smile.
"Thanks." I tried to muster a smile, but it felt forced.
He walked beside me with a smile from ear to ear, his optimism almost frustrating. Did he think I invited him to stay?
No.
Maybe.
He is such an idiot.
"Wait, I'll get the mail," I said, detouring to the mailboxes in the lobby. Among the usual bills and flyers, there was a postcard from my grandma. The familiar handwriting made me smile, a small comfort in the midst of all the chaos.
"What's that?" Jimmy asked, peering over my shoulder with genuine curiosity.
"Postcard. Granny Lucy went to Lake Michigan for a few days."
"Nice! We always wanted to go! Maybe we should get away from here for a few days," he said, his eyes lighting up with the idea.
"No. You always wanted to go because you want to do kayaking and some other water sports stuff," I replied, my tone a bit sharper than intended.
"Yeah! We could get on water! Go into nature! Leave DC while this psycho is on the loose!" he said enthusiastically, missing my point.
"Jimmy, I am not getting in the water. And why are we even talking about this? I'm not going anywhere." I sighed, feeling the tension rise again.
"Well... if you change your mind, let me know," he said, still smiling as we walked up the stairs, his optimism almost maddening.
We reached the third floor, and I paused outside my door, fumbling with my keys. The hallway was eerily quiet, every creak of the floorboards magnified in the stillness.
Jimmy stood close, his presence both comforting and slightly annoying.
"Thanks for walking me up," I said, finally unlocking the door and glancing back at him.
"No problem. You sure you're gonna be okay?" he asked, his brow furrowing with concern.
"Yeah, I'll be fine. Goodnight, Jimmy." I tried to sound reassuring, even though my heart was racing.
"Goodnight, Misty," he replied, lingering for a moment as if wanting to say more. Then he turned and headed back down the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway.
I watched him go, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. I stepped inside, locking the door behind me, and leaned against it, exhaling slowly. The apartment was dark and quiet, the only sound my own breathing. I walked over to the window and peeked through the curtains, watching Jimmy drive away until his taillights disappeared around the corner.
Finally, I allowed myself to breathe, the tension of the day beginning to melt away.
Then I remembered the postcard still in my hand. I walked over to the small lamp on the side table and switched it on, the warm light illuminating the room.
The front of the postcard showed a serene view of Lake Michigan, the water a brilliant blue under a cloudless sky. I traced my fingers over the image, longing for that sense of peace.
Not in a sense of being on or in the water.
But maybe the water. The lake kind of water. Calmer. Not the ocean I was in right now.
I sat down on the couch, the familiar creak of the old leather offering a small comfort, and turned the postcard over to read it.
On the back, Granny Lucy's handwriting was a welcome sight, neat and elegant despite her age.
Dear Misty,
Lake Michigan is as beautiful as ever. The water is so clear, you can see straight to the bottom. I wish you could be here with me to enjoy it!
I've been thinking about your mama lately. Usually, after the anniversary passes, I let the memory of her rest, but this year I can't stop thinking about her. Your dad also misses her greatly. He's been going to church all the time! You should talk to him! He'd be very glad to hear from you!
Love, Granny Lucy
I read the words again, trying to find comfort in her familiar tone. Granny Lucy always had a way of infusing her letters with hope and affection.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips.
No, he wouldn't be glad to hear from me.
Granny Lucy's endless optimism was both touching and frustrating. It was cute how she always seemed to think that my decision to distance myself from the family was just a phase, a youthful rebellion that would eventually pass.
She'd always said the same thing - "It's just a phase, Misty. You'll come around."
Why would this time be any different?