Page 28 of The Butterfly Killer

“I wanted to ask if you’d like to stop by my house. To give you a more warm welcome to the street.”

Marcus stopped again. “Look, I’m not trying to be rude or anything, but I don’t want to be bothered. I came here to housesit. That’s it.”

He was making a promise now to not step out of the house again. God, no wonder he hated people.

Michael’s friendly smile dropped. “Oh…sure. I get it.”

Marcus almost ran the rest of the way to the house. He locked the door behind him and sagged against it.

This was what Lilianna ran away to? No wonder she didn’t want to involve him in her new life. He’d make everyone on the block an enemy.

Once Marcus’s nerves had settled, he pulled a chair to the living room window and stared out it. He watched as people walked their dogs, mowed their lawns, and Michael jogged. That man jogged way too much. He said he had a job, but it didn’t seem like it.

The days of the week bled together. He was a zombie. He slept, he ate, and he sat in front of the window, waiting for the copycat to come to the door.

He didn’t answer his phone. Lily never messaged him and she was the only person he cared to listen for. Also AgentMercer. He’d tell Marcus if they’d got the bastard—either one of them. The copycat or the real Butterfly Killer. Marcus just wanted someone to be caught, someone to pay for the crimes they’d committed.

He tapped the arm of the chair as he stared out the window. The hours passed with no change. His focus waned and there were many times he had to shake himself awake. In those moments, he doubted himself. He doubted what he thought about the killer, if there even was a copycat, and if he’d scared his sister for no reason.

But no. Those emails and that magazine had been real. Though, as Agent Mercer had pointed out, they could have been pranks. But Lilianna had been so good at cutting herself off from her old life. Practically nobody even knew she was connected to the Butterfly Killer at all.

Somewhere in the midst of waiting for the copycat to show up, Marcus had fallen asleep. He was suddenly woken by a knock on the door.

He uncurled himself from the chair and looked outside to see that it was dark.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. He got up from the chair and went to the door. He looked out to see no one.

His heart skipped. Even though he didn’t want to, he grabbed his gun off the shelf he’d placed it on and held it at the ready. He put his hand on the handle of the door. His eyes flickered over the empty street. The street lights were bright enough he could see there was no one on the porch, but he flipped the porch light on just in case.

There was no one. He didn’t see anyone running, not a shadow anywhere to be seen. He took deep careful breaths as he unlocked the door and opened it.

His gun was steady in his hand. His finger was ready to pull the trigger, but he didn’t want to be too hasty. He would not be the guy who shot an innocent person because of paranoia.

When no one jumped out at him, he wondered if he’d even heard a knock at all. He stood there for a moment, wishing the killer was there. He felt so stupid and much like the freak people said he was behind his back.

He lowered his gun and shut the door.

He sat his gun back on the shelf and turned around.

An arm shot around his neck and pulled him back against a chest. He thrashed as he was thrown against the wall. The arm tightened, crushing his windpipe. He gasped as his air was cut off.

He reached for his gun on the shelf. His fingers grazed the barrel, but before he could grab it, he was pulled back and thrown up against the wall again.

His head cracked on a mirror. The glass shattered, the pieces raining down on the ground. For a second, he saw their fighting forms on what was left of the mirror. He caught a glimpse of the man’s face, but before he could even think about what he’d seen, his vision went black.

He passed out.

8

Marcus heard dripping water.It echoed around him, like there were many spots where it was coming from. He tossed his head, his eyes still closed, as he tried to make the sound stop from within. He made a low groan in the back of his throat.

His body ached. He didn’t know where the ache was coming from, but he just knew he was in pain. It was a dull pain that bloomed in different spots—he felt it everywhere but almost like it was a remembrance of pain than anything else.

He tried to sit up. The pain in his neck and lower abdomen worsened. He seethed as he fell back down. He gasped as his eyes stared up at the ceiling. Wood. He saw wood planks and then a metal sheet. He was in some kind of shed.

He turned his head to the side. He could feel the ghosting of the fingertips digging into his throat. He wheezed as his own panic started to seal off his airway. His hand was shaking as he raised it to touch his neck. There was nothing there. He knew that. But it was his brain being played.

His mouth was dry. He swallowed to try and coat his dry tongue. The taste in his mouth was sour. He must have thrown up as he passed out or when he was here.

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