DROWNING IN THE NIGHT
* now with chapter snippet

Idea:

In which a serial killer comes face-to-face with the one who got away, and has to deal with the possibility that his carefully constructed persona will come crumbling down around him.

* made during my obsession with putting lines everywhere

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[DEMO/TEASER]

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C H A P T E R | O N E

SENSUAL POLITICS

HE REMEMBERED.

Rather than immediate dread ripping its way through my body, a sudden calm settled into my bones. Everything had come to a head and I took a breath, most likely my final one as a free man. Across the diner's table, Dutch Bakker remained standing, having only just released my hand. The fluttering pulse of his wrist against my fingers as he pulled away was mockery in and of itself.

He was living proof of my failures. A literal loose end.

Walking.

Breathing.

Smiling at me with the intimacy of a close friend. And, in a way, I guess it made sense. He knew me in the most intimate sense, and there was nothing I could do about it.

The idea of sending the blunt butter knife on my place mat into the side of his carotid artery was tempting, but I had already failed to kill the guy once. Knowing my luck, I would only end up embarrassing myself. By stabbing my own hand by accident, or maybe even fumbling the knife and giving my dastardly plan away. Either option was equally plausible, given my current track record. Still, I couldn't bring myself to break away from his stare. His iris' flexed under the low lighting, reflecting back the flashing neon signs outside the floor to ceiling window.

"Autumn Fairchild, right?" had been the first thing he asked me, hip casually cocked against the edge of my table. The hand he extended my way was firm, grip teasing, eyes alight and knowing. It sent a chill up my spine. "I feel like I've seen your face before. You study in the Winter gardens?"

I had never stepped foot in the gardens. We both knew this fact.

My mind flashed back to the semester break. My car breaking down on the bridge. Retrieving the torch from my trunk only to be overthrown by a very lively, not at all sedated, body.

The echoing sound of his footsteps against the rain swept pavement still haunted me late at night.

"Yes, that must be it." I nodded, cautious as Dutch moved to sink into the empty booth across from me. The foam moulded around him easily. The fabric's greedy hands clung to every inch of healthy flesh they could gather. I watched as the edges of his sleeves sagged, revealing tanned wrists. The skin was blemished by the faintest strips of red irritation and I felt my neck grow hot. "Can't say the same though."

He waved me off, lips tilted in a half smirk as he signalled down a waitress. It appeared he was staying. "No worries, people say I have one of those faces. I tend to blend in."

Liar.

There was no way a man like Dutch Bakker faded into the background. He caught my attention the first time my eyes locked on him in that decrepit alleyway on Western Groove. He had my attention even more so now, and he knew it. An arm loosely slung across the back of his seat, he flashed the waitress a wide smile and ordered a coffee.

Black. No sugar or cream. With three ice cubes.

"Ice cubes?" I failed to hide the curiosity in my tone. The table creaked under the weight of my elbows as I heaved forward. Dutch had a gravitational pull that he used to his advantage, a pleased smirk on his lips as he gauged my interest.

"Throats been a little rough the past couple months," he said, wringing the collar of his shirt down. Bruises bleeding a faint green blinked back at me. Taunting.

I knew if I overlaid my hands on them, they'd perfectly match the pads of my fingers.

"Mugging?"

"I wish," he chuckled, releasing his collar with a light pop. "Landed myself a guy whose idea of a fun time was breath play and bondage."

The clicking of heels cut off any response I could've made. A dizzying rush of red hair flashed past my shoulder as Helena shot into the booth. I watched as she reclaimed her abandoned mug of tea and settled herself into Dutch's side with ease.

"Oh my god, Holland. Play nice with the other kids," she scolded, teased really. A tone of voice I had gone accustom to in our many years of friendship. I tried not to let confusion cloud my features as Dutch laughed, jostling her shoulder. I swallowed. They knew each other, well.

This was not good.