The Skin Collector

Episode 8: Vanishing Point

Marc spent the evening curled over his notes, photographs spread like a mosaic across the bungalow’s small table. The lamp overhead buzzed faintly, casting a circle of light over handwritten names, grainy prints, newspaper clippings. His eyes burned, but he couldn’t stop.

Too much didn’t make sense.

Clara’s name kept echoing. Clara, the woman who had lived for truth—at least, the truth she’d believed in. She was extreme, yes. Intense. But a killer? A collector of flesh?

He remembered the way she’d move through the world as though it belonged to her. Not with arrogance, but with a kind of serene inevitability. Always nude, always composed. At dinner parties, walking along secluded paths, sunbathing on balconies. Her nudity had never been an invitation or a performance—it was her refusal to play by society’s rules. She believed that shedding clothes meant shedding lies.