That was someone who used to wake me up with breakfastin bed. Who’d surprise me with books he thought I’d like, tabs marking passages he wanted to share. Who’d pull me close in the middle of the night, like he needed to touch me even in his sleep.
I didn’t know who the person standing in front of me was.
But I was beginning to understand what he was capable of.
Tom hadn’t slept well—I could read it in the lines of his face, in the shadows under his eyes. Dark circles bruised the delicate skin there, making him look hollowed out. His hair was messier than he’d ever allowed it to be, falling across his forehead in a way that would have bothered him before, would have sent him straight to a mirror to fix it.
He’d always cared about his appearance. While his wardrobe couldn’t be called expensive or stylish, he never looked rumpled. Everything had to be in its place—crisp collars, clean cuffs, shoes that were never scuffed.
Now he looked like he’d been dragged through hell and back.
I tutted internally.Sloppy, Dr. Hayes. Very sloppy…
Sleep deprivation would slow his reflexes, cloud his judgment, make him careless. That was useful information. Something I could exploit if the opportunity presented itself.
He set the plate in front of me—some kind of pasta, it looked like. It smelled good, which only pissed me off more. My stomach growled traitorously.
As if sensing my thoughts, he said, “Please don’t throw it at me this time.”
“I’ll do whatever the fuck I please.”
But I let it sit there. I didn’t immediately launch it at his head, even though the impulse was strong. I knew it wouldn’t accomplish anything. It wouldn’t hurt him—not really—wouldn’t even inconvenience him beyond making himclean up the mess.
And some practical part of me, the part that was already thinking about survival, knew I needed to conserve my energy. Pick my battles, so to speak.
I didn’t touch the food, however.
Tom pulled over the chair from the desk, the legs scraping against concrete with a sound that set my teeth on edge. He sat down across from me, settling in like we were about to have a pleasant conversation.
The silence stretched between us, neither of us willing to be the first to speak. I could hear the faint creak of the house settling overhead, the distant hum of the furnace kicking on.
I wasn’t going to break first.
Minutes passed like this, Tom looking me over with those careful eyes, seemingly cataloging every detail—every bruise, every cut, every sign of damage. Finally, he spoke.
“Tell me what you want to know.”
“I already know everything there is to know.”
That was the fucking problem, wasn’t it? All the pieces had clicked into place with horrible clarity. The timeline. The victims. His interest in my cases. The way he’d shown up outside my work under the flimsy guise of wanting to take me out for a drink, when in reality he was most likely searching for an alibi after botching a kill.
I felt sick just thinking about it.
“You must have some questions,” he pressed, leaning forward slightly.
“I really, really don’t. You’re the serial killer who murdered Linda Fell, Alfred Thorne, and Martin Baker. What else is there to say?”
The words hung between us, ugly and undeniable. Sayingthem out loud made it more real somehow, gave weight and substance to something that still felt surreal.
Tom didn’t confirm or deny it. He just watched me with those steady eyes, calm and patient. “Don’t you want to know why?”
“Because you’re insane?”
He made a considering sound, tilting his head slightly like he was actually giving the question serious thought. “I wouldn’t call myself insane.”
Of course he wouldn’t. Every serial killer in every interview ever conducted said that exact same thing. They all thought they were special, different, when in reality they were just variations of the same broken theme.
“You think you’re sane, then?” I asked, mildly curious despite myself. “There’s a word for that, you know. It’s called being delusional.”
