A Place to Die For (young couple’s dream apartment hides a deadly secret in a terrifying)

Chapter 1 Him

Him

Then

I watch from the darkness, enthralled. You are everything to me .

. . at least in this moment. It’s a character flaw, I realize, that I become enamored so quickly.

No, enamored isn’t the right word. Neither is obsessed.

I’m not that kind of guy. A better word might be intrigued.

Which is exactly what I am right now as you move through the apartment, not even bothering to turn a light on when you head into the kitchen, go to the fridge, and grab a bottle.

Petite sirah.

Nice choice. A lesser person might have gone with a cabernet. It’s the most popular wine by far. I read that somewhere, and it’s stuck in my mind. Not sure why. But you’re different. You don’t follow the herd. And maybe that’s what I find so fascinating.

You’re at the island now—a clean expanse of luxurious quartz with flowing crystalline veins that meander like small dark rivers.

You pull the cork. It comes free with a reluctant pop, as if the bottle wants to stay as it is for a little while longer, eager to extend the anticipation of that first, perfect sip.

And I understand, because I feel the same way.

The anticipation is almost better than the act.

A delicious longing. But every bottle has its time, just like your time has come.

Almost. Because I’m not quite ready. I want to savor these last few exquisite moments we have together. You don’t know it, will never know, but you’ve become a force in my life over the last three months. Besides, there’s the wine you just uncorked. It would be a shame to waste it.

After removing a glass from a cupboard near the fridge, you turn back toward the living room with your precious cargo in hand.

I might as well be invisible, standing in the dark hallway, clad as I am in black pants, shirt, sneakers, and gloves.

As you pass the door, I shrink back anyway, pressing myself flat into the shadows, against the wall.

I would hate to ruin our last minutes with screaming and running.

Not that I would let you do either of those things.

Instead, I would slip the knife from my pocket before you even registered what was happening and let my blade do the rest. It would be a messy, sloppy, hurried end.

Not the magnificent finale I have planned.

But you don’t see me, because you’re not even looking.

After everything I’ve done to you over the past few months, you are convinced of your safety inside this apartment.

Maybe it’s the swipe-card entry on the lobby doors or the electronic keypad dead bolt that you place far too much confidence in.

Or could it be the pistol stashed in your bedside drawer?

A pistol that is completely, utterly useless so far away from the living room, where you are now sitting back down on the couch.

Not that it matters. I removed the bullets on my last visit to the apartment a couple of nights ago, while you were out to dinner with that irritating friend of yours who laughs at things that aren’t funny and tells you to find a good man.

Well, what does she know, because you’ve found one already—not that you realize it yet—and I’m excited to spend some time with you, even if our relationship will be nothing but a memory by dawn.

A good memory.

Even better than the one we are making now as you put the wineglass down on the wood-and-metal coffee table with the designer dings and dents—factory-added scrapes that don’t quite look real—and pour yourself a huge glass that would get any bartender in the city fired.

I let you drink it, pour another, and drink that one, too. Then I make my move.

You register my presence a moment before I reach the couch.

You turn your head, eyes flying wide behind those little round wire-framed John Lennon–style glasses that first drew me to you.

Quirky spectacles that most young women would never choose to wear.

It’s those little nuances of character that always suck me in.

But there’s no time left to bask in your uniqueness, because I can tell you’re about to scream.

My hand flies over your mouth in an instant.

I lean in low so that my lips are next to your ear.

The lingering scent of the perfume you put on before you left for work this morning is a pleasant, if momentary, distraction until I compose myself.

Then I whisper, “Make a noise and you’re fucking dead. ”

After that is when our best memories are made.