My eyes snap open, and I jolt upright.
“Fuck,” I shout to an empty room. My heartbeat is through the roof, dread filling me. I’m drenched in sweat, and my face is wet.
Notthatdream again. I haven’t had a dream about Raymond Booth, or The Werewolf to little Elliot, in almost nine years. Not since I transformed myself completely and made it a mission to rid the world of scums like my former neighbor.
Mr. Kensington has been dead for over two decades. That werewolf can’t hurt me now. No one can. I made sure of that. I trained. I researched. I know how to execute an enemy before they even realize what hit them. I can fight like a goddamn mixed martial arts champion. I’mnotscared anymore.
Young Elliot was helpless, an easy prey. Raymond Booth moved into the house next door when I was five. He was charming and funny. Within a month, he’d become friends witheveryone, including my parents. ‘What a nice young man Mr. Booth is,’ my mom constantly said.
Then I caught him killing our neighbor, Ms. Chelsea, six months later. To five-year-old Elliot, it was like he’d conjured up a monster from his scariest nightmares. Big terrifying man with bloody claws still buried in Ms. Chelsea.
I remember running straight to my house and locking the doors. He didn’t follow me, didn’t make a fuss. My babysitter ignored me. When my parents came back that evening, they were surprised to find me hiding under my blanket.
I told them the truth. I told them everything. And my mother stroked my hair and laughed it off. My father loudly complained about my overactive imagination. And since Ms. Chelsea’s body was never found, there was no investigation.
After that Raymond Booth literally became the monster from my nightmares. He knew no one believed me now. So, he’d come up with new ways to torment me, scare me. He started hurting people in front of me a year later. Then he did it again and again, always making sure I believed I could save them. As if I hadanypower.
He liked to show off. Prove he was invincible. He killed morethan nine people in the five years he lived in the neighborhood. Probably more I didn’t know about.
He got up and disappeared when I was ten. Probably bored by my unresponsiveness. I’d long since given up any hope of saving anyone. I did not make friends because they had a tendency to end up at Raymond Booth’s house. I stopped talking to my parents completely because I knew he was listening. He was always listening.
I was sure he was going to kill me. That’s what all the buildup was about. But he didn’t. Just vanished with the sick satisfaction that he had broken me. That living would be worse than dying with those claws buried in me.
Sam has been looking for him for years, but it’s like Raymond Booth never even existed. Still, if anyone can find him, it’s Sam. And when he does, Raymond will wish he never existed. I won’t make it quick and easy for him as I do for the rest. He has a lot to answer for, and I’ll make sure his screams are louder than his victims’.
I pick up the glass of water I always keep on the side table with a trembling hand. Some of it dribbles on the mattress. “Fuckingcalmdown,” I order myself.
They keep trembling. I swallow the entire glass and get out of bed. I’m not getting any more sleep tonight.
I kick the coffee machine on and carry my laptop to the kitchen counter. When the coffee is done, just bitter enough to wake me up and ground me, I perch on the barstool and get to work. That’s what dreams like these deserve. Distraction and zero attention.
Sam has been tracking a serial killer for years now. The man rarely stays in one place long enough for us to do anything about him. He changes his identity every five minutes and doesn’t trust anyone.That’swhat I need to focus on. Sam mentions him often, but whenever I start asking questions, he changes the subject quickly. And Sam never runs out of topics to distract me.
But I know it’s important to him, and that’s reason enough to eliminate the target when the time comes. He last killed awoman in Minnesota. No idea where he’s heading next. I don’t know how Sam is going to track him, but he will, and I need to be prepared. I can’t let my mind pull me down.
I look at his file. Jared Langman. From what we know, my usual methods won’t work here. I can’t gain the guy’s trust. It will need to be quick and will probably get dirty.
Once I’m done reading the updates Sam sent me on the case, I change into my workout clothes and head to my gym. I need to punch a bag, or I’m in danger of punching every person I meet. And something tells me that won’t be very good for my business.
***
I walk up to the reception. “Did Mrs. Davis call with an update?” I ask Ashley, who has decided to wear a weird-ass pitch-black poncho and leggings today. I feel like she’s goading me to say something about the dress code. She’ll be waiting a long time and several more fashion disasters because I have better things to worry about. Like the hulking werewolf in the waiting room.
Wait—
I walk backwards to the waiting area, ignoring Ashley’s surly response. As a rule, you don’t want police snooping at your workplace. You especially don’t want them anywhere around if you commit felonies on the side like you’re collecting Pokémon for the next showdown.
That’s not even the worst part about Detective Nicholas Harper standing in my now-empty waiting room. It’s that fucking smile that stretches over those stubbled, sharp cheeks. I don't trust that smile. It's too sweet, too happy. Like he has never had a vicious thought in his entire life. It makes his sculpted face look boyish, almost charming.
I take a deep breath in and approach him calmly, hard to do when he towers over me like a damn mountain. “You’re back,” I state. “And no Mickey,” I notice the stark absence of canine paws trying to tackle me.
“Asolidobservation. No wonder you’re a doctor,” he snarks, but the dimples and that stupid spark in his eyes ruinthe effect. I’m oddly proud of him for trying though.
I tilt my head and narrow my eyes. I knew I should have just taken Mickey with me that day. It would have caused me less trouble even if it wouldn’t be easy to hide a hundred-pound Rottweiler. “What do you want, Nicholas?”
“Can’t I drop by? Catch up with my good friend, the best veterinarian in town?”
Not really, because this marks the third time I've talked to him this week, which is three times more than I’m willing to have a conversation with anyone who’s not paying me or is going to be killed by me. As we stand, Nicholas does not qualify for either. Yet. “Are you freaking out about Mickey again? For poor decision-making tendencies, you need a therapist. I can’t help you.”
