part 1
The fourth time it happens, he goes out and buys a bag of dark roasted arabica beans. The motor in his coffee grinder whirs, pulverizing them into a medium grain. There are very few things in his living quarters, but he has a whole counter dedicated to making coffee. Two mugs sit upside-down next to an ancient percolator.
He lives on the stuff, not caring about quality, only quantity. But Miss Page has a refined palate. He can still see the way her little nose scrunched up at the taste of the diner-swill he took her, and he can still hear the indecent sounds of delight that came from the back of her throat when she tasted the strong espresso.
He doesn't know why he can't just walk away from her. He's tried, time and again, but even when he manages to put her out of his thoughts, to relegate her sweet smile to the darkest corners of his mind, she still manages to come charging back in.
Lately it's been quite literal, chasing some story into the haunts of the city’s biggest assholes. Her shining blonde hair swinging over delicate shoulders as she browbeats the scumbag in the sights of his rifle.
The last prick she questioned followed her home, sat outside of her apartment for hours, then proceeded to follow her to the Bulletin’s offices the next morning. Frank had stayed his itchy trigger finger in the hopes that the lowlife would lead him back to the man running things, but it was too much to hope for.
When the squat little man started snooping around her building again, this time with a poorly concealed revolver tucked into his waistband, Frank took him out without a second thought, not even waiting to watch him hit the pavement.
By the time he realized Karen was tracking him, using newspaper reports of his kills to map out which neighborhoods he spent the most time in, it was too late. She'd already spied him at the laundromat, tracked him to the hole-in-the-wall diner where he always ate. She watched him from a distance, the hood of her jacket flipped up over her hair, giant sunglasses obscuring her expression.
He always shakes her off before heading home, ducking into alleys, slipping through holes in fences. It isn't hard. But he's choosing a different tack tonight’s. She's getting closer and closer and the people around here are too dangerous for her to start knocking on doors. After cleaning his plate at the diner, he waited, making sure she was hovering down the street before he slipped out, and snaked his way back home.
The building he lives in is long since abandoned. Perhaps it was once a sweatshop of some kind. That's the only explanation he can think of for the crow’s nest office that looks out over the empty floors. Some kind of overseer’s station. It was easy enough to convert into living space, and he can see anyone coming from any direction once they're inside the warehouse.
He pours the water into the pot, checking the little gas stove’s pilot light. In a matter of seconds, blue flickering flames dance beneath the silver pot. The distinct perking noise starts soon after, and he can smell the rich aroma of coffee as the water is forced up through the granules.
He hears her before he sees her. His ears are nothing compared to Red’s, but he's trained himself to constantly have them pricked, the faintest sound making the hairs on his arm stand on end. She's sliding the door on the south side of the building open, trying as hard as possible to be quiet. It swings back with a bang, just like every time he's ever opened it, and he can hear a softly spoken curse drift through the air.
He can't help the way the corner of his mouth twitches up. Taking the pot off the burner, he hooks his fingers into the mug handles, flipping them over so he can pour the piping hot coffee up to the brims.
There's a softly glowing yellow light that pours out of the bird’s nest windows and pools on the warehouse floor. It illuminates the stairs leading up to where he lives. Any other time it would be off, but he doesn't want her tripping on the narrow metal steps.
“Frank?”
Her voice echoes, and he freezes, inexplicable panic surging in him like a lightning bolt. Adrenaline sets his heart to pounding, bells of warning jangling along his nerves. It's like a flashing neon sign that says DANGER is lighting up behind his eyes.
Suddenly it occurs to him for the first time that he's afraid of her, of what she could do to him if he let her. The pain that waiting for him. He doesn't want her here, and yet… he basically left her a trail of breadcrumbs. He tells himself it's because they need to talk, that he needs to impress upon her the danger of this path she's choosing.
Finally the sound he's waiting for comes, tentative knocking, and he's helpless to call out. Hooking one finger through the handles of both mugs, he reaches out and swings open the heavy metal door.
“Karen.” He doesn't realize it's the first time he's ever called her by her first name until her mouth falls open. He's seen her in a state of shock before, rage even, but he doesn't think her eyes have ever been this wide… or quite this blue.
He offers her one of the coffees and steps aside. Gesturing to the sofa pushed up against the back wall. “We need to talk.”