Page 29 of Only for Him

I tell myself I’m just curious, that I’m playing my own game, not his.

Three cheers for denial. It’s the only thing keeping me together at this point.

I wonder how he knew about his victims. Where does he get such good intel? How does he seem to see and know everything in this city of secrets?

There’s a rhythm to the violence. An anticipation that builds with every delivery. And now, I almost want to skip the foreplay and move straight to the main event each time he drops off another clue like a cat dropping off a squirrel’s head.

But that’s not how this works. I’m as much a part of the dance as he is, and everyone knows it.

Because of him, I’ve become a joke at the precinct.

“Hey, Cantiano! Your boyfriend is calling again!”

“Can’t wait for today’s message from CSI: Lover Boy.”

“Tell your secret admirer to leave donuts next time. He’s fucking us too hard not to buy us breakfast in the morning.”

Russo hates it, I just let the laughter happen. Every time, the body is timed, styled, and presented like a course at a serial killer’s prix fixe.

And every time, I pretend to be disgusted.

“You’ve got too much skin in the game, G. Take the rest of the week off. Let someone else get chewed up for once,” Russo said the first week.

“You’re walking around like a gunfighter with a death wish. I need you in one piece,” he said the second.

“You keep this up, I’ll bench you until Internal is satisfied you’re not compromised,” was this week’s check-in. He wants me off the case as badly as I want to stay on it.

I know I should take him up on the offer.

But I don’t.

“I’m fine, boss,” I always respond. “Just let me do my job.”

I can’t tell him I’m becoming as obsessed with my shadow as my shadow is with me. It’s become an addiction at this point. A darkly delicious addiction that I can’t get enough of.

It’s a good thing Russo doesn’t know about everything else, or he’d put me on administrative leave. And maybe commit me.

But a part of me, the part that’s survived this long, knows we are operating on a frequency I thought was mine alone. It’s a dirty secret that I’ve kept for most of my life. Compared to being alone again, these new secrets feel like nothing.

The worst part of this entire ordeal is the fact that when I went down to ask to see my earrings in the evidence locker, they told me that no earrings ever came in.

Somehow, that cuts me harder than everything else that’s happened.

Seeing Serena’s earrings on Ivan’s corpse is one thing. But knowing that they disappeared forever?

It’s like losing her all over again.

I pace the length of the apartment, each step landing in the exact worn spot my shoes have worn in the wood. Five weeks of tight circles like a prisoner in her cell, never more than five feet from a weapon or a window.

My brain is a snare drum, pounding out the order of operations, always the same: deadbolt, chain, window latch, repeat.

I pour another coffee, and ignore the tremor in my hand. I don’t want to fall asleep.

Because the moment I do, he’ll come in to leave me more gifts.

The first time he got in, I convinced myself that it was my fault. I’d fallen asleep on the futon and left the window open for some fresh air.

The next morning, the door was ajar.