Page 25 of Eyes in the Shadows

I ignore how my heart sinks that his sentence didn’t end in the middle. Wait, what? Tell him what I want? What kind of twisted game is he playing? “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t expand; the silence just stretches between us.

“Why were you in my apartment?”

“To kill someone,” he answers immediately.

Wow. I really wasn’t expecting him to answer that one. The honesty is somehow both chilling and refreshing at the same time—a testament to both the horrific nature of the truth, and how much I hate being lied to. “Just one? You shot more than once. How many did you kill?”

“Are you asking for my stats?”

My stomach drops—that feels like a confirmation of my suspicions. This wasn’t a one-off, he’s a certified, cold-blooded killer. “Why?” I ask softly.

“There’s a lot of different answers to that question. The shortest one is, it’s what I do.”

I chew on my lip. I have no idea what to do with that one. “Does that mean it’s a career, or a calling?”

He laughs. “Clever. Bit of both.”

“And me? What do I have to do with all this?”

“That part’s up to you, now, darlin’. You know how to reach me.”

The line goes dead and I stare at my phone, completely flabbergasted and flustered. How did I get the chance to talk to him and end up learning nothing?! I mean, I guess I learned he’s not with law enforcement—which I knew—and that he’s a killer—which I also knew—and that I’m so attracted to him that even his voice made me wet—which I also fucking already knew.

With a sigh that turns into a little scream of frustration, I toss the phone. Literally the only new piece of information I have is his phone number, which could be construed as learning something. But his cryptic parting words keep playing back in my mind as I disrobe and turn on the water for my shower.

What part of this is up to me? The part where he’s sending me ominous gifts? The part where he’s putting his contact in my phone without my permission? The part where he watches through my window? How is being stalked within my control?

The time spent under the spray of the shower eventually calms me and I step out, resolved not to let this consume the rest of my entire day.

I get dressed, go to that weird movie theater, and let the teenager who runs the ticket booth pick something for me. Then I lose myself in a tub of buttered popcorn, subtitles and confusing subplots for two hours.

It’s just starting to get dark when I get back, and my stomach gurgles as I climb the stairs. I press my hand to it, full of regret. Ugh, I shouldn’t have eaten all the popcorn, but something about sitting in the dark, eyes glued to a big screen, makes it impossible to stop before you reach the bottom of the tub.

When I reach my floor, I stop dead just outside the stairwell. There are two guys at my door, neither of whom I recognize, but my heart kicks into double time as I see the black uniform on the one with his back to me.

Shit. It’s the cops.

The other guy doesn’t seem to be wearing a police uniform, but they’re standing so close and talking, so they have to be together. I hear him say, “Can’t we just…” and he starts pulling open the flap of his leather jacket, looking around sort of furtively. When he sees me, he stops instantly, letting his coat fall back down. Then he smacks the guy in the uniform on the chest and gestures at me with a nod.

The officer turns around. He’s about 50, starting to jowl out, and has a clean-cut look to him. “Hello, Ma’am. My name is Officer McCloskey, and this is Detective O’Malley,” he gestures to the guy in plainclothes standing behind him.

I glance up at the detective, take in his square jaw and piercing eyes and decide he’d be handsome, if not for the weird vibes he’s giving off. He seems incredibly intense, focused on me in a way that doesn’t feel in alignment with Officer McCloskey’s calculatedly friendly, plastered-on smile. The visible guns in his holster under his leather jacket don’t exactly help me feel more at ease.

“Is this you? 3B?”

I nod.

“We have a couple of questions for you, if you have a few minutes.”

I suddenly wish I wasn’t clearly just arriving home, because then I could pretend like I was on my way out or something. I decide to try it anyway. “Actually, I was just—”

“This won’t take long,” he cuts in, and this time the smile falters a bit.

I feel both cornered and blocked from the safety behind my door, but with no good reason to refuse to speak to them—because doesn’t that just make me seem suspicious?—I relent. “Of course.”

“Were you at home between the hours of 8 PM and 10 PM last Wednesday night?”

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