Page 87 of Lovely Violent Things

Obsession can be equally as dangerous, and if I don’t find this guy, I fear what that will do to my mental state more.

I lock my doors and slip my keys between the slats of my fingers to use as a weapon. I don’t carry a firearm, and I came here completely vulnerable.

An inner voice intones that this is exactly why I’m here, this obsession with chasing a serial killer some sick need to seek out danger, something to distract me from the constant heartsickness that kept me in bed for a month straight.

Then the Harbinger struck again, his third kill, escalating the case to serial killer status.

And I buried myself in the hunt.

A reason to keep breathing.

The lampposts of the college courtyard guide me toward a side entrance of the student center, where a glass-encased bulletin board is posted, announcing a speaking event taking place tonight.

It can’t be that easy…

I run my finger down the list of speakers, stopping when I find the name with matching initials to the cufflink in my pocket. “There you are…”

Locating the lecture hall, I slip inside and post myself at the back of the auditorium, where I wait until my target is announced to the podium. I almost reach for my phone to capture a picture—but I turned my device off, making sure I wouldn’t be pinged in this location.

I can’t take my eyes off him.

This is him—ithasto be him.

As I listen to him talk, I note all the characteristics of a narcissist, which isn’t telling on its own. Many of the foremost authorities in Western esotericism and the occult in academia have massive egos and exhibit a degree of psychopathy. My job requires me to know who these names are and to study from their knowledge.

But this is the first time I’ve heard of Mr. P.W.

He’s kept himself hidden well.

Something else is notable about him: he’s inebriated. Slurring his speech, swaying off-kilter.

As soon as the thought strikes, his eyes connect with mine from across the hall, and a sliver of fear coasts over my skin, making me shiver.

I push through the doors and find a dark corner along the outside of the building, where I take a few steadying breaths to calm myself.

This is reckless.

My rash behavior is about to not only expose me to the suspect, but scare him off. Drunk or not, he’s evaded authorities this long, and his outward appearance could be a part of his ruse.

I did what I came here to do. I found him. We have a suspect.

As I flatten my back to the brick wall, I close my eyes for only a second, but when my lids open again, the night has grown darker.

Shit.

I’m trekking back through the quad when I spot him exiting the building, a tumbler in hand.

Despite the danger—or maybe because of it—I follow him.

I just want to observe. Secure more concrete evidence. At least, this is what I convince myself of as the obsessive need to watch him thrums through me, canceling out all logic.

He stalks to the parking lot, where he stops at a black car.

“Son of a fucking bitch—” he curses, then smashes his glass to the asphalt. On reflex, I flinch. He hunkers over to inspect a flat tire on the vehicle. “That fucking prick.”

As I watch him open and search the trunk, an eerie feeling settles over me. Something’s not right; I feel it in the air, a buzzing sensation prickling my skin. The hairs along the nape of my neck lift away. The warning flashes through my body, and instinctively, I turn and head in the opposite direction.

I’ve just reached the edge of the parking lot when his voice calls out.

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