Lover's Lane

It didn’t take long before someone noticed.

By the time their fourth victim was found—another nameless body in another forgettable town—people began whispering. Cops in back offices across state lines started comparing notes. Motel clerks shared stories with truckers and local bartenders about a mysterious couple, always passing through.

Young. Attractive. Unassuming.

Always gone by morning.

What they left behind: silence, confusion, and a single red rose. Every time.

A signature.

Some called them "The Lovers.” Others, “The Rose Killers.” But the press favored simplicity. “Lover’s Lane.” It made for catchy headlines, eerie podcast intros, and the kind of story that made small-town America double-lock their doors at night.

But while the world speculated, Cameron and Sienna only grew bolder.

They moved through the Midwest like a storm with no name—Illinois, Missouri, Kansas. Cameron took photos of their victims afterward—black-and-white Polaroids only, tucked into a leather-bound journal. He said it was about memory.

Sienna didn’t ask questions. She just kissed him harder when the last breath left a body.

In Iowa, they found a woman who’d been abusing her teenage daughter. Sienna saw the bruises, watched from the shadows, followed the woman home. Cameron didn’t hesitate. That kill felt... right.

Justified, even.

They made love beside the shallow grave, the stars blinking above them like unbothered gods.

In Nebraska, they lured a con man who preyed on the elderly. A snake in a thousand-dollar suit. Cameron handled that one. Slow. Surgical. Sienna stood in the doorway, watching him work, her lips parted in admiration.

“This,” he whispered afterward, blood on his knuckles, “this is our art.”

But even artists make mistakes.

In a diner in Kansas City, Sienna noticed a man staring too long. Not a creeper. Not a mark. Something colder. Observant. Calculating.

FBI? Ex-cop? She wasn’t sure.

They left fast. Paid cash. Changed the license plate again.

Still, the whisper of him lingered.

“We’re getting noticed,” she murmured in their motel room that night.

Cameron sat cross-legged on the bed, polishing a pocket knife. “Let them notice.”

“That’s not like you.”

He paused. Looked up. “It’s not like you to sound scared.”

“I’m not scared,” she said softly. “I just want to be… careful. If they catch us, we don’t get to choose how it ends.”

He stood and cupped her face with both hands. “If it ends, it ends with you. That’s all I care about.”

She closed her eyes.

But even then, in the dark, she felt it creeping in—the shadow of the hunt.

Someone was getting closer.

And she wasn’t sure if Cameron felt it, or if he was too in love with the thrill to care anymore.

In a little town in Minnesota, they took a break. No blood. No hunts. Just long walks, thrift stores, quiet motel mornings.

Sienna braided her hair for the first time in months. Cameron read worn-out novels he found in gas station bins.

But when she found him one night staring too long at the photos in the journal, lips tight, eyes cold, she knew the stillness was starting to crack.

And when he whispered her name in his sleep—but not like a lover, more like a warning—she began to wonder if love was enough to hold a monster.

Even one of your own.