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I know what places she frequents, the way she likes her tea, and her favorite color. The only thing I don’t see are any pictures of her, which only further fuels my intrigue. For someone who posts everything, it's quite curious why there are no photos of her. Not even a single one she’s been tagged in. I assume she has friends, as most people do.
Either that or she’s a crazy cat lady who survives solely on being fucking nosy as shit.
Which leads me to standing outside her apartment, picking the lock easily. She lives in a shitty run-down building with a broken main entrance that isn’t stopping fuck all from coming in.
No one in this shitty little hovel gives a fuck about what I’m doing, and my pretty face and disarming smile would be enough to sway anyone who did to my side.
Imagine me, the dutiful boyfriend who lost his key, just wanting to surprise his hard-working girlfriend with dinner, judging by the grocery sack at my feet.
People are idiots and so fucking gullible.
The lock clicks, and I let myself into the small hallway, barely enough room to breathe. I move normally, unafraid of raising any suspicions. She’s at her regular Thursday night Trivia n’ Tequila get-together with her group of girlfriends.
I drop my bag in my hand on the floor next to the couch before I sit down. Gazing at her coffee table, I see various sheets of paper laying all over it along with honest-to-god print newspapers.
The byline holding her name in these are older and squinting harder, I see they are from a small boutique press from a town a few hours away. Her articles are incisive, probing, and relentless in their pursuit ofjustice. The only true justice in this world is what my brother and I dole out. Her words are like a scalpel, slicing through the layers of deceit that shroud society. She’s an enigma, a figure whose dedication to the truth echoes the unrelenting nature of our own pursuits. Her arrival is definitely a problem and one that I am going to have to bring up to Dominic because keeping her existence secret from him will only spell disaster. I shudder, thinking about having to break the news to him. He’s going to take his frustrations out on my ass, and I can’t wait.
Gathering the loose-leaf notebook papers, I thumb through them, my anxiety starting to rise. I can feel my little quirks starting to manifest. Two taps of my left foot, three drums of the fingers on my right hand against the wooden surface of the table. I bite the corner of my mouth, chewing on the soft, fleshy skin until it hurts.
As I read her words, I feel a mixture of admiration and trepidation. Could she be the one to unmask us and lay bare the intricate web we had woven? It is a strange twist of fate that our paths would cross.
Quinn's investigation is a soft balance of determination and vulnerability. Her private notes paint a vivid picture of the crime scenes, each word a brushstroke that captures the sinister beauty we have carefully created. It’s as if she has peered into our minds, uncovering the elaborate details of our shared mind.
As her notes get more in-depth, I find myself tracking her movements as she tracked us. Almost as if I’m playing a video game, I’m watching through a lens, a silent observer, as things unfold in a hidden game of pursuit and evasion. She’s been pursuing us far more than her little bullshit articles would entail, and we have been evading her without even knowing it. But just barely because she’s gotten entirely too close for comfort in some spots.
This goes beyond just a journalist chasing a story. She’s more than just a reporter, and I know she’s not a fucking cop. So where does that leave us?
Who the fuck are you, Quinn Sorvani, and just how do you know what threads to follow and unravel, hmm?
Pulling out my phone, I take pictures of every single paper and article before moving through and taking snapshots of every square inch of this apartment.
It’s only when I enter her bedroom that I finally see a picture of the interfering little journalist. I feel something staring at her bright red hair and moss green eyes. A stirring, not unlike what I feel for my brother. Objectively, she’s attractive. I can’t say that I’ve ever felt anything toward a woman. I see them as just another entity of society. With a brother like mine, it’s hard to even see anything past him. You can’t blame me for that.
It’s simply her mind that intrigues me. It’s what I tell myself as I snap the photo of her and then walk back out of her bedroom. Only stopping once to drag my fingers through the rumpled bedding bunched up at the end of the bed. Lilac drifts up and fills my nose.
Slipping on my leather gloves, I pull the skull out of my bag at long last. If she wants to play in the world of Dominic and me, then let her play.
The hollowed bone lays right in the middle of the table, and I pierce a paper on each horn. Let this be a warning to her. Do I think it will stop her? No, the journalist is tenacious, and I look forward to having to deal with her, once and for all.
It’s been too long since my last kill. Imagine having to go months without feeling the life slip away underneath your hands. The last stuttered heartbeats ending, and the death wheeze expelling.
CHAPTER7
QUINN
“Home sweet home.” I sigh, leaving the ride share and stepping onto the cracked, uneven sidewalk in front of my building. I love trivia night with the girls, but my social battery is low on a good day, and it becomes completely drained after Thursday nights. I’m so thankful they don’t push me anymore than that.
All I want to do is wash my face, change from jeans to sweats, and grab that pint of mint ice cream in my freezer. My bed and reruns of Bones are calling my name.
What I wouldn’t give to wrap my body around Booth’s? Talk about swoon-worthy.
Trudging my weary body up the steps and through the rickety entrance door that the super still hasn’t fixed. How many more times do I have to complain about it before it either gets repaired or I get evicted?
The dim light of the streetlamp outside casts eerie shadows through my apartment window as I fumble to flip the light switch.
Something is off.
My heart races as I step cautiously into my living room, my eyes locking onto the bizarre sight before me. An elongated animal skull, a symbol of death, sits perched on top of the pile of notes I had been compiling about the Harbingers.
