✔️ Only I Can Feel You | Hannigram | Rye Ambrose

2

Blood soaked the snow in a fifty-foot radius. A run-away victim, cut short by her murderer's jaws.

"So?" Jack Crawford breathed, hot breath clouding in the wintry air. "How'd he do it?"

Will opened his eyes, glancing at Jack. "He knew her." He crammed his hands into his pockets. "Loved her, actually. He wanted to see her run away." They began to walk beside the trail of blood. "But seeing her run reminded him of her leaving him. The pain was so strong, he finally killed her."

Jack nodded, squinting over the bright snow and blood. "Any history of this man? Occupation, anything else?"

Will sighed into his scarf. "He's an artist. The way he killed her is almost like he was... painting." As they headed back to the car, he pointed out the wounds on their latest victim. Five daunting, wet gashes in the woman's stomach. "Stabbed her once, but it wasn't enough. He dealt the final blows with those last four." They walked away from the body. "He wanted to honor her the best he could. Make her one of his canvases."

They slipped into the black car and drove off to the Behavioral Analysis Unit—the BAU—where they would further assess the victim's body. When they walked into the lab, the body greeted them, laid on a metal table. A white sheet pooled over her frame, rolled down to reveal the wounds. Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller fussed about the lab, examining the wounds and bringing up files of the victim.

"Kitchen knife," Price said. "Eight inches." He waved at the body as Zeller sidled up to it.

"The first one was here, in her kidney," Zeller chimed. "Shallow. This guy's pretty inexperienced from the looks of—"

"He was hesitant," Will muttered. "He didn't know if killing her was to take the pain away or to take control."

Price scurried up with a file, opening it on a nearby table. "Mary Schiro. 35, resident of Baltimore, Maryland, and"—he pointed at the papers—"formerly married to a Michael Hanson."

"There's are murderer," said Zeller.

Will shook his head, hands in his pockets. "No, no... too easy," he mumbled. "Our killer acted out of rage. Jealousy and pain."

"Exactly," Price said pointedly. "She divorces him, he gets angry and kills her. Simple."

Will leaned towards Jack. "He's not the killer."

He earned a nod. "We still have to interview him; get a few answers, hope to find a lead on the case. You up for the task?"

Will grimaced, pushing up his glasses as he glanced back at the body. "Interviewing," he shuddered. "Not really my... strong suit. People lead to interactions."

Jack smirked, glancing at the two specialists. "You two keep working; maybe you can find some more information." He walked away with Will following close by. "Accompany me, then. You'll only have to ask questions when you see fit."

Will sighed. "I'll think of the case. Call me when you're ready."

Jack nodded, and the two separated ways. Will to his house and Jack to his office.

---

Will Graham took a calm journey home. Arriving on the porch, however, brought an eerie sense of dread. A heavy, thick air, pulsing with—

Will's heart pumped.

Death was here.

He jammed in the key and burst open the door, greeted with his barking, frantic dogs. They jumped at him, some whining, and as he progressed through the house, the scent of Death grew stronger.

His heart pumped faster.

Around the corner, in the kitchen. He peered through and—

Nothing.

No man. No trace.

All but his scent and the dead dog on the tiled floor.

"Oh, Buster," Will shouted, rushing over to the animal. His other dogs followed, barking and tails wagging. Graham cradled the fallen animal in his arms, still warm and limp. He hadn't been dead for long. He just missed Death.

Will shushed the other dogs, staring down at Buster. A stray that he'd taken care of, just like the others. He met the dog on a sunny morning, before he went fishing—alone and collarless by the river. But, despite the pleasant memories floating about his head, grief didn't consume him.

He was way past mourning.

Will stood up with the dog in his arms, walking back outside and grabbing a shovel along the way. A few dogs followed, hovering about him as he set to work.

What if this meant something?

Will safely set Buster aside and pierced the dirt with his shovel. A satisfying thud ailed his thoughts.

Did Death visit for a reason?

Another thud.

Buster was a perfectly healthy dog. Surely he didn't fall ill.

Thud, thud, thud.

Will leaned back and wiped his forehead, looking down at the small, makeshift grave. He dropped the shovel, shimmied off his rugged jacket, and wrapped Buster in it, carefully setting him down. After a deep breath and a respectful moment of silence, he picked up the shovel again and buried his dog.

Death was close, and he would see him again this time.

He'd make sure of it.

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thank you for reading, and have a great day!

-ambrose