2. Xavier #2
She caught it, the placement of the evidence, my deliberate symbolism.
The tiny detail hidden in plain sight that no one else would understand, but Ashmaker and her.
I knew she would, she's fucking brilliant.
My pulse steadies instead of racing with pleasure.
Control has always felt better than excitement.
My bare hands fist at my sides, my gloves long discarded.
The cold wind ruffles her dark hair, confined in its long ponytail that I long to use as a leash.
Steady now, all in due time. There you are, my sweet girl.
Your girl? When exactly did she become yours, you delusional fool?
Shut the fuck up, I need to concentrate!
You're fucking ruining everything. The other agents and local law enforcement continue speaking around her, and the medical examiner is busy making cow eyes at her partner, Jasper, while he has eyes only for what belongs to me.
I feel my rage sparking, the need to claim what's mine visceral, but I force myself to remain where I am. Soon. Soon she will be mine.
A harsh, braying laugh thunders through my mind, and for a moment, it makes me sway, knocking into the person next to me, who stares at me with annoyance.
Photographers move around, snapping pictures, as uniformed officers move through their procedures.
None of them matter; they're background noise.
They're all pieces moving across a board that they don't even know exists. My board.
This scene isn't for them, and it never has been.
This is all for her, a powerful game of wits between my Spitfire and me.
I designed every inch of it with her in mind.
I can almost pinpoint the precise moment with satisfaction.
It was the second recognition began to bloom, and her eyes narrowed slightly, not enough to alarm anyone else or bring attention to what she found.
It was what she was remembering, and how it prickled in her mind. Come on, baby, put the pieces together.
You think too much of her, putting her on a pedestal. She's nothing special.
I ignore his comment, because we both know it's false.
Unsolved cases that linger, with no links to be found other than one.
All of them were masterfully hidden from prying eyes.
Deaths no one cared about, no one but us.
Secrets buried expertly beneath sealed reports, missing evidence, and calculated risks.
Moments, she convinced herself nobody but her knew about.
Details she'd locked away and carried ever since, deep in the darkness that was my matching soul. She is perfection.
She's a flawed human, just like you are. Stop glorifying her! She's a whore, nothing more!
Anger tinges his tone, and he pushes against the veil that divides us, doing his best to regain control, but I'm not having it. I need to see this through, to see her.
Most people think secrets disappear when they are hidden, but they don't. They wait patiently for when it will be useful, no matter how long it takes.
I hadn't copied the crime; that would have been crude and disrespectful to its beauty, and Ashmaker's artistry.
Predictable. An imitation. Not remotely worthy of the woman before me.
Not worthy of Ashmaker, and my reverence.
No, I had recreated its perfect language, its rhythm, and the emotional fingerprint. The energy that existed between us was the thing only she and Ashmaker would recognize. It was a memory disguised as evidence. One move closer to the danger zone in our game.
Her head tilts, and I feel a quiet satisfaction settle inside me.
There, that's it, that tiny fracture. That microscopic hesitation, the little line that appeared between her brows, and just as quickly disappeared.
No one else would notice. I did, I always notice.
It is the difference between us and everyone else. We pay attention.
She pries her eyes away from the body and calmly scans around her, the realization moving through her like a ghost as she rises to her feet.
Someone knows, someone remembers, someone is talking to me.
I can almost see the thoughts racing through her mind.
Was that a slight tremble in her frame? Oh my sweet, don't worry, I'll keep you safe from the monsters.
The thought warms me from the inside out, but it is without triumph or victory.
It is something far more intimate between us.
Connection. For the first time in a very long time, I feel seen.
Connection? She doesn't even know you exist. She's hunting someone else, and you're busy playing a game that only has one player. Pathetic.
Lies! It's not true, not completely. She turns away from me, her head moving slowly from side to side as her vision sweeps across the scene again.
She's now searching, but not for a suspect, no, nothing as trivial as that.
No, my Spitfire is searching for me. She doesn't know it yet, but she is already looking in the right direction.
I can feel the question forming behind those intelligent eyes that haunt all my waking and sleeping hours, a tangible thread from her to me. Who are you?
My smile deepens as I melt further into the crowd of spectators. Wrong question, my sweet. The real question is the one she isn't ready to ask. The one that will surely keep her awake tonight. How much do you know about me?
Rain begins falling. Cold droplets strike my face and slide down my skin, as those before me scramble to cover what meager evidence I had left behind of my masterpiece.
I watch with amusement as Jasper trails behind her to her vehicle, the stiffness in her body conveying her discomfort to me.
Still, I don't move. I like the rain. I enjoy how it blurs the edges and softens the outlines of this harsh world.
It makes people look in the wrong places and forget themselves, too busy rushing away from its peace.
Get in the fucking car, Xavier. You look like a besotted love-sick pup standing in the rain, staring at her. I won't let you continue to risk us for this delusional fantasy of yours.
No! I want to memorize this moment and keep it locked up safely inside my heart.
The exact second she realized she wasn't investigating another murder.
That she is now participating in a conversation.
A private one. One that nobody else in the world can hear.
Everyone else was too busy looking at a burnt corpse.
They saw only evidence, procedure, and gruesome violence.
Scarlett Lyssa saw something else. She saw a message, and beneath that message, she saw herself.
A mirror carefully positioned where only she would find it.
I watched her stare at the scene, and for the first time, I thought she might finally recognize the reflection staring back at her.
"Will you walk into my parlor? Said the Spider to the Fly," I whisper my favorite Mary Howitt line as I watch her drive away from me with him.
"Don't worry, Spitfire. I'll free you from your chains soon. Then we can finally be together, just as we were meant to be."
Not if I can help it, I'll kill her first.