Chapter 8
His name is Paul Capa, and he's been on this roof for two hours.
We're crouched behind the water tower with his iPad propped between us, the wind coming over the parapet in irregular gusts. Up close, his eyes are darker than I initially registered, and more careful. The kind of eyes that are always processing, always filing things away.
I do my best to focus on the screen.
The first video is selfie-stick footage of Paul walking around the first rooftop crime scene.
"This is where they found the first victim," the on-screen Paul says, his hair moving in the wind, the Overton visible in the distance behind him. "According to a forensic report I obtained, every bone in his body was broken."
A crime scene photo fills the frame.
I flinch but don't look away. The victim's limbs are at odd, wrong angles.
"That kind of damage means a twenty-story fall minimum," Paul continues. He pans the camera around the surrounding buildings. "Only problem. None of the neighboring buildings are tall enough. Or close enough."
He turns the camera on himself, city behind him.
"So unless this guy dropped out of the sky?—"
The video stops.
A second video loads. This one was shot from where we're sitting now, the crime scene on the adjacent building captured from this rooftop.
"You were up here filming this whole time?" I say.
"That's the gig."
"The cops didn't see you?"
He gives me a look. "You didn't see me."
This is true, and I find it mildly annoying.
I watch the video, the EMTs, the detectives, the same scene I observed from Eleanor's window but from much closer. Then the camera finds the plainclothes detective crossing the roof. The man who I thought spotted me earlier. He sports the expression of a detective working a case that doesn’t quite make sense.
"Meet Detective Reyes," on-screen Paul says. "Leading the investigation into both murders. Doesn't look like a man who has answers. Or gets much sleep."
The image freezes.
I look at Paul.
"So what are you exactly? A citizen journalist?"
He grins. It's a confident grin, practiced without being fake. "Bringing truth to the hungry masses. Real voice, real stories, no filter. That's what it says on the website anyway."
"Cool," I say for lack of a better response.
"What about you? Into parkour, or just confronting a fear of heights?"
I glance toward the Overton, its upper floors catching the flat gray light in the near distance. "I live there. Top floor."
He clocks the distance. "You had eyes on this?"
"Binoculars. I was looking at the city, saw the cops, wanted a closer look." I pause. "I'm into true crime."
"That makes two of us."
He looks at the Overton for a moment.
“How do you afford to live in that place? You a trust fund baby?”
I consider the question. In a deadpan voice:
"My sugar daddy gives me the run of the place when he's out of town."
Paul’s turn to stare at me with a dumbfounded expression.
I break into a mischievous grin.
"Relax. I inherited it from my grandmother. I've only been in the city two days."
His lips curl upward. It’s a winning smile.
"And already breaking into buildings."
"And hanging out with shady reporters."
“Sounds like you’re making excellent life choices.”
I flash him a faint smile.
“My mother used to say I had a knack for getting into trouble.”
Something shifts in his expression — the grin fading slightly, the reporter's eyes coming forward.
"So," he says. "What did you see?"
"Who says I saw anything?"
"You're up here. You took pictures. You were examining the crime scene." He glances toward the parapet. "People don't break into buildings for nothing."
I hesitate. The rational part of my brain knows I should keep my mouth shut.
"You wouldn't believe me."
"Try me."
"It's crazy."
"Crazier than a rooftop killer?"
He gets up and walks to the parapet. Looks at the scratch marks the same way I did, the gouged stone, the dust in the grout, the four points of contact spaced at their strange intervals. He crouches, looks closer.
"Something was here," he says finally. "Something heavy."
I watch him study the marks.
“Come on, Sara. What caught your interest?”
I finally say it.
"A gargoyle."
He looks up at me.
"A what?"
"You asked."
Knew you wouldn’t believe me.
I turn away and walk toward the roof access door. Behind me, I hear him take one more look at the parapet. Then his footsteps follow.
Once back on the street, Paul catches up with me. We face each other in the October light.
“So listen,” Paul says. “If I find anything else on the case?—”
He hesitates.
“Or if you just want to see more of the city.”
I look at him. I can almost feel my heart skip a beat.
Is he asking me out?
“You’re a tour guide now?”
“A good reporter gets around.”
I almost smile. Then my focus sharpens.
“How good are you, Mr. Citizen Journalist? You have anything on the victims?”
“Working on it. Authorities haven’t released the identities yet, but I’ve got someone at the precinct digging.”
I study him.
Then I make a decision.
“Hand me your phone.”
“Okay.”
He gives it to me. I enter my number and hand it back, then nod toward the burger place on the corner.
“You get me those names, I’ll buy you a burger.”
“A burger?”
“I’ll throw in fries if your source is good.”
Paul grins.
“Deal.”
A beat.
I’m almost surprised at my own boldness.
Paul sends a quick text so I have his number too. Then he glances up at the Overton and something clicks behind his eyes.
"Wait." He looks at the building. Looks at me. "Your building was in the news. A few months back. A woman who lived there, she was mugged, she didn't?—"
He stops.
He sees my face.
"That was your grandmother."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry. That was, I didn't connect it until just now."
"It's okay. We weren't close. I hadn't seen her since I was little." I pocket my phone.
"Let me know if your contact comes through."
“Or if I spot any gargoyles.”
He means it lightly. I can hear the joke in it.
It still lands wrong.
His smile fades as soon as he sees my face.
“Sorry. That was?—”
But I'm already walking away.
I shouldn’t be this emotional. He had every reason to question me. He’d be crazy not to.
But it still hurts.
I walk the six blocks back to the Overton, trying to make sense of the emotions tangling inside me. Embarrassment. Fear. A need to be vindicated. Dread.
I know I’m not going crazy.
I know what I saw.
The photograph on my phone confirms that much.
And maybe part of me wishes it didn’t. Maybe part of me wishes this was only my imagination turning shadows into monsters.
Because the alternative is worse.
The alternative is that something was on that roof.
Something that left claw marks in stone.
Something that may have already killed two people.