Obsessed

Chapter 48

Mark sat at his desk, leaning forward with elbows braced and hands threading through his hair. The precinct around him buzzed with phones, printers, and scattered conversation, but his mind was miles away.

Victor.

The name itched at the edges of his thoughts. Whoever this ghost was, he had left no digital footprint, no DMV record, no employment history. Mark had run the name through every known government database he could access from the precinct’s system. Nothing. Either this guy didn’t exist—or he had been erased on purpose.

Mark flipped through a stack of old military records, narrowed down by Reynolds to the timeframes Elise and her former accomplice might have crossed paths with someone named Victor. Maybe a handler. Maybe another patient. The pages blurred together, but Mark’s jaw clenched tighter every time he passed a name that wasn’t him.

His thoughts kept drifting back to Ronnie. The way she looked at him before she left, her soft kiss, her eyes full of reluctant distance. He had wanted to go with her, but duty kept him back. Now he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in his gut. Something was wrong. Something was—

The precinct suddenly changed.

Phones rang louder. Dispatch shouted. Officers moved like waves crashing to shore.

Mark froze when the call came in over the internal system:

"Officer down. Civilian unconscious. Location Highway 19 North. Suspected vehicular strike followed by shots fired. Immediate backup needed."

"Who?" Mark demanded, standing up.

A rookie turned to him, eyes wide. "Call came from Detective Jackson. He was escorting Dr. Summers."

Mark’s blood ran cold.

He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t wait for orders. He bolted out of the precinct, his heart thundering in his ears. Snow pelted his black thermal shirt as he threw himself into his truck, engine roaring to life. Red and blue lights lit the snow-covered streets ahead as cruisers tore down the road toward the crash site. Mark followed them, tires skidding slightly on the icy pavement.

His mind raced, playing every worst-case scenario over and over. No. No, she was okay. She had to be. Jackson was a good cop. He would’ve protected her. Maybe she just hit her head. Maybe she was unconscious. Maybe—

He saw the flashing red lights long before he saw the crash.

Firetrucks. Cruisers. An ambulance. Yellow tape already fluttering in the wind, blocking off a stretch of Highway 19 where tire marks slashed through the snow. A plow truck sat parked oddly nearby, steam rising from its hood.

Mark skidded to a stop, not even bothering to shut the engine off. The truck door slammed open, and he was out, boots crunching through snow.

"Where is she?!" he shouted as he pushed past paramedics.

Then he saw it.

The SUV was wrecked, crushed in the middle of the road. The SUV laying on the passenger side, glass glittering like ice across the snow. And next to it, sprawled in a pool of red...

"Jackson," Mark whispered, stumbling toward him.

He dropped to his knees beside the body. The front of Jackson’s coat was soaked in blood, and his eyes stared lifeless up at the gray sky.

Mark’s vision tunneled. He gritted his teeth, his hands balling into fists.

But no Ronnie.

“Where is she?!” he barked, twisting around to grab the nearest officer. “Where the hell is Dr. Summers?!”

The officer shook his head. “There was no other body. No woman. We think she was taken.”

Mark’s breath stopped.

Taken.

Ronnie was gone.

His pulse thundered. Rage bubbled like lava in his chest, climbing until his entire body felt like it would erupt.

And then—he screamed.

A deep, guttural roar tore from his throat. It was primal, animalistic, echoing through the woods like a wounded beast.

Everyone froze.

Even the paramedics paused in their work.

Mark staggered back, chest heaving, eyes burning. His hands were shaking.

He had failed her.

He let her go.

And now she was gone.

---------------

Mark’s boots thundered against the cold tile floors of the precinct as he stormed inside. His body was a live wire, buzzing with fury, his breath sharp and ragged from the run. The second he entered, heads turned. No one dared stop him.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The double doors to the interrogation wing slammed back against the walls as he barreled through. Officers jumped out of his path like startled deer. Reynolds was in the observation room with two other detectives, eyes glued to the one-way mirror, watching Elise rocking back and forth in the chair, giggling to himself like a child on Christmas Eve.

“They’ll never find her,” Elise whispered through a toothy grin. “Master has her now. Master missed her. Master’s gonna play.”

Reynolds turned at the sound of the crash.

Mark kicked open the interrogation door, eyes blazing, shoulders squared, jaw tight.

“Mark—” Reynolds called, stepping forward.

Too late.

Mark crossed the room in three long strides, grabbing the metal table with one hand and hurling it out of his path. The crash echoed off the cinder block walls as it slammed into the far corner. Elise yelped, scrambling to his feet like a cockroach exposed to light.

Mark’s fist connected with Elise’s face, hard. “Where is she?!”

Blood sprayed from Elise’s nose as he crashed to the floor.

The officers in the observation room flinched.

“Jesus,” Reynolds muttered.

“Should we step in?” one officer asked, already shaking his head.

The other leaned closer to the glass. “You wanna go in there and try to pull him off? Be my guest. I like all my bones intact.”

Inside, Elise crawled backward, laughing again through bloody teeth. “Big scary man’s back,” he sang, voice high and sing-song. “Big scary man is pissed.”

Mark didn’t stop.

Elise tried to hide behind a chair, but Mark snatched it away and hurled it across the room. It collided with the mirror—crack—splintering through the center like a spiderweb. Glass didn’t fall, but the threat of it did.

Mark lunged forward, hauling Elise up by the collar with terrifying ease and slamming him into the wall. The impact shook the room.

“Talk,” he growled, his voice low and venomous. “Where is she, you sick f**k? What did he do with her?!”

Elise gasped for air, limbs flailing. “I—I—I—can’t—he’ll kill me!”

Mark didn’t blink. “I’ll f*****g kill you if you don’t tell me where Veronica is. I’ll end you right here, no cuffs, no trial. No one will stop me. No one will care.”

Elise whimpered, his bravado cracking. “She’s… she’s… she’s where it all began…”

Mark’s brow twitched. “Where? Where the f**k is that?!”

But Elise’s gaze darted wildly, his voice fracturing again. “Where it all began… where the stories live in the walls… where the bad things go to be born…”

Mark shook him again. “What the hell does that mean?!”

Reynolds stormed into the room but didn’t interfere yet. He could see the fire in Mark’s eyes. The rage barely restrained by sanity. He wasn’t sure if stopping him would help or get someone else killed.

“She’s not dead,” Elise wheezed, grinning through cracked lips. “Not yet. Master… Master said he's very mad at her and she needs to be... punished.”

Mark’s face contorted with fury.

He wanted to snap his neck.

Reynolds finally stepped in, placing a firm hand on Mark’s shoulder.

“Enough,” he said, voice calm but firm. “He’s not gonna talk if you kill him.”

Mark’s chest heaved as he let Elise drop. The man hit the floor in a heap, coughing, laughing weakly.

Reynolds looked down at Elise, then back at Mark. “What did he say?”

Mark’s voice was quiet, but chilling. “He said… she’s where it all began.”

Reynolds frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

Mark turned toward the door, storming out. “I know who might know.”

Mark made his way down the precinct hallway…

Detectives and officers parted like water as Mark passed. The cracked glass in the interrogation room was a testament to his wrath. He was shaking, barely containing the fury under his skin, his heart pounding in his ears. But even under all that rage, a deep fear clawed at his chest.

Ronnie was gone.

Taken.

And this time, she might not come back.

He pushed through the exit doors and headed straight for his truck. The snow was still falling, light flakes drifting from a gray sky, indifferent to the chaos unraveling beneath them.

He opened the door, climbed in, and slammed it shut. His hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

“Where it all began…”

He whispered it aloud, thinking hard.

Not her house.

Not the asylum.

Not Elise.

It had to be before that.

There was only one person who might know the answer: Alice Summers.

Veronica’s mother.

If Ronnie was taken to a place tied to her own origin then Alice might hold the key.

Mark’s jaw clenched as he shifted into gear.

He didn’t have time for riddles.

He was done playing games.

He was going to find her.

And this time, God help anyone who got in his way.