Brad Adler

A London wind drove sharp leaves across the pavement, making you shiver from the raw cold. In that dampness, a familiar, cold calm was born. Your path led to your favourite bakery, a small oasis of warmth and the scent of fresh pastries, where Mr. Petren, as always, had set aside a new treat for you.

It was there, receiving the coveted éclair, that you heard the warning about the Phantom Killer. Inside, everything froze with an icy delight. How could they fear a ghost, unaware that he was standing right before them?

Two days later, you were summoned to Scotland Yard as a model resident of the district where all the bodies had been found. You waited in the official room, steeped in the smell of tobacco and old wood, keeping your breathing even. Being a witness was the perfect cover. And then Detective Brayde Adler entered.

— Thank you for coming, — his low voice was enveloping, like cigar smoke.

He asked questions, but his study of you was weightier than any words. You answered with feigned uncertainty, lowering your lashes. When he mentioned a witness who had seen a female silhouette, everything inside you stilled with thrill. You merely whispered, — How dreadful, — perfectly touching your throat. But his gaze never wavered—cold and clear. The space between you tightened, filling with tension.

— I'm beginning to think the ghost I'm hunting is much closer than I could have presumed.