Check, check, check, check.
Pathological lying. Inability to accept blame. Need for control.
My stomach twists. Daniel's face flashes through my mind with startling clarity—that warm, disarming smile he wore when he first asked me out at the pool hall, so genuine and unguarded that I never thought to question it, never saw the calculation behind those serious blue eyes.
The way he'd methodically twist every single argument, turning my words against me with surgical precision, reshaping reality until somehow, impossibly, I'd find myself apologizing profusely for things I didn't even do, for crimes I never committed, for hurting him when he was the one hurting me.
I scroll deeper, clicking through tabs. One article mentions psychopathy—how it differs from narcissism but overlaps in terrifying ways.
My cursor hovers over the link:Psychopathy and Borderline Personality Disorder: A Dangerous Combination.
I click.
Unstable relationships. Intense fear of abandonment. Impulsive, destructive behavior. Explosive anger.
The words blur as my eyes race across the screen. That's Daniel. Every single symptom maps perfectly onto the man I thought I loved.
When combined with psychopathic traits—lack of remorse, predatory behavior, calculated manipulation—the individual becomes exceptionally dangerous.
My breath comes shallow now. Dangerous. Not just controlling or possessive.Dangerous.
I think about Claudia. Sweet, anxious Claudia who simply vanished into thin air one ordinary Tuesday morning. Claudia who sent those desperate, fragmented text messages to Dylan in the middle of the night, her words jumbled and frantic, saying she couldn't get away from Daniel no matter how hard she tried, that he had somehow become her entire world, her whole existence, consuming every corner of her life until there was nothing left of the person she used to be.
What did that mean?
My hands shake as I open another tab, searching for statistics on missing persons and intimate partner violence. The numbers make me nauseous.
Julian shifts beside me, mumbling something in his sleep. I glance at him—his broken hand resting on the pillow, healed but forever changed.
Because of Daniel.
I look back at the screen, at the clinical descriptions of psychopathy staring back at me in Times New Roman.
Daniel's not going to stop. Psychopaths don't stop. They escalate.
The Private Investigator found nothing because Daniel's smart. He knows exactly how to blend seamlessly into polite society, how to present himself as perfectly, reassuringly normal—just another successful, charming businessman with that warm smile and those concerned blue eyes.
That calculated ability to wear normalcy like a well-tailored suit, to hide the monster underneath layers of respectable civility and manufactured kindness, is precisely what makes him so absolutely, bone-chillingly terrifying.
I close the laptop, darkness swallowing the room.
Sleep won't come tonight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The underground parking garage stretches out before me, all dim fluorescent lights and cold concrete. The air down here is damp and stale, carrying that particular underground smell of exhaust fumes and motor oil. My footsteps echo off the low ceiling and cement pillars as I make my way toward my Mini Cooper, weaving between the scattered vehicles left by other apartment residents. I've already fished my keys from my purse, the metal cold against my palm, the little leather tassel I'd added last month swinging as I walk. The heels of my Doc Martens click against the floor with each step, the sound bouncing back at me from every direction, making the space feel even more cavernous and empty than it actually is.
My breath fogs in the chill air.
A hand clamps over my mouth.
I try to scream, but his palm crushes the sound. I reach desperately for the mace canister in my jacket pocket, my fingers fumbling against the fabric as I twist and writhe in his grip. The zipper catches, resists, and precious seconds slip away as I struggle to yank it out with trembling hands.
Finally, I manage to grab the small metal cylinder, feeling its familiar weight in my palm. My finger finds the trigger, squeezes hard with everything I have left—but nothing happens. Not even a hiss. The canister is completely empty, utterly useless.
My stomach drops as the reality hits me like a physical blow. I let it fall from my numb fingers, and it drops to the ground with a hollow metallic clatter that echoes mockingly through the concrete cavern around us.
No. No, no, no.
