Chapter Eight: Secrets of Blood
"Anyone who knows the truth becomes part of it… or is accused of it." — Eliza
A cold night.
Rain fell on the streets of London as if it were writing a new scene.
Eliza waited in the small café on Hackney Street.
Her notebook in hand, her eyes on the door.
And Edgar appeared.
No exaggeration — he entered quietly, a killer moving like a shadow on the walls of dim light.
He sat across from her,
his eyes as if reading her thoughts before they formed.
He spoke softly:
"I want to show you… how the game began."
He took out an old, yellowed notebook.
"Everything started here," he said, handing it to her.
She opened the page and read:
A little girl, a narrow street, an innocent laugh.
I did not want to kill her…
But I saw the truth for the first time.
The world does not spare children.
Justice is nothing but an illusion.
He paused and looked at her:
"When I approached, I felt liberated…
as if everything inside me began to breathe."
Eliza closed her eyes, feeling dizzy.
It was not just a description…
it was direct, alive, terrifying.
How can a human see crime as art?
Edgar continued:
"Do not imagine the pain, Eliza.
Focus on… control.
When I realized I controlled death,
there was no obstacle."
They sat silently for long minutes,
only the sound of rain against the glass.
Then he said:
"I knew you would ask…
Why the roses?
They remind me that I am human…
even if just for a brief moment."
Eliza shivered.
Each confession increased both her obsession and fear.
It was not just a story between the two of them.
A voice came from outside:
"Miss Morgan?"
A tall man entered, sharp-eyed, wearing a traditional black coat, carrying a notebook.
Her heart froze.
"I'm Detective Howard.
I am investigating the recent series of crimes.
I want to hear everything you know."
Eliza felt the world collapse around her.
Edgar…
What if he knows I am talking to a detective?
Edgar smiled quietly:
"You are not the only deceiver, Eliza…
and every player knows when to move."
Howard sat across from her and opened her notebook.
"All these notes…
Are they a journalistic investigation, or a personal plan?"
Eliza answered:
"An investigation… at least it started that way."
But in his eyes, there was doubt…
Is she complicit?
Edgar noticed every movement, every hesitation, every glance.
He said softly to Howard:
"The girl knows more than you think…
But does she know how to deal with the truth?"
Edgar leaned toward Eliza slowly, as if measuring her reaction.
"I was once a powerless, helpless child,
and now you read me as if I were an open book.
Can you bear what I am about to tell you?"
She replied with a steady voice despite her racing heart:
"I want to know everything."
Edgar smiled, then began recounting every crime he had committed since childhood, chillingly:
His first childhood victims,
How he began to see every person as a story,
His first use of roses as a "signature,"
Each moment he felt freedom while committing a crime,
And how he saw justice as art.
Eliza wrote in her notebook,
but inside, she felt herself becoming part of the game.
Detective Howard began noticing:
"All of this seems… far too logical, Miss Morgan.
Are you influenced by him?
Or do you share his view?"
Eliza realized the real danger:
If Edgar knew the detective suspected her…
She would become a target.
She forced herself to remain calm,
but every word Edgar spoke pierced her mind,
making her question the boundaries of good and evil, her role as a journalist,
and the obsession growing inside her.
The detective stood:
"I need these notes… all of them."
Eliza clutched her notebook tightly,
whispering internally:
I will not let him steal my story… nor the truth.
Edgar smiled, as if he knew everything,
then whispered softly, so only she could hear:
"Now, the game has become a triangle.
And every step, every word…
has a price."
The rain over London intensified,
and the streets grew darker than ever.
The battle has not begun…
But it has already started.