Recklessly, I obey, swallowing down the glass before scramblingto refill it, deciding to abandon the glass altogether and take straight from the bottle.
Cormac's smile morphs into one of amusement as he silently sips his own glass.
"Did you do it?" I ask him between heaving breaths and heavier chugs of the red liquid I'm using to hide from his intensity.
He blinks.
Pauses.
Then nods. His expression isn't happy or proud. As if he himself is still working to accept the truth.
"Are you going to kill me?” My next question slips out, my voice terrified and smaller than I've ever heard it.
With a gentle shake of his head, he sets the glass down, using his now free hand to push the hair tumbling down to my collarbone back over my shoulder. Gently cupping his hand around my neck, his fingers rest on my nape, and his hot palm presses against my artery as it pulses wildly.
"You need a better hiding place for that," he warns me, referencing my recklessly stored gun. Running his thumb down my jawline, his eyes trace the motion in utter rapture, leaving me completely breathless from both terror and a desire to fall into his warm touch. I swallow my nerves as he leans closer, his voice teasing and little more than a whisper, "Haven't you heard there's a dangerous killer on the loose?"
All at once, he releases me and the pistol, quickly escaping out my front door before I can react and either shoot him or yell his name to make him stop and explainwhyhe came here, of all places.
Still, I consider calling the police. What are the chances he was being truthful about his freedom?
But when I turn on the news, I realize how fruitless it would be.
A mistrial.
One of the most prolific serial killers of our time, and it all ended with a mistrial.
For the first time since it all started, I take note of what's being said about the man who was just in my home.
Every news network I flip through, every think-piece from talking heads, not a single one mentions his real name, as if referring to him only as his moniker somehow separates him from us.
Dehumanizing him every step of the way and pretending he isn't a flesh-and-blood man only serves to cause more fear and hysteria surrounding his release.
Bás Dorcha.
Dark Death.
But I know his real name.
Cormac Fomori.
A local businessman featured in philanthropy magazines years ago.
And somehow, underneath it all, a deranged killer?
How had it come to this?
Perhaps that's why they won't speak of his real name. No one wants to believe a serial killer could be someone they knew and never suspected of hiding his true self.
And now, due to negligence and possibly even corruption, this man, who brutally murdered almost 20 people, is free to roam.
No repercussions. Not even trapped in a hospital any longer due to his brain injury.
A psychotic killer just free to do whatever he feels like.
And what he felt like was breaking into my home.
For what?
