Chapter 2
The key slides into the lock silently, though I’ve already memorized which way to turn it to avoid the slight catch at three o’clock. Night twenty-three. The door opens on oiled hinges. I fixed the squeak during night seven while she attended evening service.
Her apartment greets me with familiar shadows, streetlight filtering through thin curtains to paint everything in amber and gray.
The scent hits first: jasmine from her shower three hours ago, vanilla from the candle she burns while reading, cinnamon and sugar from the snickerdoodles she baked for tomorrow's church sale, something uniquely hers underneath that makes my chest tighten with the need to possess.
My phone vibrates. Nico checking if I need the basement cleaned after my earlier work.
I silence it without looking. Already handled.
The body from tonight's crude commentary about Faith has been processed, disposed of.
My chemistry background makes disposal efficient—knowing exactly which compounds break down organic matter, which temperatures denature proteins completely.
Nothing pulls me from her apartment now, from this ritual that's become more necessary than breathing.
My photos of her are organized in albums now.
Fifty-three Polaroids in the first album—before she knew.
Forty-two in the second—after she knew but before she accepted.
The third album is empty, waiting for what comes next.
Photos of us together, maybe. Or maybe just more photos of her, because I'll never stop needing to capture her in moments she doesn't control.
Her medicine cabinet opens without sound.
I photograph each shelf, noting changes since last visit.
The anxiety medication is down to three pills.
She's been taking them more frequently. The headaches, probably, from staring at computer screens planning library programs. Or from whatever weight she carries that makes her reach for pharmaceutical comfort.
There's a prescription burn cream too—she must have caught herself on the oven again.
Third time this month. I make a note to research the prescribing doctor.
If he's giving her something addictive, I'll remove his hands before I kill him.
A business card tucked behind the medicine bottle catches my eye. Dr. Harrison Zu, Psychiatrist. Male. The urge to find this man, to peel his skin off in strips for existing in her sphere, nearly pulls me from the apartment. But no. Patience. I photograph the card, add his name to my list. Soon.
I close the cabinet carefully, ensuring the mirror reflects exactly as before.
She's particular about these things, my Faith.
Notices when objects shift even slightly.
It's one of the things I love about her, that hypervigilance that speaks to some deeper awareness.
She'd make an excellent addition to the family business if she weren't meant for something purer.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps she's meant to be corrupted completely.
The kitchen next. Flour still dusts the counter despite her careful cleaning. Two cooling racks of snickerdoodles sit perfect and golden, each one uniform in size. She's precise in her baking, measuring everything exactly. I appreciate precision.
Her dishes from dinner sit in the drying rack: one plate, one fork, one glass.
She made pasta again, angel hair with butter and parmesan.
Simple. Solitary. I lift the glass to my lips, tasting where her mouth touched.
The intimacy of it makes my cock harden.
She deserves someone cooking for her, real meals.
I imagine feeding her by hand, controlling every bite, watching her throat work as she swallows what I give her.
The thought makes me smile, though I’ve been told ‘smile’ doesn’t properly describe that particular expression on my face.
I document everything: the expired milk she hasn't thrown out, the vitamins she forgot to take this morning, the grocery list on her refrigerator where she's written "bread, eggs, hope" in her neat script.
That last word makes me pause. Hope. As if it's something you can buy, something you can run out of.
I'll be her hope. Or her damnation. Either way, she'll never run out of me.
Twenty-three nights of this. Twenty-three nights of learning her completely while remaining a ghost in her life. Twenty-three nights of fucking my fist to the memory of her breathing, coming with her name on my lips like a prayer to a God I don't believe in.
The journal under her mattress barely counts as hidden.
Anyone could find it, a thought that makes my jaw clench and my hand drift to the scalpel in my pocket, the one still carrying traces of the night's work.
I've read it before, photographed every page.
Innocent entries about difficult library patrons, lesson plans for Sunday school, prayers for her father's safety. Nothing revealing, nothing real.
But tonight, something new calls to me. The air vent near her bookshelf has a screw slightly out of place. Microscopic difference, but my chemical training makes me notice trace evidence—the particular pattern of dust disturbance that means recent movement. I always notice when it comes to her.
The vent cover lifts away to reveal a second journal, this one leather-bound and worn. My pulse quickens as I open it, finding pages of different handwriting. Urgent. Darker. This is the real Faith, the one hiding beneath prayer and politeness.
"Patience," she's written over and over on one page, the word pressed so hard it's carved through to the next sheet. "Twelve years and three months."
Dates. Lists. The initials "T.N." appear frequently, circled and underlined. I photograph each page rapidly, mind processing details. There are sketches in the margins—building layouts, faces I don't recognize.
"The law must work this time," one entry reads. "Evidence. Proof. Legal channels only."
"He doesn't know who I am. Good. Let him forget."
Who is 'he'? T.N? Someone else? The ambiguity frustrates me even as it fascinates. My Faith has enemies she's been watching, studying. The thought of anyone making her feel this kind of sustained rage makes me want to find every name in this journal and remove them from existence.
I return the journal exactly as found, mind racing through possibilities.
Whatever she's planning, whatever has her counting days and memorizing layouts, she shouldn't have to handle it alone.
That's what I'm for. To remove obstacles.
To clear her path. To ensure she never has to dirty her hands with necessary violence.
Instead, I move to her bedroom.
She sleeps on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow, the other curled against her chest. I kneel beside her bed, bringing myself level with her sleeping face. Close enough to see the pulse in her throat, that vulnerable spot where life beats closest to the surface.
Her breathing is deep, even. Sixteen breaths per minute in deep sleep, twenty-two when she dreams. Right now she's at sixteen, but that will change soon. It always does between two and three a.m. when the nightmares come.
Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, and I know she's entering REM sleep.
Soon the terror will grip her. They always do at this hour, making her twitch and mumble words I can never quite catch.
Sometimes she cries. Those nights are the hardest, when I have to grip the floor to keep from gathering her against me, from becoming the comfort she doesn't know she needs.
Or from being the monster that gives her real nightmares, the kind where she wakes up owned.
Two forty-one a.m. Right on schedule, her hand twitches. Her breathing shifts, speeds up. Twenty breaths, twenty-one, twenty-two. The nightmare has her.
She mumbles something that sounds like "Luke." My breath catches, cock twitching at hearing anything close to my name from those lips. Her hand reaches for something that isn't there. A weapon, perhaps. My girl knows to fight even in sleep.
"Shh," I whisper, so quiet even I barely hear it. "I've already killed the monsters, little faith. The one who followed you to your car is feeding fish in the Chicago River. They're gone. You're safe."
She settles slightly, as if some part of her sleeping mind hears, believes, accepts the devil's protection. I lean closer, close enough to smell the jasmine in her hair, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. My hand hovers over her hair, millimeters from contact.
One touch. That's all I want. To smooth the worried crease from her forehead, to chase away whatever demons plague her sleep. To wrap my hand around that delicate throat and feel her pulse against my palm, to own her breath for just a moment.
But I don't. Can't. Not yet. Not until she knows I exist, until she chooses to let me this close. Or until I decide choice is a luxury neither of us can afford.
The nightmare passes. Her breathing evens out to sixteen again, and she shifts, burrowing deeper into her pillow. Safe. Protected.
The need to wake her, to watch recognition dawn in those hazel eyes as she realizes she's not alone, nearly overwhelms my control.
I want to see her fear transform into understanding, that the demon in her room is the only thing standing between her and worse ones.
That sometimes the devil you know is salvation.
At her kitchen table, I pull out the Polaroid camera from my jacket. The overhead light is off. I work by streetlight filtering through her window, the same light that's illuminated my work on so many bodies. The red indicator light glows softly as the camera warms up, ready to capture what I need.