Reborn In a Murderer’s Embrace

Chapter 37

get there.

The police had uncovered something new, and I was anxious to o

My memory of my own death was fading. It was all a blur, the moments of consciousness sandwiched between bouts of unconsciousness.

All I knew was that I had been drugged and taken from Tangle Lane, then I woke up in a dimly lit warehouse, dumped inside a makeshift wooden crate that seemed to have been used for shipping fragile items like porcelain.

Robin had stumbled upon a hidden gate at the southeast corner of the old orphanage, concealed by overgrown weeds. The gate was rusty, but the well–worn path and the shiny new padlock suggested frequent, recent use.

“We’ve searched here before, but we missed it. The overgrowth hides it well,” Robin’s partner remarked in surprise.

Robin glanced around, then at Colin, who had somehow managed to slip into the yard unnoticed.

“When did he get over there?”

“Who knows? That kid’s like a ghost, one minute he’s here, the next–poof–he’s over the fence,” his colleague said, half–exasperated, half–impressed by Colin’s agility. It was like something straight out of a parkour video.

Stella and I followed Robin as he broke the lock and we entered the yard.

This inner courtyard belonged to the abandoned orphanage, once reserved for the warden or others with privilege.

The yard was desolate, its neglect and emptiness adding to the eerie atmosphere.

Clinging to Stella, I was frightened. She was always braver than me, always walking ahead no matter what.

knocked out,” I murmured, starting to suspect that the serial killer wasn’t working

He was a murderer, a master of disguise. His innocent facade. had fooled

I screamed uncontrollably, rushing into

save for several wooden crates that turned it into

area.

was the place;

had seen Colin’s face.

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Chapter 37

the room in panic, searching, then

spotted the axe in the corner, its blade crusted with dried blood..

Robin, there’s an

walked over and surveyed the scene. “There are drag marks here, but

clothing. And in this crate, there are strands of

scene with utmost care, eager not to overlook

imprisoned me, he found strands of hair torn out by the rough wood. I remember clawing my way out, desperate to escape, only to be grabbed by a hooded figure who

awoke again, I was on something cold and hard, like an operating table, feeling my blood drain away as

despair as my life

to again, I was already dead, my spirit wandering

first crime scene, where my

Dexter’s voice

to see Dexter, pale as a ghost, pointing to a corner.

lay a pair of blood–stained shoes and socks haphazardly tossed aside. “These are… Phoebe’s,” he