Deadly Mimic (Fatal Attractions #1)

Prologue

The glow of the television screen cast a cold light over the dim room. I settled deeper into the worn armchair, shifting slightly to find the perfect angle to watch. The voice of the reporter fills the silence, and I smiled, a familiar warmth spreading through me.

Mallory McBryan. Her voice. Her presence.

Everything about her just… flowed. It soothed, like a quiet storm that you knew was coming but couldn’t help but enjoy.

The way she spoke about the most mundane things as if they’re a part of something bigger, something important.

Every word she said, no matter how trivial, pulled me in.

I loved her voice. It was calm, confident.

She was always so composed, even when chaos surrounded her.

“…and in other news tonight, the FBI has joined River City police in the search for two local men reported missing last week.

“Authorities say there are no confirmed leads at this time and stress that federal agents are assisting in a support role only. Investigators also say they have no evidence, at this point, that the disappearances are connected.

“Still, officials tell us the expanded effort is meant to widen the search and pursue any new information in the days ahead.”

I sighed, appreciating the calmness of it all. The gentle timbre of her voice, the grace with which she navigated the unsettling news, and how she made everything feel almost like a lullaby. It was just perfect.

I glanced over to my left, at the corner of the room, where the next... participant waited. Bound, gagged. Gurgling and muffled noises rattled in their throat. Impatient? Maybe.

I shushed them gently with a finger to my lips. Their eyes widened, struggling against the rope holding them firmly in place. A slight whimper escaped.

“Quiet,” I murmured, my voice low but firm. I didn’t want to hear a sound from them right now. Not while she was speaking. Mallory deserves my full attention.

The gagged figure shifted, the sound of their restraints scraped against the floor adding to the quiet tension in the room. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t here for them right now. I was here for her.

“…it’s a tragedy the way these stories continue to unfold. Investigators say the lack of answers has taken a toll on families and are asking anyone with information, no matter how insignificant it may seem, to contact police.

“With federal assistance now in place, authorities say they’re confident the expanded effort will lead them to whoever is responsible.”

She glanced down at the papers in front of her, her brow furrowing slightly, the only sign of uncertainty I’d seen in her demeanor all evening.

Even then, it only made her seem more real, more relatable.

She wasn’t some untouchable celebrity, though sometimes it felt that way.

No, she’s... approachable. Somehow. She’s someone you could share a cup of coffee with.

I hushed the bound figure again. Their muffled protests reach me, but they won’t get my attention.

“Shh,” I say softly. “It’s her turn, not yours. Wait patiently, and you’ll get your moment. But not now.”

The figure slumped back against the wall, resigned, but the fear in their eyes seemed to make them almost glassy. The way they tried to make themselves as small as possible in the corner. It was amusing, in a way. They always thought they had control over the situation.

I lived for the moments when they learned how wrong they were. The time when the payment became due.

I returned my attention back to the screen, to Mallory’s face. There’s something so captivating about her. The way her lips curl into a slight smile, the warmth behind her eyes.

“…authorities are urging residents to remain vigilant and to report any suspicious activity. Officials say they have no confirmed links at this time, but acknowledge they are comparing the case to others in the region.”

I leaned forward a little, absorbing every word she said. Her voice, even when speaking about something so horrific, still managed to soothe me. It was a strange thing. How much power a voice could hold.

I glanced at my next victim again. They’re shaking now, trembling under the weight of whatever fear or thoughts ran through their mind. The terror of the unknown, of what’s coming next. Good, it would keep them busy.

But I don’t want to be distracted. Not now. Not while she’s speaking.

When their volume raised, I waved my hand at them, signaling once more for them to remain quiet, just a little longer.

Mallory’s nearing the end of her segment, and I can’t bear to miss it.

The thought that I might have to interrupt this moment for something so.

.. trivial as a struggle? No, unacceptable.

“Tonight, however,” she continued, her gaze firm on mine. She knows. A tremble of excitement threads through me. She knows. “A troubling pattern behind three seemingly unrelated murders has emerged—and it seems that investigators may be asking the wrong question.”

The statement was short, non-accusatory.

Yet in just those pithy words, she had me in the palm of her hand.

All sound in the room seemed to drain away as I clasped my hands together and leaned forward.

The camera didn’t move off of Mallory, not even for a moment.

Her co-anchor was utterly cut out of the frame.

This was her story. My story. Our story.

“Investigators have treated these cases as isolated acts of violence. But when you examine these men before they were killed—and by examine, I don’t mean look at their résumés, I mean their records and their actions—another picture begins to emerge.”

A graphic took her place on the screen. Blurred spreadsheets. Court filings. Redacted names.

Fresh anticipation rolled through me as she walked her viewers—me—through her idea analytically. Her mind was so effortlessly captivating.

“Each victim left behind victims of their own. Pension funds emptied. Small investors ruined. Families who never recovered.”

The camera refocused on her as the graphics moved up to a corner shot and she paused, her gaze locking on mine. Everything in her demeanor told me that her next words mattered.

“If this is one person, and if that pattern holds, then this isn’t a killer targeting success.” She lets that sit there, calmly, for a beat of three seconds. No rush. No hurry. Her manner says listen to me and I am all in. “It’s someone auditing it.”

The earlier anticipation morphs into a true thrill. Has she figured it out? Has she figured me out?

“Internally, we’ve been calling this person The Auditor.” The flat, almost effortless delivery, laid it out like the fact it was. Not sensational or looking to snare headlines. She wasn’t even throwing down a gauntlet.

It was her restraint that made it so much more powerful. That and the graphics that begin to fill the screen, side by side of victim headshots and court documents. One by one. No gore. No dramatics. Just clean, controlled, and factually correct.

The news. Not opinion.

Mallory McBryan’s delivery made her more than credible. It made her even more attractive than she’d already been. She was dangerous and she absolutely took my breath away.

She finished her report with that smile, that glint of professionalism, and as the screen faded to black, I let out a slow breath.

Now... now it’s my turn.

I stood, slowly, turning toward the figure in the corner. They were still shaking, their eyes wide with panic.

I smiled, the anticipation curling in my chest.

“You’ve been so patient,” I whispered, stepping closer. "But now, it’s our time."