Page 11 of Only for Him

But my satisfaction is cut short when I see the next page. On MacDougal’s chest, the flesh is flayed back to reveal three little words gouged into the flesh.

Deliberate.

Neat.

TO DETECTIVE CANTIANO.

The blood drains from my face, and I feel the world spinning under my toes. If it isn’t for the scowl on Captain Russo’s face, I might’ve believed that this was just a sick joke.

Some kind of twisted prank.

I think about the cold joy that bloomed in my chest last night when I imagined someone doing something almost exactly like this. Did I wish this into being? Did the universe overhear my craving for violence, and then gift-wrapped it just for me?

I slam the folder shut.

“Manhattan wants us at the crime scene,” Russo says, leaning forward, both palms braced on the desk. “Well, they wantyou.”

“I didn’t know the victim, sir,” I say, but it sounds thin. “You know that.”

He studies my face, looking for the lie. “What about the M.O.? Any of your old perps? Think of anything at all, G?”

“No,” I say.

I don’t tell him about the uncanny coincidences. About the massiveman with glacier eyes. About the way his gaze followed me into my dreams.

About the flash of a camera last night outside of my building.

Most importantly, I definitely don’t tell him how much Iwantedthis, or that it feels like it’s better justice than anything we can dole out. My hand instinctively reaches up and starts twisting Serena’s earring, sharp enough to draw a bead of pain.

Russo sighs, suddenly more tired than angry. “Let’s get going, then. Crime scene isn’t gonna traumatize itself.”

There’s a warmth in his voice that he tries to hide. I recognize it anyway.

I nod. “I’ll drive.”

The elevator is linedwith gold leaf, the kind that peels if you scrape it with your thumbnail. It reminds me of scraping the silver off gum wrappers in school and collaging it onto my binders.

Serena taught me that trick.

I stare at a singular gold leaf the whole ride up, thinking about MacDougal, the neat slice in his throat, the way he must have been so sure of his own importance right up to the last second.

Captain Russo stands beside me in silence, hands tucked in the pockets of his raincoat.

The doors open directly into a foyer larger than my entire apartment. Light bounces off every surface—gilded walls, a glass sculpture in the shape of a depressed swan, and marble floors so polished I can see up my own shirt.

It smells like iron and lavender.

Two men are stationed at the double doors ahead. One of them blinks at Russo and steps aside, careful not to touch anything. The other gives me a nod, low and almost apologetic. I resist the urge to punch him lightly on the shoulder and tell him to nut up.

In a few years, he’ll look back and remember this as a good day, an easy shift, all things considered.

The penthouse is a showroom for the worst kind of narcissism. Everything looks staged and unlived in, and from the moment you step inside, you know exactly what it’s used for.

Sex.

Custom velvet couches, a wet bar stocked with $30,000 worth of vodka, and two crystal bowls in the open-floor kitchen. One is filled with condoms, and the other with varying sizes and styles of butt plugs.

In the corner, a professional-grade sex swing dangles from a reinforced beam. Mirrors on every wall and the ceiling, some angled so the only thing you see is yourself, multiplied and refracted until the room feels crowded.