Return to Sender
242 Words
Elara didn’t sleep that night.
She sat at the kitchen table, the jarred finger beside her, the wine glass half-empty, her mind a quiet storm.
If Cade thought she would rattle — he had underestimated her.
By dawn, she had a plan.
It started with an unmarked envelope, thick and damp from the item inside. She wore gloves as she handled it, each motion slow and deliberate, as if crafting a love letter.
The gift?
A strip of skin, carefully cut from the inner thigh of her latest victim. She had kept it preserved in her freezer for weeks, waiting for the right occasion. Now, it was perfect.
She slid the pale, fleshy ribbon into the envelope, its edges curling like old parchment. Alongside it, she placed a Polaroid — the victim’s face frozen mid-scream, a fresh crimson s***h across her cheek.
And the note:
“Your move.”
By afternoon, she was at the precinct, blending in among civilians filing complaints. She didn’t look toward Cade’s office, but she saw him anyway — his sharp profile, his posture still and alert, like a predator.
She dropped the envelope at the front desk with the other anonymous tips, then walked away without looking back.
That night, she imagined him opening it.
She imagined his expression — the flash of recognition, the quiet, calculated fury.
If Cade wanted a game, she would make sure he never forgot the rules:
She played to win.
- Writer
