Jennifer Lynne is a homicide detective working on one of the most horrific serial killing cases New York has seen in the last decade. When she and her partner get a lead on the suspect, they catch him with his seventh victim. But things go south and...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Is there...really a demon inside of me?
No - no way. There's no way I'm...possessed. That stuff isn't real. It's what my parents believe in, but I don't. No, ghosts and demons and poltergeists are just part of the textbook of spirituality. And often used by people who don't want to be blamed for their behavior. Like Aaron Jackson.
If anyone should understand, it's you, Jennifer.
I try to ignore it, to grasp the voice of reason. He only said that to pique my interest, to get me to come back. And I fell for it. I went back to him, and I ate right out of his hand. He's probably just working me up to get himself thrown into a mental facility instead of a cell - or worse, he'll get off scot-free.
It feeds on pain and death.
His words seep more into my consciousness, begging me to listen. I try to shake it off. It was just another ploy! It's creepy - fascinating, even. But it's the perfect reflection of these murders. He could only know this from being the killer. The fully aware killer!
I had this...urge. It was fuckin' strong too.
How could he know about that? I felt this urge. Twice. First with Theo in the bar. I don't think I ever felt that deep of a pull when first meeting someone. Then with Paul, which I still don't understand. I barely said two sentences to the guy, and I jumped at the chance to leave with him. It wasn't sexual, no. It came from somewhere deeper than that. Somewhere passionate.
I woke up in my house. Blood on me. I was just there.
That, I can't explain. There is no way he could have known about that. No one knows. Hell, he could be a fucking mindreader, but I know that's bullshit. No. I woke up alone in my apartment covered in blood without an idea of what happened that night. I'm losing time after speaking with these men, after feeling these urges to do something with them — something to them? And for the life of me, I can't get those nights back. I can't get the memories back.
Just stop! I clutch my head, desperate for Jackson's words to get out of my fucking mind. I want to forget about him, about the case, about all of it! I want to go back to my old life, even if it means sitting in a bar, drinking whiskey and showing up to work hungover. I don't want this. But I can't stop thinking about it. But it would stop if I could just prove myself wrong...
My eyes find the storage closet in my living room. I know. I walk to the closet, throwing the doors open. I pull the stacked cardboard boxes down and start rifling through them, looking for a book. A special book. A book I don't believe in, but one that meant a lot to my father.
When my fingers graze the bumpy cover, I grip the book and pull it out. All it says on the cover is Bible. Flipping it open, my eyes immediately read the inscription on the opening page.
My dearest Jennifer,
I hope this will bring you solace when you need it most.
