Page 166 of Let Me In

I move to the door.

Check the handle.

Locked. Not a problem.

The tools are in my jacket. Thin, precise. Silent.

It takes six seconds.

The lock clicks open.

I draw my blade, the motion smooth and controlled. My hand doesn’t shake. My body stills around it, breath low and even. All quiet dominance. All deliberate threat.

Not because I’ll use it.

But because he’ll see it.

Because fear makes men sloppy.

And I want him to know.

He was never hunting.

He was prey.

The door opens without a sound.

And I step inside.

The door swings inward.

He’s in the armchair by the window.

Feet up. Hoodie pulled halfway over his head. A plate of cold food on the table beside him. The TV on mute.

He doesn’t hear me.

Not until the door clicks shut behind me.

Then he freezes.

Not all at once—just the slight twitch of his shoulders, the halt of his breath mid-inhale. Like his body is catching up to the danger before his mind does. I see it. I always see it. That instant when prey realizes it's been seen.

Doesn’t look up right away.

I let the silence stretch.

Let it crawl under his skin.

He turns—slowly.

Sees me.

And his whole body goes still.

Recognition hits in stages.

First my face.

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