Page 15

The flickering blue glow from the television danced across the walls of Gregory Phillips' living room, casting eerie shadows that seemed to twitch and writhe with a life of their own. An old episode of "I Love Lucy" played at low volume, Lucy's shrill laughter punctuating the otherwise oppressive silence of the house.

Gregory wasn't watching. From his perch in the darkened kitchen, he could just make out slivers of the TV screen through the doorway. His weathered hands gripped the cool metal of his pistol, index finger resting lightly against the frame just above the trigger guard. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.

"Come on, you bastard," he muttered under his breath, eyes flicking between the front and back doors. "I know you're out there."

The tick-tick-tick of the kitchen clock seemed to grow louder with each passing second. Gregory's throat was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He longed for a drink – whiskey, preferably – but he needed to stay sharp. Alert.

A car drove by outside, its headlights sweeping across the kitchen window. Gregory tensed, gun raised slightly, before forcing himself to relax as the vehicle continued down the street. False alarm. Again.

He exhaled slowly, trying to steady his racing heart. "Get it together, old man," he chided himself. "You've been through worse than this."

But had he? The weight of unseen eyes bore down on him, an oppressive presence that seemed to seep in through the very walls of his home. Gregory's gaze darted to the shadows in the corners of the room, half-expecting to see a figure materialize from the darkness.

Another burst of canned laughter erupted from the TV, making him flinch. "Damn it," he hissed, angry at his own jumpiness. He considered turning off the television, but the silence would be worse. At least the background noise gave some illusion of normalcy, however false.

Gregory shifted in his chair, wincing at the creaking of old joints. His finger twitched, inching closer to the trigger before he caught himself. Not yet. He couldn't afford to be trigger-happy, not when the threat was still just a formless dread lurking on the periphery of his consciousness.

"You're losing it, Greg," he murmured, running his free hand through his thinning gray hair. "There's nothing out there. Nothing's coming for you."

But even as the words left his lips, he knew they were a lie. Something was coming. Someone. And when they arrived, Gregory Phillips would be ready.

Gregory's jaw clenched as he replayed the FBI agent's words in his mind.

A car door slammed somewhere down the street, and Gregory's grip tightened on his gun. He leaned forward, peering through the kitchen window, searching for any sign of movement in the shadows beyond.

"Come on then," he growled, his voice low and challenging. "You want me? I'm right here."

But beneath the bravado, an old, familiar fear stirred in his gut. Twenty years he'd spent burying it, drowning it in whiskey and denial. Now it clawed its way back to the surface, threatening to overwhelm him.

Gregory shook his head, trying to dispel the creeping dread. "I'm not like the others," he said aloud, his words half-reassurance, half-defiance. "I won't run. I won't hide."

He thought of Rachel and Kevin, wondered if they'd seen it coming. Had they been afraid in their final moments? Had they tried to fight back?

"Not me," Gregory muttered. "If this bastard thinks he can just waltz in here and take me out, he's in for a hell of a surprise."

His finger traced the cool metal of the trigger guard, itching to act, to do something other than sit and wait. But Gregory knew better. Patience was key. Let the killer come to him.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house, and Gregory's heart leapt into his throat. He stood slowly, gun raised, every muscle taut with anticipation.

The television's low murmur seemed to grow louder in the stillness, each laugh from the sitcom audience grating against Gregory's nerves. He lowered his gun slowly, his breath ragged in his chest. As the adrenaline ebbed, an old, familiar ache settled into his bones.

"Dammit," he muttered, running a hand over his face. The stubble on his cheeks rasped against his palm, reminding him of how long he'd been sitting in this darkened kitchen, waiting.

His eyes fell on the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter. He hadn't touched it in hours, determined to stay sharp, but now... now the temptation was overwhelming. Gregory reached for it, his fingers trembling slightly.

"Just one," he told himself, pouring a generous measure into a glass. "To steady the nerves."

As the amber liquid burned its way down his throat, a memory stirred, unbidden and unwelcome. The glass clattered against the counter as he set it down too hard, his mind suddenly twenty years in the past.

"Lucas Hayes," Gregory whispered, the name tasting bitter on his tongue.

The kitchen faded away, replaced by the grimy back alley of a seedy bar. The stench of stale beer and urine filled his nostrils, so vivid he could almost gag. Gregory closed his eyes, trying to push the memory away, but it persisted, demanding to be acknowledged.

"It wasn't real," he insisted to the empty room. "It couldn't have been real."

But even as he said it, doubt gnawed at him. The details were hazy, obscured by time and alcohol, but certain images remained razor-sharp.

Gregory's hand tightened around the glass. "I was drunk," he muttered. "I didn't... I couldn't have seen..."

But the memory continued to unfold, relentless in its clarity. He remembered stumbling out the back door of the bar, the world spinning around him. He remembered the shock of cold air on his flushed face, the way his stomach had lurched threateningly.

And then... the body. Gregory's breath caught in his throat as he relieved that moment of horrified recognition. It wasn't just that someone was dead. It was the deliberate arrangement, the careful positioning that spoke of something far more sinister than a drunken brawl gone wrong. He didn’t want to remember.

But the floodgates had opened, and the memory refused to be denied. Every detail seemed to sharpen, cutting through the haze of alcohol and time. The victim's glassy eyes, staring sightlessly at the night sky. The strange, almost peaceful expression on the slack face. The way the arms and legs had been arranged, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Gregory's weathered hands trembled as he set the whiskey glass down, his gaze unfocused as the memory continued to unfold. He wasn't alone in that alley. The realization hit him like a physical blow, forcing the air from his lungs.

"Why didn't I do something?" Gregory whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of two decades of guilt. "I should have yelled, should have called for help. But I just... ran."

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the memory away, but it clung to him like a second skin. The sound of his own footsteps echoing off the alley walls as he fled, the pounding of his heart drowning out everything else.

"It wasn't real," Gregory said, his words sounding hollow even to his own ears. "I told myself for years it was just the booze, just my imagination running wild."

But even as he spoke the familiar lie, Gregory knew he could no longer hide from the truth. His grip tightened on the gun in his lap, the metal cool and unyielding against his palm.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the window, making a nearby tree branch scratch against the siding. Phillips didn't so much as blink. His breathing remained slow and measured, a stark contrast to the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

In the distance, a car door slammed. A dog's bark pierced the night air. Still, Phillips waited, his resolve unwavering.

"Twenty years," he thought, his inner voice tinged with bitterness. "Twenty years of drowning in whiskey, trying to forget. But I remember now. I remember everything."

The television in the living room droned on, its cheerful laugh track a jarring counterpoint to the tension in the kitchen. Phillips found himself grateful for the background noise, filling what would otherwise be an unbearable silence.

"I won't be like the others," he whispered, his words barely audible. "Rachel, Kevin... they didn't stand a chance. But me? I'm ready for you."

His eyes never left the doors as he spoke, his heartbeat steady and controlled. Phillips had spent years running from this moment, but now that it was here, he felt an odd sense of calm. The waiting was almost worse than the confrontation itself.

"Come on," he dared the empty room, his voice low and dangerous. "Let's finish this. Once and for all."