Page 94 of The Butterfly Killer

The car started. They got onto the long road that seemed to head nowhere. Marcus could have asked where they were meeting Miguel and this informant, but it didn’t seem to matter. Where they met wouldn’t change a thing. There was no predicting what was going to happen when they were face to face with Miguel.

Nothing could prepare Marcus.

A diner. That was where they were meeting the infamousel profanador.

It took them two hours to reach it. Settled in the heart of a small town with only three other shops, a church attached to the jailhouse, and a decrepit park, the diner looked like it hadn’t changed since it was built in the forties.

Roman parked at the corner just before the diner. He shut the car off. Neither of them moved. The sun had broken over the horizon, blanketing the small town in a warm glow. It would have been picturesque if it wasn’t for the reason they were here.

A few passersby gave them looks, but it seemed more out of curiosity than hostility.

Roman’s phone buzzed. He didn’t look at it.

He reached around to the back of the seat where the duffle bag sat. He unzipped it and reached inside. He pulled out a sleek black CZ 75 pistol. He tucked it into the back of his waistband.

Marcus couldn’t help as he stared at the gun. It wasn’t so much as surprise as it was realization that this was real. They were doing this.

“Let’s go.”

Marcus got out, his legs a little unsteady. The cold air from the mountains traveled with them. It brought a chill to the air worse in the morning without the warmth of the sun to chase it out.

He took a moment to look around. The colors were golden around him, but there seemed to be something cold about them. The world around him seemed bleak. He didn’t know if it was because he was feeling bleak or if it was just his eyes adjusting to the morning light.

“Okay?”

Roman got onto the sidewalk and stood beside Marcus. He was patiently waiting. Marcus looked away from the mountains and the rising sun.

“Yeah,” he said though he wasn’t. He couldn’t truly be okay when he didn’t know what his fate would be.

Roman touched Marcus’s neck. It wasn’t a commanding touch. It was gentle, a graze of a feather.

“Trust me?”

The tender touch messed with Marcus’s thoughts. He wanted to hate Roman without a doubt in his bones. He didn’t want hesitation he didn’t want a “but” in mind. There were excuses on the tip of his tongue and each time he thought of them, it broke down the shields that were supposed to protect him from Roman, not hurt himself.

“I trust you.” The truth shouldn’t have felt so good. It shouldn’t have given him comfort. He should be ashamed things were ending this way.

Roman dropped his hand. Disappointment fell over Marcus. He hadn’t thought Roman would kiss him in public. But he’d wanted Roman to. He’d wanted one more kiss before this bubble was popped.

Roman took the lead. Marcus followed, feeling more like a zombie. It was a combination of getting barely any sleep and the nerves getting the better of his stomach.

They entered the diner. The smell of pancakes, sausage, and eggs hit his nose. The lingering sweetness made his teeth ache, but the savoriness made his mouth water.

Coffee called his name. He longed for a cup.

A waitress carrying a tray with three plates full of food passed them by with an exhausted smile. “Welcome to Pete’s! Have a seat wherever you like!”

She turned her back to them, heading toward a table in the back. “I’ll be right with you in a short moment!”

The diner wasn’t packed, but it was enough to keep one waitress busy. Marcus didn’t see another worker in sight soshe must have been working the tables and the register while someone was in the kitchen.

He glanced around the tables. He didn’t know who he was looking for, what face would be Miguel and Roman’s informant. But when his eyes looked over a table away from the windows, he knew he’d found them.

Roman was already heading their way.

Marcus took the men in. The one on the outside seat was most definitely Miguel. It wasn’t even the hair and nose that matched Roman’s to the dot. It was the look in his eyes.

Marcus wouldn’t say there was a certain look in a psychopath’s eyes. Not every psychopath anyway. But there was something about someone so deranged it made human instinct kick in.

---