Page 48

The city never slept, but it did occasionally doze. In these liminal hours between midnight and dawn, when the neon flickered and the sidewalks emptied, it was almost possible to believe in the illusion of stillness. Of peace.

Inhale. Exhale. Smoke curled from her nostrils and dissipated into the night. Her eyes never left the building's entrance. She had time. Time enough to stand here until her heels took root in the concrete if that's what it took. The devil's workshop and idle hands, sure, but they never mentioned idle eyes – the kind that watched and waited. And hers had been watching a long, long time.

She thought of him then, in the way a tongue probes a missing tooth. The man, the monster. He might be caged for now, but that was just geography. Man like that, he lived in your head long after the cell door clanged shut. She felt the curl of a smile, the taste of his name on her lips. A girl could get drunk on a name like that.

Her musings cut short as a figure approached the building. A woman. Lithe, lean. The right height, the right build. Dark hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. The watcher flicked her cigarette, watched the arc of red as it pinwheeled into the gutter.

Well, hello beautiful.

She waited until the woman fumbled with her keys and slipped inside. Then, she crossed the street as smooth as velvet. Child's play to catch the door before it clicked shut. She ghosted through the lobby, scanning the mailboxes. No names, just numbers. Anonymous little cubbyholes lined up like soldiers. The building was old, but well-maintained. Discreet in the way of all residences catering to those who valued their privacy. No doorman, minimal security. Just endless carpeted corridors snaking off into the gloom.

Perfect hunting grounds.

She trailed the woman at a distance, keeping to the edges of the light. There was an art to remaining unseen. To fade into the background until you were nothing but a flicker in the corner of the eye.

She'd perfected it long ago. Honed it to a razor's edge, thanks to help from a little someone.

The woman paused outside an apartment on the top floor. Spent a small eternity jiggling the key in the lock, her coordination shot to hell. But eventually, the tumblers clicked and the door swung wide.

The watcher pressed her ear to the jamb. Listened.

No sounds of life from inside the house. The occupant was alone.

She'd asked him once, about a year ago, if it was better to make it quick. To be a merciful angel of death. He'd laughed, traced the edge of her jaw with one callused finger and said, ‘Where’s the fun in that?’

Even now, the memory of his touch raised gooseflesh on her arms. He was a thousand miles away, but she always carried him with her.

She tested the knob. It turned smooth as butter. The gal was either cocky or just plain stupid, not throwing the deadbolt. The watcher slipped inside.

She could've laughed. It was all so predictable; the illusion of safety, fragile as spun glass. Did these people ever learn? But then, that was the trouble with playing the hero. You start to believe your own hype. Forget that there are things that go bump in the night.

From inside, the clatter of pill bottles in the bathroom. Faucet running. The woman was occupied, oblivious. The watcher crept down the hall and slid one hand into her pocket. She curled her fingers around a rag and a tiny brown bottle. Chloroform. Amazing, the things you could get your hands on when you knew the right people. And she knew all the right people.

One step. Two. The bathroom door gaped like a wound. Light spilled out, painting a slice of tile the color of bone. The watcher inched forward until she could just see the mirror, the woman bent forward, splashing water on her face. Dark hair, pale skin, a constellation of moles down the left side of her neck.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe in, breathe out.

She moved. No hesitation, no second guessing. This was the part she was made for. The woman barely had time to jerk upright before the watcher was on her. It wasn't a graceful dance – the bottle slipped with a dull thunk as it hit the floor – but the rag found its home over nose and mouth.

The woman bucked once, twice. A hand scrabbled at the watcher's wrist but it was short lived, as most struggles were. The chloroform did its work, faithful as ever.

The watcher lowered her to the bathmat. Brushed a strand of lank hair from her forehead. In sleep, the woman looked younger. Fragile, like something blown from glass. The watcher traced the curve of her cheek, the jut of her bottom lip.

Ella Dark. If you believed the papers, believed all the hype, she was a regular Joan of Arc.

But the watcher knew better. She'd watched. She'd waited. And she'd made the connections that those dime-store hacks could never dream of. Ella Dark might've put on a good show, but her hands were far from clean. How many times had she colored outside the lines to close a case? How many little deals with the Devil had she made along the way?

Little Miss Dark had skeletons aplenty in her closet, and it was high time they saw the light of day.

All the watcher needed to pull this off was a cell phone and a hairbrush.

And she already had both.