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“Hey Blake,” she says, her voice low and strained. “Is there something you want?”
I sit beside her. “Hey,” I begin, softening my voice. “You okay?”
“You haven’t come around the store in a while,” she states matter-of-factly, keeping her eyes trained on the cars passing by on the street in front of us.
I reach out my hand in a friendly gesture, which she stares at for a moment before slowly placing her own in it. “You’re right,” I say, squeezing her hand gently. “I’ve been … busy. But I wanted to see you. I know I should’ve come around more often because I miss you.”
She looks at me for a few moments, her expression unreadable as she takes in my words. Withdrawing her hand, she takes a deep breath before breaking the brief silence. “Why are you here?”
Is she trying to brush me off? My blood simmers, but I bite my tongue and remind myself to keep calm. If my Little Finch really thinks she can distance herself from me, she has another thing coming. “I wanted to check on you, see how you were doing. Maybe get you another one of those albums that were?—”
“I don’t need your charity,” she snaps, before biting her lip and shooting up to her feet.
I stand in a single, fluid motion and take hold of her arm. She tenses and tries to pull away. Instinctually, I want to dig my fingers into her and make it known that she’s mine, but Blake is a kinder man than me. So I let her go, and she takes a step back. Her fingers tremble as she lifts the cigarette to her mouth.
“It’s not charity,” I clarify gently. “Just something I wanted to do for you. It’s unfair that your stuff got destroyed like that. I know how much those albums meant to you.”
She takes one last puff before stubbing out the cig on the brick wall and tossing it into the nearby trash bin. She maintains a cautious expression and a stiff posture. But I can see the battle waging within her, and I wait patiently for her response.
“You don’t need to do this for me. I can take care of myself,” she says, a slight catch in her voice that betrays her stoicism. “Always have.” The corner of her mouth twitches up briefly in a forced half-smile. “It was nice seeing you. Take care, okay?”
Without another word, she whirls around and trudges down the sidewalk before vanishing around the corner, leaving me with nothing but my thoughts. And my rage, which lingers long after I’ve gotten my coffee and returned to the office.
I think I’ll go hunting tonight.
After chugging too many beers and gobbling up too much greasy bar food, Patrick Murray steps out of the Hidden Bull Pub unsteady on his feet. He zigzags down the sidewalk, the smell of alcohol and smoke radiating off him. Eventually, he makes it to a nearby alleyway, where he halts to lean against the brick, his breathing shallow and his head surely spinning.
With what I dosed him with, he’s lucky he’s still standing.
Targeting a man like Patrick so soon is not my usual approach. I typically spend weeks observing my targets, learning their habits, and uncovering their hidden secrets. I seek out their sins and mete out justice. But with him, there is no deep fascination or hidden agenda.
He must know something.
I’ve seen him hanging around my apartment building. He’s chummy with another tenant, a man named Gregory. Chummy as in they’re screwing each other’s brains out behind Patrick’s wife’s back. Gregory occasionally performs maintenance duties in exchange for rent for Nancy, and there’s a real possibility he’s seen that shithead stalker skulking around in some form or another. It’s too risky to interrogate him, so his fuckbuddy will have to do.
I watch from the shadows as Patrick wobbles further into the alley. But he loses his footing, tripping over a broken wood pallet before crashing into a stack of water-stained crates. Moaning in pain and cursing, he brings a hand to his forehead. Seizing my chance, I reveal myself and stride up to him with purpose. He looks up in surprise, quickly standing but swaying and ultimately falling on his bony rear next to a dumpster leaking a smelly, viscous fluid.
“Patrick,” I say, the modulator sharpening the edge of my voice.
“What the fuck do you want?” he slurs, though hesitantly, his eyes darting around before focusing on me again.
I crouch in front of him. “You have information that I need,” I say, narrowing my gaze behind the mask. “I can either get it from you. Or Gregory. And I’ll expose your affair to his wife—in all its sordid, graphic detail.” I dig into my pocket and show him the snapshot I took last week of his partner railing him.
“You son of a bitch!” he shrieks, reaching for the photo.
I lift my arm, keeping it out of his reach. “Now, now. Are you going to talk or am I going to him? Your choice. So what do you say?”
He scowls and huffs in frustration, his brain working on fumes. “Fine,” he acquiesces. “What do you want to know?”
“Have you seen someone wearing a mask and a hood prowling around Grand Pointe Apartments?” I ask.
“Someone besides you wearing that get-up?” He looks up at me, attempting to make out my eyes behind the mask. “Why do you wanna know?”
I snatch the collar of his shirt and tug him closer. “I’m not here to waste time,Patty. You can either help me out, or I will cut your boyfriend into pieces and leave whatever’s left of him on your front doorstep.”
His face pales, his eyes widening in fear as he swallows hard. “I saw him a couple of weeks ago but haven’t seen him since. He was walking around the apartments, and it looked like he was scouting out the place or something. Then he left in a hurry.”
“Do you know where he went?”
