Chapter 8 #2
Shaking my head, I move to take a step back, only to be stopped by the reminder of the very lethal weapon sitting on the marble just to my right.
I should still call the police. There's still a stranger in my home, holding my gun and not so subtly intimidating me with it; even if he isn't technically a fugitive, he's still dangerous.
"H-how?"
"My lawyer called it prosecutorial misconduct," one of his brows darts up before relaxing, his intense eyes never wavering from me. "I'm sure you know what that means better than I do."
I nod nervously.
"Yeah?" he presses. "Seems I got off easy, doesn't it?"
I swallow my fear, letting curiosity get the best of me, "Hard to say. Do you really have amnesia?"
"Mhmm." Reaching between us, he grabs his glass of wine, gesturing to my own with it. "Drink. It'll calm your nerves."
Recklessly, I obey, swallowing down the glass before scrambling to refill it, deciding to abandon the glass altogether and take straight from the bottle.
Cormac's smile morphs into one of amusement as he silently sips his own glass.
"Did you do it?" I ask him between heaving breaths and heavier chugs of the red liquid I'm using to hide from his intensity.
He blinks.
Pauses.
Then nods. His expression isn't happy or proud. As if he himself is still working to accept the truth.
"Are you going to kill me?” My next question slips out, my voice terrified and smaller than I've ever heard it.
With a gentle shake of his head, he sets the glass down, using his now free hand to push the hair tumbling down to my collarbone back over my shoulder. Gently cupping his hand around my neck, his fingers rest on my nape, and his hot palm presses against my artery as it pulses wildly.
"You need a better hiding place for that," he warns me, referencing my recklessly stored gun.
Running his thumb down my jawline, his eyes trace the motion in utter rapture, leaving me completely breathless from both terror and a desire to fall into his warm touch.
I swallow my nerves as he leans closer, his voice teasing and little more than a whisper, "Haven't you heard there's a dangerous killer on the loose? "
All at once, he releases me and the pistol, quickly escaping out my front door before I can react and either shoot him or yell his name to make him stop and explain why he came here, of all places.
Still, I consider calling the police. What are the chances he was being truthful about his freedom?
But when I turn on the news, I realize how fruitless it would be.
A mistrial.
One of the most prolific serial killers of our time, and it all ended with a mistrial.
For the first time since it all started, I take note of what's being said about the man who was just in my home.
Every news network I flip through, every think-piece from talking heads, not a single one mentions his real name, as if referring to him only as his moniker somehow separates him from us.
Dehumanizing him every step of the way and pretending he isn't a flesh-and-blood man only serves to cause more fear and hysteria surrounding his release.
Bás Dorcha.
Dark Death.
But I know his real name.
Cormac Fomori.
A local businessman featured in philanthropy magazines years ago.
And somehow, underneath it all, a deranged killer?
How had it come to this?
Perhaps that's why they won't speak of his real name. No one wants to believe a serial killer could be someone they knew and never suspected of hiding his true self.
And now, due to negligence and possibly even corruption, this man, who brutally murdered almost 20 people, is free to roam.
No repercussions. Not even trapped in a hospital any longer due to his brain injury.
A psychotic killer just free to do whatever he feels like.
And what he felt like was breaking into my home.
For what?
A few taunting words, a single glass of wine, and then he all but vanished back into thin air.
I still should call the police, but what could I say?
Yes, officer, he broke into my home. How?
I don't know. What did he do? He had a glass of wine, said my cooking smells good, fucking caressed my throat and jaw, leaving invisible fingerprints across my skin I may never be free of, and left.
No, I don't have a front-door camera or one on my balcony, since it's 6 stories high.
There is not a single cop in the fucking world who will both believe me and care that it happened. I'm not harmed, not in any immediate danger. No way they take me seriously.
If anything, I could count on them asking about my involvement with Cormac Fomori.
I have none, but they wouldn't believe that either.
Perhaps it was a coincidence that it was my home he let himself into.
With that thought, my pulse finally returns to normal, the wine warming my skin as I reheat my dinner, my stomach finally settled enough to eat it.
As soon as I'm finished, I make it my mission to find out what he was truly here for, as I find it hard to believe it was me.
But the stash of cash in my toilet remains untouched, my filing cabinet still locked and undisturbed, and even my underwear drawer is still immaculately organized, ruling out any thoughts I had of him being just a run-of-the-mill pervert.
That would have been preferable to him targeting me, for reasons I can't possibly speculate on.
The best thing I can do—the only thing I can do—is implement more security.
I can set up a handful of cameras in my apartment.
Or I'm sure I can ask Antoine to do it. I know he's been the one in charge of doing so for some of the firm's vacant properties, those awaiting closing dates, and those under our legal responsibility.
No.
I have to take care of this myself.
If I were to call Antoine, the first thing he'd do is press me on why I suddenly feel the need to up my security measures.
In a city of millions, one more violent person on the streets is hardly reason enough to invest in personal safety.
The last thing I need is anyone becoming suspicious of me and poking around in my life searching for some connection to the killer they've just let go.
I have enough skeletons in my own closet.
Someone in my line of work getting caught even watching the illegal fights and not turning them in immediately is enough to get me investigated and possibly disbarred.
Instead, I'll do what I can.
I'll take a break from Mingle for a few months, I'll set up my own security cameras, and I'll begrudgingly find a new hiding place for the only thing I have to defend myself if he were to come back.
My skin pebbles from the idea, the anticipation that there's some reason for him to come back. I have to remind myself that, yes, he is handsome. But I'm sure any of his victims who possibly saw him before they met their demise thought so, too.
A burning question follows me into sleep, and into work over the next several days, taking up residence in my mind constantly, haunting me with terrifying images of his victims and even more terrifying images of his gorgeous smile as he playfully tormented me in my kitchen.
What could he possibly want from me?