Each word had been individually pasted onto the paper. The letters, cut from different newspapers and magazines, had been arranged with almost obsessive precision.
The method had one obvious advantage: it prevented anyone from analyzing the author's handwriting.
What caught his attention most, however, was the content.
Because at first, the letters did not even seem like threats.
They read like declarations of love.
The entire message was a confession of how deeply in love the writer claimed to be with Taylor.
He described every part of Taylor's body with disturbing precision. He did not speak of her as a person, but as though she were an object that belonged to him. Something he had been watching for far too long.
The stalker had even cut out several photographs of the singer. He had carefully separated the head, arms, legs, and chest before arranging the pieces around an incomplete body.
Beneath each part, he had placed a different sentence.
Your hair will be mine.
Your legs will never carry you away from me again.
Your eyes will be the last thing I see.
Just looking at the collage made Ethan's skin crawl.
This was not the work of an overly enthusiastic fan. It was a fantasy of possession, control, and mutilation, constructed with disturbing patience.
At first, the letter spoke of love. An absolute, pure love destined to bind them together forever. But as it went on, the words grew darker. Declarations gave way to accusations; accusations turned into insults, and those eventually became increasingly explicit threats.
Taylor had ignored him.
Taylor had mocked him.
Taylor allowed other men to touch what belonged to him.
By the final lines, the message had been reduced to an idea as simple as it was terrifying:
I love you. That's why no one else can have you.
I love you. That's why I have to kill you.
Ethan remained silent for several seconds before picking up the second letter.
The content was almost identical, although the obsession seemed to have intensified. There were more photographs, more references to her body, and far more detailed descriptions of how he intended to preserve her after killing her.
—This doesn't look like the work of some ordinary obsessed fan.
He looked up at Chloe and lightly waved the letters.
—You must get a lot of strange things, right?
—We have obsessive fans.
Chloe took a sip of her drink before sitting across from them.
—Especially this year. Taylor released a new album and her popularity skyrocketed. You have no idea how many people spend entire nights outside hotels just to catch a glimpse of her for a few seconds.
She paused and glanced uneasily at the letters.
—But we've never received anything like this.
—When did it start?
Ethan examined one of the pages again. Some of the clippings had been positioned so precisely that the writer must have spent hours completing a single letter.
—About two weeks ago —Chloe replied.
She set her glass on the table and lit a thin cigarette. Her fingers trembled slightly as she brought the flame closer.
—At first, we didn't pay much attention to them. We thought it was just another disturbed person trying to scare her. The first two letters went straight into the trash.
She slowly exhaled the smoke.
—But then we arrived in Chicago.
Ethan looked up.
Chloe stared at Taylor's cutout face before continuing:
—They started appearing again. We found one at the hotel, another in the dressing room, and another inside the vehicle we use to transport her.
Hank's expression hardened.
—Inside the vehicle?
Chloe nodded.
—No one saw him approach it. No one knows how he got inside.
Ethan lowered his gaze to the final sentence in the letter.
I'm already close.
Seeing that he was still examining the photographs pasted onto the pages, Chloe pulled an ashtray closer and carefully tapped off the ash.
—After these two were given to me, I kept them and no one touched them again. If the man left any fingerprints, I assume you'll be able to recover them.
Ethan did not answer.
He leaned over the letter and moved the lamp so the light fell directly onto one of the clippings. Then he motioned for Hank to come closer.
—Look at the edges.
Hank rested one hand on the table and examined the photograph.
—What am I looking for?
Ethan pointed to barely visible marks around Taylor's cutout face. They were too narrow and uniform to have been made by fingers.
—He used tweezers.
Hank narrowed his eyes.
—To cut out the photographs?
—To hold them and glue them down. He probably wore gloves while preparing the envelopes too.
Ethan studied the placement of each fragment. There were no glue smears or visible fingerprints. Even the letters were perfectly aligned, arranged one by one with almost surgical patience.
—He didn't do this in a hurry —he added—. He sat down, cut out every part of her body, and built the collage without directly touching the paper. Someone this careful isn't likely to leave a complete fingerprint by accident.
Chloe stubbed out her cigarette harder than necessary.
—Then they're useless.
—I didn't say that. There could be a partial print, saliva on the envelopes, fibers, hair, or adhesive residue that could tell us what he used. Anything could help.
Ethan carefully slid the letters back into their respective envelopes and handed them to Hank.
The sergeant placed them in a clear evidence bag.
—I'll have them sent to the lab. We'll see if they can find anything.
Ethan leaned back slightly in his chair and turned his attention to Chloe. The woman appeared calm, but she had smoked almost half the cigarette in only a few minutes.
—There's something I don't understand.
Chloe met his gaze.
—What?
—You receive fan mail every day. Some of it must be pretty disturbing, and according to you, the first two letters ended up in the trash.
Ethan paused briefly.
—Why did you decide to contact us now?
Chloe took a deep drag. For the first time since they had arrived, the confidence in her expression cracked.
—This house doesn't belong to Taylor.
—We already figured that out —Hank said.
—After the incidents at the hotel and with the vehicle, a friend loaned us the property so Taylor could stay here while she's in Chicago. We wanted to keep her away from hotels, photographers, and anyone who knew her itinerary.
Ethan waited.
That still did not fully answer his question.
Chloe slowly exhaled the smoke.
—The address was kept secret. It isn't listed on any reservation and wasn't shared with the press. Not even everyone on the team knows Taylor sleeps here.
—An address stops being secret when thirty people are coming and going from it —Ethan pointed out.
Chloe's lips tightened slightly.
—Most of them think we only use the house for rehearsals.
—How many people know she's staying here too?
Chloe hesitated.
—Her assistant, the head of security, two bodyguards, the driver, and a few people we trust completely.
—Exactly how many?
—I'd have to check the list.
—Do that.
Ethan's tone was not harsh, but it made clear that it was not a suggestion.
Chloe lowered her gaze toward the ashtray.
—The first letter appeared this morning beside the front entrance. We found the second this afternoon on the other side of the back gate.
Hank frowned.
—Inside the property?
—Yes.
—Do you have cameras? —Ethan asked.
—There are hidden cameras in the back and sensors around the property, but they didn't catch anyone. The system lost its signal for several minutes.
Ethan stopped tapping his finger against the table.
—Both times?
Chloe slowly shook her head.
—Only when the second one appeared.
The silence that followed was brief but heavy.
—An ordinary fan shouldn't know Taylor is staying here —Chloe continued—. Much less know where the cameras are, approach without the guards seeing him, and throw a letter inside a secured property.
Ethan rested his forearms on the table.
—Do you think someone followed her from the hotel?
—We don't know.
—Did you notice any vehicle repeatedly following the same route? Anyone near the airport, the rehearsal, or the house?
—The security team didn't report anything.
—That doesn't mean no one was there —Hank cut in—. It only means they didn't see them.
Chloe looked away.
Ethan looked again at the envelopes inside the bag. The stalker was no longer content to send threats from a distance. He had discovered a supposedly secret residence, studied its security, and waited for the right moment to approach.
He tapped the table once with his finger.
—Tell me something. Is there anything else you're not telling us?
The woman held his gaze but did not answer.
—Does Taylor have enemies? Any conflict with a record label, a manager, or another artist? Disputes over contracts, money, or rights to her songs?
—Taylor is a public figure. There will always be people who disagree with her.
—I didn't ask whether people like her. I asked whether anyone has a reason to hurt her.
Chloe remained silent.
—I need a complete list —Ethan added—. Former employees, exes, troublesome fans, dismissed members of her team, and anyone she's had any kind of conflict with. No matter how insignificant it may seem to you.
Chloe's expression changed for barely an instant, but it was enough.
She hesitated.
Then she picked up her glass and drank slowly, using every second to prepare her answer. When she placed it back on the table, the uneasiness had vanished from her face, replaced by a perfectly professional smile.
—I've already shown you the letters. That's everything we have.
Ethan held her gaze.
Chloe crossed one leg over the other.
—I've heard your unit is one of the most capable in the Chicago Police Department. I assumed you could analyze the threats, find a lead, and locate whoever is responsible. It shouldn't be too difficult for you, should it?
Ethan looked at Hank.
The woman was hiding something.
She had not merely avoided the question; she had tried to turn it into their problem. And judging by how quickly she had recovered that smile, she had probably spent her entire career redirecting uncomfortable conversations.
—Whether this is difficult or not isn't for you to decide —Ethan said.
Chloe narrowed her eyes slightly.
—Detective, I didn't mean—
Hank cut in:
—You called us because someone knows where Taylor sleeps. That man managed to get close to private property without being seen, left two threats, and apparently knows how to avoid the cameras. And yet, when my detective asks who might want to hurt her, you decide to play games with us.
—I'm not playing games with you.
—Then answer him.
The silence stretched on.
Chloe was the first to look away.
Ethan checked his watch and looked at Hank.
—All right.
Hank understood immediately. He stood and adjusted his jacket.
—If you're not comfortable telling us the whole truth, consider this conversation as never having happened.
—What are you doing? —Chloe asked.
—Leaving. I've got a unit full of cases where the victims actually want to cooperate.
Ethan remained seated for a few more seconds, watching Chloe with an impassive expression.
—You're leaving because I didn't answer one question? —she insisted.
Hank shook his head.
—We're leaving because that answer could mean the difference between finding this man now and finding out who he was after he kills someone.
Chloe's smile disappeared.
They had asked for help. Hiding information to protect Taylor's image was a pretty stupid way of getting it.
—It was a pleasure meeting you —Ethan said as he stood.
Hank did not seem willing to argue either. He had come all the way out there to return a favor, not to play guessing games. If the other side refused to cooperate, there was little he could do for them.
Ethan reached the door. His hand had not even touched the handle when the lock turned from the other side.
The door opened.
A faint scent of perfume drifted into the room, and a woman with delicate features and short blonde hair appeared in the doorway.
It was Taylor Swift.
From downstairs, surrounded by dancers and spotlights, Ethan had not paid much attention to her. Now that she was standing directly in front of him, he blinked in mild surprise. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than him. Her ice-blue eyes were clear, almost as clear as the waters of Banshee's lake.
Two bodyguards stood behind her.
Taylor stopped when she found them standing in front of the door.
—You are…
She looked toward Chloe, who had also risen to her feet.
—Are you done talking?
—No —Chloe answered too quickly.
Ethan slowly turned his head toward her.
Chloe held his gaze. She had pulled enough strings to get the department's higher-ups to send someone to investigate the threats. She could not allow both detectives to simply walk away like that.
Taylor was facing a danger they needed to deal with as soon as possible.
Noticing the silent plea in Chloe's eyes, Ethan shook his head slightly. He said nothing. He had a damn weakness for women who gave him that puppy-dog look.
—I was just going to the bathroom.
Taylor blinked, slightly embarrassed.
—Oh… right. Sorry. Down the hall, two doors on the left.
Ethan nodded and left the room.
A few minutes later, he returned with his hands still wet. The two bodyguards remained stationed on either side of the door, and the moment they saw him approaching, they looked at him with obvious displeasure.
Ethan was taller, younger, and, unfortunately for their egos, considerably better-looking than either of them.
One of them looked him up and down before curling his lip.
Ethan pretended not to notice.
—Excuse me.
He stopped in front of the man partially blocking the entrance. He was broad-shouldered, with hard features and his hair styled into a mohawk.
The bodyguard did not move.
His partner said nothing either. He simply watched.
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
Were they seriously trying to mark their territory?
—Are you going to let me through? —he asked.
The man with the mohawk held his gaze.
—The room is occupied.
—I know. I just came out of it.
—Then wait.
Ethan watched him for a moment, then lowered his gaze to his wet hands.
—All right.
He raised both hands and slowly, deliberately wiped them against the bodyguard's jacket.
One pat across the chest.
Then another.
The man looked down at the damp marks on the fabric.
—What the hell are you doing?
Ethan finished drying his fingers on the man's shoulder.
—I was hoping to find a towel, but this works too.
The other bodyguard had to suppress a smile.
The man with the mohawk clenched his jaw and stepped toward Ethan, but Ethan did not back away. His smile disappeared, though his voice remained calm.
—Now move.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Finally, the bodyguard stepped aside.
Ethan gave him one last pat on the shoulder.
—Good boy.
Inside, silence reigned.
Hank and Chloe sat facing each other, motionless, as though they had turned into wooden figures while he was gone.
Taylor absently played with her phone. Her brow was slightly furrowed, and none of the energy she had shown during rehearsal remained.
Ethan's entrance broke the uncomfortable atmosphere.
He closed the door and returned to the table.
—All right. What else do we need to know?
Taylor did not even look up from her phone.
—Show them —she said quietly—. This happened three weeks ago, before we came to Chicago.
Chloe no longer dared to keep pretending. She pulled out a small stack of photographs and placed them on the table.
—I hope what you see here doesn't get leaked.
She paused briefly.
—It wouldn't be good for anyone.
There was a faint edge of threat in her words.
Ethan noticed that Taylor had begun to tremble. It was barely visible, but she kept her hands clenched tightly over her legs.
The moment he picked up the photographs, he understood why Chloe had hidden their existence and why she was so concerned about keeping them from becoming public.
The pictures had been taken in Taylor's bedroom, inside her Los Angeles mansion.
The first showed the bed. A pool of blood darkened the white sheets, but that was not what caught Ethan's attention.
A severed cat's head had been placed beside the pillows.
It was deeply disturbing. Ethan almost would have found a human head less unsettling.
The second photograph showed Taylor sitting in a corner of the room. She wore a silk nightgown spattered with blood and had her knees drawn up against her chest. Her face was pale, and the fear was still clearly visible in her eyes.
The remaining images showed different angles of the bedroom: bloody footprints across the floor, the animal's body beside the window, and several stains on the walls.
Looking again at the cat's head, Ethan remembered a sentence.
He took the bag containing the envelopes back from Hank, pulled out one of the letters, and scanned the lines until he found it.
To me, you're like a precious little kitten. So delicate, so captivating… and someday you'll be mine.
Ethan slowly raised his gaze toward Chloe.
—So this happened before you received the first letter.
It was not a question.
Chloe nodded.
—A week before.
—That man entered her bedroom and then started sending the letters —Ethan said, looking at Taylor—. He's not getting closer. He's been inside her circle for weeks.
That erased any remaining doubt.
Taylor really had received a death threat.
And whoever was capable of doing something like that had to be seriously disturbed.
—Who took these photographs? —Ethan asked.
—I did —Chloe replied—. I took them before we cleaned the room. We needed to document everything in case we eventually decided to go to the police.
She kept her eyes fixed on the photographs Ethan and Hank were holding, clearly worried that they might keep one.
It was not an unreasonable concern.
A photograph of Taylor covered in blood could be sold to any gossip magazine for a fortune. If those images leaked, the paparazzi would swarm the story and the media would turn every detail into a spectacle.
After examining them carefully, Hank handed them back.
—How many people know what happened?
—Taylor, me, her personal assistant, and the head of security —Chloe replied as she put the photographs away—. No one else knows all the details. Everyone else only knows we've received threats.
Taylor remained silent, playing with her phone while Chloe answered almost everything for her.
Hank lightly tapped his fingers against the table.