Kyra Knight

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He pulls me roughly inside, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind us, the sound echoing through the grand hall. The iron bolt slides into place with a sharp metallic clang. His chest rises and falls hard, his eyes burning with something that looks like anger, but feels like recognition.

“That’s the fifteenth victim,” he says darkly, his voice low and rough. “Now, do you believe me?”

I stare down at the floor, the image of that girl’s lifeless body burned ...