Page 83 of Cain
“I saw him walking the streets of Prague.”
“What? When?”
“Seven months ago. I went there after spotting him on a street camera.”
“I was still in Prague back then,” I mutter, trying to put the pieces together.
“I know. That was the first time I saw you. And in that moment, I realized he was walking the same ground as you, and I snapped even worse. I saw his disgusting, disgraceful face roaming free. Alive … daring to breathe the same air as you. But I never found that piece of shit no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I paid or tortured every useless scumbag that could give me the tiniest piece of information about him. No one knew anything that would lead me straight to him. It was as if he was never really there. As if my mind had tricked me.”
“How’s that possible?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” he says, walking closer and sitting right next to me again. “After that, you were suddenly in danger.”
“What?”
“The robbery in your apartment … it wasn’t the first one,” he mutters, blinking slowly. “But it was the first that caught me off guard.” His head shakes. “He came in, and I followed him.”
“Who?”
His jaw flexes. “I didn’t see his face.”
A shiver traces my spine. “You—” I swallow. “How? You said you were following me?”
“Yes. But by the time I got close, the lights were off. He knew the layout. He moved like he belonged there. I didn’t get a good look before he slipped out the fire escape.”
“But you were right there,” I whisper.
He tilts his head slightly. “I was. And I still didn’t see him. I walked inside after he left your apartment. He must have heard me.”
“And what did you see?”
“He wasn’t trying to rob your place. He was looking for you.”
My breath catches. “How do you know?”
He exhales slowly, like he’s deciding how much to tell me. “Because nothing was taken.”
“That doesn’t mean?—”
“Every drawer in your place was closed. He wasn’t searching for valuables. He was searching for you.”
The room suddenly feels as if it’s shrinking, and my breathing hitches. “That doesn’t make sense. I wasn’t even home.”
His gaze stays locked on mine. “Exactly, little rose. But then I looked down, and I saw it. The lighter.Hislighter. The one his beloved son gave to him with his initials carved on it. W.F.”
My breath stutters, and I barely manage to force out the words. “You … are you sure it was his?”
He nods, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I remember it vividly. I’ve seen him hold it between his fingers like it meant the world to him. He wouldn’t leave it behind unless it were an accident. Or unless he wanted me to find it.”
“But why?”
Slowly, he raises his fingers and, with a hand shaking from anger, points to his temple. “To mess with me. To mess with my head,” he says, his teeth clenched.
“But why …” The knot in my throat becomes tighter. “Why me?”
“Because he knows what you mean to me.”
