Not for anything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE || ELI
Nicolas exited the store about a half hour later. A plump, middle-aged man followed him to the threshold, smiling. They appeared to be… chatting.
“What the fuck?” I whispered, staring at them through the windshield.
When Nicolas said his goodbyes to the man, he didn’t glance around like he was looking for me, which probably meant he didn’t know I was there. Instead, he went straight for his car, got in, and pulled away from the curb.
I started the car but waited until he was halfway up the block before following.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I muttered fifteen minutes later.
This wasn’t going the way I’d imagined it would.
As I watched through the windshield, Nicolas drove into the parking lot of the Los Angeles Police Department, Hollywood Station. It was a single-story square building made of brown brick. I parked along the side of the street near the lot entrance, giving myself a clear view of the back of the building, and watched Nicolas fish out a badge from his back pocket and enter the station through a doorway markedemployees only.
Did Nicolas work for the LAPD?
What the fuck was happening?
I started to feel even more uneasy about what I was doing. There was clearly an awful lot about Nicolas I didn’t know.
Like what his favorite blood type was. And how did he select his victims? Was it random, or did he stalk them first? Did he make them suffer? Or did he kill them swiftly, the way he had killed Eric?
And what, exactly, would he do if he caught me following him?
I did my best to silence that particular line of internal questioning. Somehow, even knowing what he was, I still felt deeply certain—in an entirely irrational, bone-deep way—that Nicolas wouldn’t harm me. Even if he caught me red-handed. And if I thought too long about what I was actually doing—acting like a fucking crazy person, that’s what—I might stop doing it.
And then, when Nicolas apologized to me, hat in hand, and offered soothing explanations for his behavior—which he no doubt would—I might believe him.
Yeah, I needed to see for myself.
I needed to catch him in the act. Sooner or later, he would feed. Sooner or later, he would kill again. And I needed to believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was an irredeemable monster.
Otherwise, I might make very dangerous, very foolish choices.
And in light of that, stalking him—and whatever consequences that might bring—seemed like the safer alternative.
Besides, turnabout was fair play, wasn’t it? After all, he had stalked me first. And at the very least, I had a good reason for doing what I was doing.
But the thing no one tells you about doing a stakeout is that it’s excruciatingly boring. I sat there for two full hours, waiting for Nicolas to come back out.
When he finally did, there was a dangerous smile on his face.
Even from across the street, I could swear I saw a predatory gleam in his eye. There was a coldness to him that I had never witnessed before.
I shuddered.
A chill raced up and down my spine.
And even though it was a beautiful day in Los Angeles—with pastel blue skies and yellow sunlight dappling through the trees that lined the street, even though there were people walking by, totally oblivious and carefree—in that moment, I knew.
I wasn’t seeing the Nicolas who had pleaded with me not to ask for the truth. I wasn’t seeing the Nicolas who had looked so stricken by my reaction to what he was—a murderer—that it had twisted my insides into horrid shapes. I wasn’t seeing the Nicolas who had fallen asleep in my arms, who had touched me with such passion and tenderness.
I was seeing Nicolas, the smiling, cold-eyed monster.
And when he pulled out of the police station parking lot, I followed.
