CHAPTER 3 - Deimos #2
“It’s fucking heavy, I’ll have a monstrous biceps at the end of this career,” Lucy groans, slightly out of breath.
Madeline laughs softly at that. The sound hits me harder than it should.
The trolley stops in the center of the room. Perfect. Perfect for my view. They stand there for a moment, catching their breath. Then they move the body off the trolley, right on the dissection table. The one she’s always working on.
“So let me guess,” Madeline says as she reaches for the zipper.
“Another victim of The Arbiter.”
My eyes linger on her fingers as she opens the bag. Slow. Careful. Professional.
Lucy nods, her expression turning serious.
“Yes. But tonight something changed. The body was left somewhere crowded. Like he wanted it to be found. They even caught his shadow in a window reflection across the street. The police think it was intentional.” —it was.
“Whatever he’s planning… he’s escalating. You should be careful, Mali.”
Mali. That’s what she calls her. The nickname rolls in my head. Soft. Intimate. Mine now.
“I’ll be careful,” Madeline replies, but her tone shifts.
“I feel like I’m getting closer.”
Her gaze avoids Lucy’s.
Interesting. She’s keeping something to herself. Something only the two of us know about. She knows I was here before. She knows it wasn’t imagination. And still, she hasn’t told anyone. Not even her best friend.
A slow warmth spreads through my chest. Right where I carved open another man’s chest. Right where I placed the note. She’s protecting me. Even if she doesn’t realize it yet.
Lucy pulls her into a quick hug before leaving.
“Text me when you’re done, okay?”
Lucy says with a warm smile.
“I will.”
Then the door closes. And it’s just her. And the body. And me. Silence settles like dust. Madeline slips into full professionalism. Gloves on. Mask adjusted. Hair tied tighter. She begins with the exterior examination. Her movements are precise, almost reverent.
She notices the long incision immediately. Her brow furrows. Curiosity. Confusion. Good. She runs her gloved fingers lightly along the stitching I left behind. Testing the craftsmanship. Assessing the intention.
You’re wondering why, aren’t you? Why would I open him like that if strangulation was enough? Why risk exposure? Why break the pattern? Because you needed something to open.
She reaches for the scalpel. There’s always a half-second pause before her first cut. I’ve timed it, measured it, memorized it. There it is, the brief stillness. Like she’s asking permission from something unseen.
Then she begins. The blade glides down. Methodical. Focused. Her breathing shifts slightly as she reaches the cavity. She wasn’t expecting resistance. Her fingers move deeper. Exploring. Searching. She’s close now. So close.
My pulse remains steady. But something else tightens. Anticipation. Not for violence. For recognition. Her hand pauses. She feels it. The plastic. Foreign. Wrong. Her movements sharpen instantly. Alert.
She withdraws the folded sleeve, holding it between her fingers like something fragile. Her heart rate spikes; I can see it in the way her shoulders stiffen. She glances toward the door. Toward the glass. Toward the darkness behind it. She feels my presence again.
Carefully, she opens the plastic. Her eyes scan the paper. And then, they change. Not fear. Not yet. Something deeper. Something electric. You understand me, Madeline.
A strange sensation coils in my chest. Power. But not the kind I’m used to. This is quieter. More terrifying. She’s inside my head now. Reading something meant only for her. And she knows it.
For a moment, I consider stepping forward. Letting my presence register fully. But I don’t. Not now.
Because this… this is better. Watching her process it. Watching her breathe through it. Watching her decide what to do next. Call security? Call Lucy back? Or stay. Because she wants to understand. Because she wants to know why. Wants me.
She folds the note carefully. Too carefully. Not like evidence. Like something personal. And slips it aside. Not into an evidence bag. A slow smile curves across my mouth. You chose curiosity over fear. My brilliant girl.
She thinks she’s the one haunting me. That she’s getting closer. But she doesn’t understand yet; I’m letting her. Every body that she studies is a breadcrumb. Every pattern she uncovers is one I allowed.
I could disappear. Change cities, methods, skin. But I will stay. Because proximity isn’t a weakness. It’s gravity. And she’s already caught in mine. I remain in the dark, a god watching his creation. And as she stands there, clutching my secret to her skin, I know I’ve already won.
I remove threats. I eliminate distractions. I calculate outcomes. And if something stands too close to her, it won’t stand for long. Bryan. The ex. They think she’s available. She isn’t. She’s inevitable. And inevitability belongs to me.
A flicker of something unfamiliar passes through me. Doubt. Not about her. About myself. My mother’s voice rises from memory once again.
“Worship only those who show you the light.”
Is she actually the light? Or am I simply starving in the dark?
The question lingers. Then it dissolves. I haven’t touched a woman in six years. Didn’t even look at one. It doesn’t matter. Light or not, she chose not to expose me. And that choice binds us more than she realizes.
Madeline’s hand hovers over the steel table. Then slowly, she reaches for the paper again. Not as evidence. As a temptation. She unfolds it. And this time, she reads it.
My little storm,
you’re wasting your brilliance on the dead.
They can’t appreciate how beautifully your mind works.
How your fingers dance across their secrets.
But I do.
I’ll be watching your conclusion with great interest.
Your devoted shadow,
A.
Madeline folds the paper again. Not for the police. For herself. She slides it into the inner pocket of her coat. That small decision doesn’t escape me. It brands something into my chest I don’t have the vocabulary to name.
She cleans up mechanically after that. Controlled. But I can see it now, the slight tremor in her fingers when she adjusts the light. The way her jaw tightens when she looks at the cavity again. She finishes faster than usual. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t speak.
When she turns off the overhead lights, the room sinks into a muted gray. For a moment, she stands there. Listening. Waiting. I stay perfectly still in my hidden place. Even my breathing obeys me.
Then she leaves. The door shuts softly behind her. Silence expands.
I count to sixty. Slow. Measured. Giving her time to reach the hallway. To convince herself that nothing else will happen tonight.
Then I move. I don’t rush. Predators don’t rush. I step out from the shadows into the room she just vacated. The metal table is still warm from the lights. Her scent lingering in the sterile air, faint perfume beneath the antiseptic. My fingers brush the exact spot where she stood.
Soon. I turn off the last remaining light.
The corridor outside is darker. Quieter. I already know the blind spots between the cameras. I created them.
Her footsteps echo faintly ahead. Alone. Unaware. I follow. Not close enough to be heard. Close enough to reach her whenever I decide to.
And tonight. I decide.