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.

me when I was knocked out,” I murmured,

a murderer, a master of disguise. His

I screamed uncontrollably, rushing into

barren, save for several wooden crates that turned it into a makeshift

area.

place; I had been locked up here when I came to.

had seen

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Chapter 37

panic, searching, then his hand reached for

the corner, its blade crusted

an axe here.”

are drag marks here, but this isn’t the

of clothing. And in this crate, there are

with utmost care, eager not to overlook any

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 smothered me into

I was on something cold and hard, like an operating table, feeling my blood drain away as some other fluid was injected into my

only despair as my life ebbed away,

came to again, I was already dead, my spirit wandering to

of the first crime scene, where

Dexter’s voice called

see Dexter, pale as a

shoes and socks haphazardly tossed aside. “These are… Phoebe’s,”