Page 10 of Psychotic Faith
I push back from the desk, needing to move, to burn off this restless energy. The garage beneath the mansion holds my collection—five vintage motorcycles in various stages of restoration. The 1948 Vincent Black Shadow needs work, and tearing apart engines helps me think.
My hands find their rhythm with the tools, muscle memory from years of this work. Started when I was seventeen, right after the massacre. Nico said I needed a hobby that didn't involve blood. Turns out, rebuilding something that's been destroyed appeals to me. The precision required, the patience. Not so different from my other work.
The afternoon's work still clings to my knuckles, blood from number nine, the construction worker who made the mistake of calling out "Nice tits, sweetheart" when Faith walked past his site at lunch. The construction worker's eyes went to someone more deserving after I explained, through his screams, exactly what those 'nice tits' he mentioned looked like under Faith's sweater. Not that I've seen them yet, but my imagination is vivid and his fear needed feeding. The cleaners already handled the mess, efficient as always.
I check the time—need to clean up before tonight. But first, I pull up more research on Faith's patterns. She's been attending pharmaceutical galas, three in the past two months. Always as someone's plus-one, usually Mrs.Webb or Mrs.Patterson. Why would a librarian need to network with drug executives?
Her anxiety medication comes from Neumann Pharmaceuticals. The connection feels important but I can't place why. Is she investigating something about her prescriptions? About the company? The pieces don't fit yet.
I pull off my blood-spotted shirt and move to my closet. Not a suit tonight. Suits suggest business, violence, the man I am during working hours. Tonight requires something else. Dark jeans, Italian-made, and a charcoal sweater soft enough that when she inevitably touches me, and she will touch me, she'll feel expensive luxury instead of obvious threat.
My phone buzzes. Marco, asking about the Vincent. He wants to know if I'll have it ready for the vintage show next month. I ignore him. The bike is mine, like everything I restore. I don't share.
I check the restaurant reservation one more time. Corner table, perfect sightline to the door and every other seat. I've eaten there six times this month, learning the patterns, the blind spots, which server works which section. Sarah's birthday provides the perfect excuse. The anonymous flowers I haddelivered this morning with a card saying "From your secret admirer" guaranteed she'd want to celebrate. Libraries don't pay enough for somewhere that nice, but birthdays make people splurge.
One more photograph to write on before I leave. My fingers work without thought, creating something delicate from nothing. On the back, I write: "Look for me tonight." She won't know where or when, but she'll know I'm coming. The anticipation will make her hyperaware, searching every shadow, every face. Exactly how I want her when she finally sees me.
The restaurant hums with expensive conversation and crystal touching crystal in toasts I don't care about. I've been nursing the same glass of wine for thirty minutes, positioned at my corner table where I can see everything.
The hostess tried to offer me a menu three times before my stare made her uncomfortable enough to leave. I'm not here to eat.
Seven forty-five. They're late, but Friday traffic from the library explains it. I shift the wine glass, catching light from the candle, practicing the exact angle I'll use when our eyes meet. Every detail planned except her reaction. That's the variable I can't control, the thing that makes my blood heat like before a particularly satisfying kill.
The door opens. Sarah enters first, loud and excited, wearing a dress she probably bought specifically for tonight. Behind her, two other library workers I've seen but dismissed as irrelevant. And then Faith.
She wears a soft blue sweater I haven't seen before, paired with a black skirt that stops just above her knees. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of the usual bun. But it's her eyes that stop my breath. Scanning the restaurant immediately, searching, hunting. She knows I'm here. Can feel it. Like preythat's just scented the predator but doesn't know which shadow holds teeth.
"This place is incredible," Sarah gushes, practically bouncing. "I can't believe someone sent me flowers. A secret admirer! Can you imagine?"
Faith murmurs something appropriate, but her attention stays on the room. Her hand touches her purse where I know she keeps my Polaroids, all seven of them wrapped in tissue paper like prayers. I've watched her transfer them each morning, careful not to crease the edges, treating them like something precious.
The hostess seats them in the middle of the dining room, exactly where I told her to. Faith takes the chair facing my direction, though she hasn't found me yet. Her eyes move systematically. Couple at the bar, businessman alone with his laptop. She's memorizing faces, looking for the one that doesn't belong.
"Faith, you're being weird," one of the coworkers says. "What are you looking for?"
"Nothing. Just… people watching."
But her hand stays on her purse. The waiter approaches their table, and she hardly looks at the menu, ordering the first thing she sees. Her attention stays on the room, on the search.
Sarah chatters about her flowers, speculating who might have sent them. "Maybe that guy from the coffee shop who always flirts. Or the security guard at the bank. He's cute, right?"
Faith makes agreeable noises, but she's not listening. Her eyes continue their sweep, and I know the exact moment she'll find me. Three seconds. Two. One.
Our eyes meet.
When our eyes lock, something cracks in my chest like bones breaking to reset properly. Twenty-four nights of being unknown, of being nothing but shadows and paper, end in alook that burns through me. She sees me. Not my name, not my family, just me. The monster who loves her in the only way I can: completely, violently.
Her lips part slightly, water glass trembling in her hand as those hazel eyes stay locked on my pale ones. She knows. Not my name, not who I am, but she knows what I am. Her guardian. Her watcher. The one who sharpens her knives and kills her fears.
My hand tightens on the wine glass until I'm surprised it doesn't shatter. Every instinct screams to cross the room, to grab her wrist, to make her say my name. Instead, I lift the glass. Control is what separates me from the crude men I kill for her. A toast to her, to this moment, to the end of hiding. The candlelight catches the crystal, sending fractured light across my table, and her breath visibly catches. The water glass returns to the table with a soft click that sounds like thunder for how aware I am of her every movement.
"Faith?" Sarah's voice breaks through. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I… excuse me. Restroom." She stands on unsteady legs, purse clutched against her side.
The path to the bathroom requires walking past my table. Twenty feet of distance that feels both endless and instant. She moves slowly. Careful, deliberate, trying not to trigger the chase instinct. Too late, little faith. I've been hunting you for weeks. The chase ended the moment you walked in.
I don't look up as she approaches, but every nerve in my body tracks her movement. Nineteen feet. Twelve. Eight.
