MADELINE:“Was it you?”
She sounds almost certain. I nearly chuckle at that absurdity.
ME:“If I wanted you arrested, Madeline… you wouldn’t have made it to work that morning.”
She lets out a long sigh. Not relieved. More desperate. She’s spiraling, and I need her sharp. I need her to be the cold, calculating forensic pathologist I first met, not this trembling mess.
MADELINE:“I’m the only suspect. And even though I hate calling you voluntarily. I need your help. The detective told me I have to visit the station for my report and alibi.”
Her voice betrays her about her lie. She wanted to call me. She needed to.
ME:“I know, and you're going to give it to them, but not alone.”
I hear her breath hitch on the other end of the line.
MADELINE:“Are you out of your mind? You can’t come with me, Deimos. If they see you—”
ME:“Check your front door, Madeline. Right now.”
I watch through the hidden camera in her hallway as she moves, her hand trembling as she unlocks the deadbolt.
On her doorstep sits a small, nondescript black box. She picks it up, bringing it inside and opening it to reveal a tiny, flesh-colored earpiece. The kind used by Elite security teams.
ME:“Put it in. It’s custom-molded; they won’t see it even if they look closely. I’ll be in your ear the entire time. I’ll hear what the detective asks, and I’ll tell you exactly how to answer. You are going to tell them the truth about everything, except for me. I’m handling the evidence. I’m handling the tip.”
She holds the small device in her palm as if it were a live coal, her eyes darting around the living room.
She’s looking for the cameras now. She’s finally realizing that her sanctuary isn't a sanctuary at all. It’s a glass box, and I’m the one looking through the glass.
MADELINE:“You’re going to watch me? Even there?”
ME:“I’m always watching you. But today, I’m your lifeline. Go to the station. Walk in there like you have nothing to hide. Because as long as you hear my voice, you’re untouchable.”
I watch her on the screen as she moves toward the hallway mirror. She’s pale, her fingers ghosting over the earpiece as she tucks it deep into her ear canal, hiding it behind a lock of her hair. She looks fragile, yet there’s a flicker of something new in her eyes. Not just fear. It’s an alliance. A dark, unspoken pact with the devil she knows.
"Look at me, Mali," I whisper to the empty room, leaning closer to the monitor.
As if she heard me, she glances toward the bookshelf where the lens is hidden. For a second, our eyes meet through the digital void.
I can almost feel the heat of her skin, the way her pulse is jumping in the hollow of her throat. I want to be there. I want to be the one adjusting her collar, leaning down to whisper those instructions against her lips instead of through a stupid frequency.
The ache in my groin sharpens, a relentless reminder of how much of a grip she has over my sanity.
ME:“Good. Now, go to your bedroom. Put on that charcoal blazer I like. Look professional. Look innocent. But keep your chin up. I want them to see a woman who has nothing to hide.”
I watch her walk into her bedroom to change. I don't turn the camera away. I watch the way she sheds her clothes, her movements stiff and mechanical, as if she’s trying to pretend she’s alone.
She’s mesmerizing in her vulnerability, the bruises I left on her hip in the forest are blooming like dark violets against her porcelain skin. My mark. A reminder of who owned her last night. I feel a sharp pull in my gut, a hunger that no amount of blood can satisfy.
She pulls on a dark charcoal blazer and slacks, smoothing the fabric over her trembling frame. She’s trying to build an armor out of wool and silk, but we both know it won't be enough.
ME:“I see every bruise. I see the way your skin shivers. Remember that feeling when you’re sitting across from the detective. Remember that you belong to me, and as long as you do, no one else can touch you.”
She stops, her back to the camera, her shoulders shaking slightly. She’s still terrified, but also tethered to me. And that’s exactly where I want her.
ME:“Leave now. My car is already waiting two blocks away. Not a taxi, not yours. Take the black sedan. The driver knows where to go.”
She grabs her bag, her knuckles white as she grips the strap. Before she leaves, she stops at the door, her hand hovering over the handle.
