Page 12 of Drawn to Death
His eyes flick to the papers spread across the table. I watch recognition hit; he's not looking at ancient unsolved murders. He's looking at my kills. The moment he figures that out, his expression changes. Not fear, exactly. More like resignation.
"That one’s not on my website. How did you get it?" He gestures to one image.
"I took it from your apartment. The night I put the cameras in."
He swallows dryly. "Are you going to kill me?"
"That’s up to you." My voice stays calm. "But first, I need to understand something."
"What?"
I slide one drawing across the table, nudging it toward him. Samuel Reeves, the hotel job I did fourteen months ago. “How do you see this?”
He stares at the paper, then at me. “I told you. I put most of them on my website. I have dreams…"
"Not good enough." I cut him off. "The angle’s wrong. It’s not what a witness would see. It’s what I see."
"I don’t know how it works." He blurts it out fast, like he can’t help it. "I just see things in my dreams. I wake up and I have to draw them or I’ll go crazy. Sometimes it’s stuff that’s recently happened. If I find anything about a recent murder, I don't publish the drawing, but most… they're just cold cases, right? I don’t control it."
"So you’re saying you’re psychic."
"I’m not saying anything." He looks a little pissed off, honestly. "I’m just telling you what happens to me. I wish it didn't.”
I watch him. His hands shake, but his eyes don’t. He means every word. That doesn’t make it real.
"These people," I say, tapping another drawing. "Do you know who they are?"
He shakes his head. "No. Sometimes I look them up after, if they’re in the news. But most of the time, no."
"But you know they’re dead."
"Yes." His voice gets quieter. "I can feel it. In the dreams. The moment right before," He stops, swallowing. "The moment right before they die."
I lean back. Either he is a world-class liar, or he is telling the truth. And I’ve seen enough to know the difference.
"One more question." I pick up the drawing in the middle, the banker, the pliers. The one that hasn’t happened yet. "What about this one?"
His eyes dart to the page, then away. Something shifts on his face. Fear, yes, but more than that. Recognition. And something else. Something colder.
"That one’s different," he whispers.
"How?"
"It just… feels closer. Like it is about to happen. And I can feel…" He stops, breath shaky. "I can feel your anticipation. How much you want it. How much you look forward to it."
Something shifts in the air. It gets heavier, thicker. I haven’t told anyone about that job. Haven’t even started planning. It is just a name Vincenzo mentions, a maybe, a someday.
"When did you draw this?" I try to keep my voice flat, but it doesn’t sound flat to me.
"Two nights ago." His eyes flick up, catching mine. "I'm guessing that's when you did it?”
“Nope. That hasn't happened yet.”
I feel something inside me move. I came here for answers, to be sure, to keep things tidy. To get rid of a threat. But this isn’t a threat, not the kind I expect. Not a witness. Not a leak. Not a plant. Something different. Something rare.
I stand and step behind him. He stiffens, but doesn’t turn. I can see the bones in his back through his shirt, the way his pulse hammers in his neck. So fragile. So easy to break. But I don’t want to break him. Not anymore.
He isn't a threat; he's a precious package that needs scooping up and nurturing. Feeding. Caring. He needs someone to give him a routine, to guide him.
