Chapter 15 #2
“The same look I get when I succeed.” I meet his pale eyes. “There was this light in your eyes when you saw your work on screen. Pride, maybe. Satisfaction. You reacted like an artist seeing their installation featured in a gallery review.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “No actual proof, then.”
“I don’t need proof for what I do,” I say. “I just need to know.” I trace the rim of my coffee mug with my finger, considering my words. “Though I have to ask, all that blood and posing... It’s a little desperate for attention, don’t you think?”
Calloway’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “Perhaps. But at least my methods get results.” He leans forward, his voice dropping. “Unlike yours. The woman who has tried, and failed, to kill me on multiple occasions.”
“I was going to succeed. It was just taking longer than expected.” I cut a precise square out of the omelet. I lift the fork, pausing just before it reaches my lips. “Is this poisoned? Because that would be predictable.”
“If I were going to kill you,” he says, pouring himself coffee, “I wouldn’t waste good eggs doing it.”
I take a bite of the omelet. It’s delicious, the perfect balance of herbs and cheese.
“How many?” Calloway asks, leaning against the counter with his coffee mug.
“How many what?” I play dumb, buying time while I assess my options.
He gives me a look that says he’s not buying it. “How many have you eliminated from our shared ecosystem?”
I meet his eyes, deciding truth is my best weapon now. “Seven.”
“Lucky number.”
“It wasn’t planned that way.” I shrug, pushing eggs around my plate.
“I only intended to kill one. My roommate’s murderer.
He got away with it… Daddy’s money and connections.
Three months later, he came into my bar and ordered a drink.
Described to me how she died. He was proud of it.
Can you believe it? Thought he was king of the world. ”
I take another bite, chewing slowly. “That night, I followed him home, slipped something in his nightcap, and made him write a suicide note confessing everything before he died.”
Calloway watches me, his expression unreadable. “And you liked it.”
It’s not a question. I answer anyway.
“Yes.” The word hangs between us. “I enjoyed watching the fear in his eyes when he realized who I was. Enjoyed knowing he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”
Calloway nods, as if I’ve confirmed something for him. “So you kept going.”
“The second was a stockbroker who pushed his pregnant girlfriend off a balcony. The cops ruled it accidental.” I sip my coffee. “The third had a habit of raping women after drugging them. You get the pattern.”
“We’re the same, then,” Calloway says, refilling my mug without asking. “You and me.”
I snort. “No. I’m not a predator.”
“A killer of predators,” Calloway corrects, setting down his mug with precision. “Just like you.”
I stare at him, this beautiful murderer making himself at home in my kitchen. “What do you mean?”
Calloway takes a deliberate sip of coffee, his gaze steady. “My first kill was a famous photographer. Won awards for his ‘evocative’ portraits of young models.” His voice hardens. “He assaulted those kids for decades. The art world knew. They just didn’t care.”
“You killed him?”
“I did more than that.” His fingers tap against the mug. “I made him understand what he’d done before he died. I made him suffer.”
The clinical detachment in his voice sends a chill down my spine. It sounds personal. “And the others?”
“Gallery owners. Museum curators. Artists. Producers. All predators hiding behind their creative genius.” Calloway sets his mug down. “They used art as cover to exploit children.”
My fork clatters against the plate. “Children?”
He nods once. “Every one of my kills was a pedophile who escaped justice.”
The realization hits me. This entire time, I’ve been hunting someone hunting the worst kind of monsters. I was wrong.
My mind races backward through everything I know about his victims. I'd researched their financial crimes, their general scumbaggery. But I never looked for the real darkness underneath. I should have checked their backgrounds better.
“And you arrange them like artwork because...”
“Poetic justice.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “They treated children as objects to be posed and displayed. I return the favor. Besides, I’m an artist at my core.”
I push my plate away, appetite gone.
He’s been nothing but gentle with me, even when I was drugged and throwing myself at him. He stopped that man in the bathroom. He’s never shown interest in me, despite my attempts.
My gaze fixes on his hands. His knuckles are white where he grips the coffee mug, a stark contrast to his otherwise calm posture. He’s a fortress, but his words just opened a crack in the wall, and I can see the man hiding inside.
“Before, you said you understand what it’s like after someone’s violated your boundaries. What did you mean by that?”
Calloway’s expression shifts, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face before his careful mask returns. “Didn’t mean anything.”
I stare at him. “You’re not a predator. You’re a victim.” My voice softens. “What happened to you?”
He doesn’t answer, his eyes fixed on some point beyond my kitchen wall. But I have my answer.
“When?” I ask, the pieces fitting together. “How old were you?”
He pushes away from the counter and begins pacing my small kitchen. Back and forth, his movements sharp and agitated.
“You don’t want that story in your head,” he says.
I study him across the kitchen counter, the morning light casting shadows across his face. His posture remains rigid, defensive, even as his words lay him bare.
The vulnerability in his eyes shatters the image I’d built of Calloway Frost.
“So now what?” I ask. “We’ve laid it all out. My attempts to kill you. Your identity as The Gallery Killer. We’re at an impasse.”
Calloway studies me, his head tilted. “Are we? You kill predators. I am not a predator. At least not of the variety you hunt. By your own code, I shouldn’t qualify for your services.”
“No,” I admit. “You’re not. So we just...walk away?” I can’t believe it would be that simple. “Pretend none of this happened?”
He shrugs one elegant shoulder. “I guess so.”
I study his face, searching for some sign of...what, exactly? Relief? Disappointment? He’s still so hard to read.
“That doesn’t feel right,” I say, setting my mug down.
Calloway raises an eyebrow. “You want to kill me after all?”
“No.” I take a breath, surprised by what I’m about to suggest. “I think there’s a second option.”
“Which is?”
I tap my fingers against the counter, steeling myself for what I’m about to propose.
“I think we should work together.” The words hang in the air between us.
Calloway’s eyebrows shoot up. “Work together?”
“Yes. We’re both in the same line of work, essentially. Different targets, same goal.” I straighten, finding my footing. “We could help each other. Cover for each other. Two sets of eyes are better than one.”
He watches me with that unnerving stillness of his. “You’re suggesting we become murder partners?”
“I’m suggesting we become allies.” I stand, circling the counter until I’m closer to him. “Think about it. You’ve been operating alone. So have I. It’s risky.”
“And what makes you think I need your help?” His voice remains neutral, but something flickers in his eyes.
“You don’t need it,” I concede. “But it might be nice to have someone watching your back for once. Someone who understands.”
He appears to consider my offer, his long artist’s fingers curling around his coffee mug. “I work alone, Jiya.”
“So did I until five minutes ago.” I lean against the counter, close enough that I can smell his cologne. “Look, I have a target lined up. Three women have accused him of assault. All the cases disappeared, and the victims withdrew their complaints and moved to different cities.”
“And you want me to...” He lets the question hang.
“Help me take him out.” I step closer, almost toe-to-toe with him now.
Calloway studies me, his pale eyes unreadable. “No.”
“What?”
“I said no.” He sets his mug down with a decisive click. “I don’t kill for you or with you or alongside you.”
His rejection stings more than it should. “Why not? Is it because you think I’m not good enough?”
“I have my reasons, Jiya.” His voice hardens. “And my methods.”
“Your methods?” I force a laugh. “Your methods got you tracked by me for months. I almost killed you multiple times.”
“Almost being the operative word.” He smiles.
“So that’s it? You walk out that door and we go back to our separate corners?” I move closer, challenging him. “After everything we just shared?”
“That’s exactly it.” He turns away.
I grab his arm, stopping him. “No. You don’t get to walk away that easily.”
“Let go, Jiya.” His voice drops, dangerous.
“Make me.”
I don’t know why I’m pushing him, why this rejection feels like a betrayal when twelve hours ago I was planning his murder.
In one fluid motion, Calloway twists out of my grip and pins me against the kitchen counter, his body pressed against mine. His breathing quickens, but his control remains absolute.
“This is a mistake,” he murmurs, his face inches from mine.
“You seem to make a lot of those,” I challenge, my heart hammering in my chest. “First, letting me live. Now this.”
His fingers circle my wrists, firm but not painful. “Is that what you want? For me to make another mistake?”
The tension between us shifts, electric and dangerous. His proximity makes my skin burn, the memory of his hands caring for me last night at war with the predatory intensity in his eyes now.
“Maybe I do.” I lift my chin, defiant. “Maybe I want to know what mistakes feel like with you.”
His grip tightens. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Then show me.” I twist against his hold, not to escape but to press closer.