A killers obsession kill.., p.1
A Killer's Obsession (Killer’s Game Duet Book 1), page 1
A KILLER’S OBSESSION
D.R. BROOKS
A Killer’s Obsession
(Killer’s Game Duet Book 1)
Copyright © 2025 by D.R. Brooks
First Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods—without the prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
Editor/Proofreader: Alysha Thornton at Athorntonedits
Cover designer: Fay Lane
Interior formatting & design: 3Crows Author Services
Thank you for taking the time to read my book, and an even special thank you to my beta readers who helped me along the way.
For those who crave a love that doesn’t cage you,
but arms you.
Who doesn’t pull you from the fire,
but stands in it with you,
gun drawn, heart wild,
ready to kill for your next breath.
I dedicate this book to everyone who supported my dream of becoming an author.
To all my teachers, friends, and family who cheered me on,
fostered my writing skills, and told me to believe in myself.
I would not have gotten to this point without all of you.
So thank you.
CONTENTS
Note About AI
Content Warning
Trigger Warning
Message to my family:
Glossary
Police Codes
Abbreviations/Other Terms
Playlist
Prologue
1. Raelynn
2. Raelynn
3. Raelynn
4. Raelynn
5. Raelynn
6. Emilio
7. Raelynn
8. Raelynn
9. Raelynn
10. Emilio
11. Raelynn
12. Emilio
13. Emilio
14. Raelynn
15. Emilio
16. Emilio
17. Raelynn
18. Emilio
19. Raelynn
20. Raelynn
Chapter 21
22. Emilio
23. Raelynn
24. Raelynn
25. Ripper
26. Emilio
27. Raelynn
28. Emilio
29. Raelynn
30. Raelynn
31. Raelynn
Acknowledgments
Thank You
Coming Soon
Follow D.R. Brooks
NOTE ABOUT AI
Absolutely no artificial intelligence was used in the creation of this novel or cover. Most, if not all, authors have been using em dashes and various creatively stylized punctuation long before AI was being used to write books. In fact, thousands of authors’ works have been downloaded illegally to train these AI systems without the authors' permission or any compensation. So if you want to come at me for using my em dashes, or anything else you commonly see being used by AI, remember this: It is AI that resembles authors’ works, not the other way around! Please kindly leave me, my em dashes, and the thousands of authors who use them alone.
Thank you for understanding.
CONTENT WARNING
Before you dive into the darkness, let me offer a small light.
While I hold a degree in criminal justice, my passion for true crime, human behavior, and the psychology of killers helped shape the world you’re about to enter. That said, I’m not a detective, psychologist, police officer, or forensic expert—and I don’t claim to be. While I’ve done my best to portray investigative processes and criminal patterns with care and curiosity, A Killer’s Obsession is, first and foremost, a work of fiction. Certain liberties have been taken in the name of pacing, tension, and (let’s be honest) drama. I would also like to note that the subject matter in this book is intended for readers aged 18 and above. It is dark and can trigger some, so please take the trigger warnings seriously. Your mental health is essential!
TRIGGER WARNING
Murder
Violence
Blood and gore
Stabbing
Use of a gun/shooting
Heavy profanity
Use of dirty (used) needle
Mutilation
Death of family (off page, mention)
Parental/spousal abuse (off page, mention)
Psychological torture
Graphic depictions of death
Stalking
Serial killer
Touch her and die
Injury to animal
Gagging
Use of adult toys
Explicit sexual scenes
Sex in a semi-public space
Oral sex
Fingering
Breath play
Restraints
Masturbation
Kidnapping
Home invasion
Strangulation
Obsession
MESSAGE TO MY FAMILY:
I absolutely love and appreciate all of your support, and I can’t wait for you to get your hands on a copy. However, fair warning—this isn’t your average, clean-cut slasher. There are, ahem, explicit scenes tucked in… so read at your own risk. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
GLOSSARY
Throughout this book, you’ll encounter various dispatch and police codes and standard abbreviated terms used by the police. However, not all of them will necessarily appear in the story. It’s important to note that these codes can vary from state to state, though some are universal. The ones listed below are specific to the city in Arizona where this book takes place, and are included here to help you reference them when needed.
POLICE CODES
CODE 1: CLEAR TO RECEIVE CONFIDENTIAL MESSAGE
Code 2: Urgent response
Code 3: Emergency response
Code 4: No further assistance needed
Code 7: Out of service to eat
10-1: Receiving poorly
10-2: Loud and clear
10-3: Stop transmitting
10-4: Message received/OK/Acknowledged
10-7: Out of service
10-8: Back in service
10-9: Repeat message
10-18: As soon as possible/Immediately
10-23: At the scene
10-26: Detaining subject - expedite response
10-33: Disturbance
10-39: Major incident (Units not involved, remain 10-8 and 10-3)
10-40: Prowler
10-43: Armed robbery
10-47: Lost/Missing Person
10-51: Auto accident - without injury
10-52: Auto accident - with injury
10-53: Fatal auto accident
10-59: Ambulance
10-72: Rescue/Paramedic Unit
10-81: Stop and Field Interview (probable suspect)
10-82: Stop and Arrest
10-84: Backup Unit
10-99: Officer urgently needs assistance/Respond code 3
ABBREVIATIONS/OTHER TERMS
BOLOS: BE ON THE LOOKOUT
MDT: Mobile Data Terminal (The computer police use in their vehicles)
APB: All Points Bulletin (Urgent matter. Looking for suspects, missing people)
B&E: Breaking and Entering
CSU: Crime Scene Unit
GSW: Gun Shot Wound
DOA: Dead on Arrival
CSO: Community Service Officer
ME: Medical Examiner
PLAYLIST
FINAL GIRL (too pretty to die) -- PI3RCE
Nightmare -- Halsey
Deadly -- Catch Your Breath
Atlantic -- Sleep Token
Red Vineyard -- Diggy Graves
Machinehead -- Bush
KNIVES -- Neoni
Like A Villain -- Bad Omens
Numb -- Sleep Theory
Ghost Inside The Shell -- Catch Your Breath
Dark Signs -- Sleep Token
Heads Will Roll -- Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Climbing Up the Walls -- Radiohead
Blood On White Satin -- Naomi Scott
Can u see me in the dark? -- Halestorm, I Prevail
GODDESS -- Written by Wolves
Fire Up the Night -- New Medicine
Paranoia -- Neoni
Paralyzed -- Sleep Theory
Never Say Die -- Neoni
Strong for Somebody Else -- Citizen Soldier
PIECES -- Daughtry
I am not a woman, I’m a god -- Halsey
If I’m There -- Bad Omens
Kill of the Night -- Gin Wigmore
Run For Your Life -- K. Flay
Die Trying -- New Medicine
Game of Survival -- Ruelle
Follow You -- Bring Me The Horizon
Motley Crew -- Post Malone
Coming Undone -- Korn
I Am the Fire -- Halestorm
Irreplaceable -- Citizen Soldier
Duality -- Slipknot
Getting Away With Murder -- Papa Roach
Monsters -- Ruelle
Even If It Kills Me -- Papa Roach
Fallen Angel -- Three Days Gr ace
Puppet -- Diggy Graves
PROLOGUE
The warm air still carries the scent of rain and sun-baked pavement, thick with humidity left behind by the storm that swept through earlier. It clings to my skin, heavy and damp, and the wind that whips around the corners of the buildings offers no relief—only swirls of heat laced with the earthy tang of wet asphalt and desert dust. My boots splash through shallow puddles along the sidewalk, sending lazy ripples through the watery reflections of amber streetlights overhead. The asphalt glistens beneath me, scattered with broken patches and the occasional billow of water stirred by a passing breeze.
The last traces of daylight are long gone, swallowed by the thick, charcoal sky. What remains is the unnerving and heavy quiet. There are no voices, music, or even the distant shuffle of other footsteps. Just the occasional car rolling by with tires hissing over wet pavement, headlights sweeping briefly across the street before vanishing around a corner.
I shift the straps of my book bag higher on my shoulders, wincing as it digs into my skin. It’s too heavy—stuffed with textbooks, my laptop, and everything else I’ve dragged around all day. The weight is a constant reminder of how long this day has been. Ahead, my apartment building looms like it’s barely holding itself together. Faded, cracked, and crumbling at the edges, just like most of the forgotten buildings on this side of town. Stone Ridge Heights has been clinging to existence for years. It sits awkwardly on the edge of campus, not quite university housing but close enough to draw in broke students and low-income tenants desperate for cheap rent. With its age and reputation, you’d think the city would’ve torn it down by now, but because it still gets business, it still stands. Unfortunately, though, no one seems to care enough to fix it up.
The street leading up to it is deserted—no joggers trying to hit their step count, no drunk students staggering home from off-campus parties, not even the guy who lives on the second floor who usually chain-smokes on his balcony. Just me, dragging my feet toward a half-condemned building, and a kind of silence that feels less peaceful and more tired. Like, the whole block is just as worn out as I am.
As I approach the side entrance, the flickering fluorescent light above the door hums faintly, casting sporadic flashes of dim illumination over the chipped stucco and the cracked, crumbling concrete steps. I pause for a second, catching my breath, sweat and humidity sticking to the back of my neck.
I sigh and reach for the handle. It’s warm from the day’s lingering heat but slick from the earlier rain. It slides beneath my fingers with a faint resistance as I yank the door open. I wedge my foot into the gap before it slams shut again. The hinges groan loudly, the sound echoing through the silence like it resents being disturbed.
Inside, the stairwell hits me with its usual blend of mildew, damp concrete, and someone’s stale weed. The door slams shut behind me with a metallic clang that echoes off the walls, trapping me in the thick, musty air. I groan, press the back of my hand to my nose, and try not to gag. The smell’s awful, and the stuffiness in the stairwell has somehow made it worse. I shift the straps of my bag again, hiking it up as far as they can go on my shoulders.
Four flights of stairs wait ahead, stretching upward into dim, flickering light. The elevator’s still broken. Surprise, surprise. It’s been out for weeks—just another casualty of the building’s long list of ignored maintenance issues. People complain daily, their voices growing more impatient by the hour, but management does what it always does: absolutely nothing. We’re used to it by now. Broken promises and busted utilities are, to some extent, part of the charm.
I stand at the base of the stairwell for a second, steeling myself. My fingers tighten around the straps of my bag as I look up the stairs. The overhead fluorescents flicker and hum, throwing warped shadows across the cracked walls like they’re trying to set the mood for a horror movie.
And honestly? They’re doing a pretty good job.
With a resigned sigh, I start my climb. My boots hit the steps with soft, steady thuds, echoing up the narrow stairwell. Each step feels heavier than the last, my muscles protesting the effort. The weight of my bag pulls at my shoulders like an anchor, dragging the last bit of energy out of me. I’m tired (more than tired), and it shows in every inch of my body.
When I reach the fourth floor, I’m breathless and sore. My legs ache like I just hiked a mountain instead of a busted apartment stairwell, and sweat clings to the back of my neck, making my shoulder-length dirty blonde hair stick uncomfortably to my skin.
With a sharp exhale, I shrug off my book bag and let it drop to the floor with a loud, satisfying thud that echoes down the hall. The release of that weight is a tiny victory, and I savor it for all of two seconds before peeling off my red university hoodie. It’s lightweight, but the fabric clings to my damp arms like shrink-wrap. I tug it off and toss it over my shoulder, rolling my neck and shoulders to shake out the tension that’s settled deep in my muscles.
Crouched beside my bag, I unzip it and shove my hand in. Digging through the clutter, I push around empty gum wrappers, condoms, crumpled receipts, a few rogue bobby pins, and at least three pens that have no business still existing. My fingers sweep through the chaos, brushing past old granola bar crumbs as I mutter under my breath, searching for the familiar loop of my lanyard.
Just as I’m about to give up and dump the whole thing out, a sharp creak cuts through the silence behind me.
I freeze.
My breath catches, fingers tightening around the edge of my bag as a chill creeps up my spine. I don’t move. I just listen—eyes scanning the murky corners the overhead lights don’t quite reach. Another groan follows, quieter this time. My heart stutters, pounding harder now as I straighten up slowly. I glance behind me, every muscle tensed. Nothing. No movement, no voices, just that familiar hum of cheap fluorescent lights and the faint echo of my own breath.
I swallow hard and exhale slowly, trying to will my pulse back into something manageable. “Jesus,” I mutter, my voice low and unsteady. “It’s just an old building. You’ve lived here for how long now?”
And then, like some horror movie timing joke, a sudden blur darts out from the far end of the hallway.
I let out a sharp gasp, practically leaping back against the wall as a small tabby cat streaks past me, its tail flicking like a whip as it bolts down the stairs that I had just come from. My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts, and I let out a breathless, shaky laugh.
“A cat,” I whisper to myself. “I almost had a heart attack over a fucking cat.” Still rattled, I bend down and yank my red and blue university lanyard out of the bag. My hands are trembling as the keys jingle in my grip. I rise slowly, eyes darting back toward the hallway, just in case.
It’s quiet again.
I step forward quickly, not wanting to give my brain any more time to spiral, and make it to my door. The key sticks like it always does, and I jiggle it until I hear the deadbolt finally give way with a dull click. I shove the door open and pause, one foot inside, one still in the hallway.
Just one more glance. I can’t help it.
I look back down the corridor, eyes lingering on the edges, the shadows, the places where sound shouldn’t come from. Everything looks normal. But that doesn’t stop my skin from crawling.
Finally, I step inside and shut the door behind me, the click of the lock oddly satisfying. I flip the deadbolt and slide the chain into place for good measure. Just the sound of it settling into the track makes me feel a little safer, a little more in control.
I turn away from the door and reach for the light switch. With a soft click, a warm, golden glow spills across the living room, stretching over the worn-out, eggshell-colored couch, the cluttered coffee table, and the stack of dishes I still haven’t dealt with in the kitchen. The tension that’s been coiled in my shoulders since I stepped into the stairwell loosens just a little. I let out a long breath and feel my body sag with it, like I’ve been holding it all in without realizing.
“Meow!”
I don’t even have time to set my bag down before Calypso, my chubby calico cat, trots over, tail high, weaving eagerly between my legs. Her steps are nearly silent on the hardwood, but her meows are anything but subtle, and they bring a much-needed smile to my face.
