chapter five
Regulus would like to say he has a wonderful memory.
Say he was presented with a jury of twelve of his peers. He could take a look, scanning, locking it in, memorizing. And then he could repeat back each person’s gender or race. All perfect. Flawless delivery.
Perfection, his mother used to croon, her gaudy smile stretched thin, is what makes a man, Regulus. Nothing less.
It is under a pale, cloudy sky in midwinter that he commits his forth perfect murder. He is not one to repeat a country, not if he wants to keep his head, but something seems right. For the first time in possibly years, Regulus goes with his gut.
Still, he is careful.
When the businessman barking into his cell phone comes to the cafe Regulus visits, it is all too easy. Hardly a challenge. The man’s face is ruddy and red, veins popping in his neck, spit flying from his mouth. His yellowed teeth make an appearance when he smiles at the pretty waitress.
“Just a coffee, doll,” he drawls.
The waitress—who couldn’t have been more than seventeen—nods, scrawling in her notebook, before she asks, “Anything else for you, sir?”
“Nothing you can give me, unfortunately.”
The waitress leaves. The man watches her go. Regulus follows his wandering eyes.
Regulus is not in the habit of murdering every douchebag on the street, but he is wishing to blow off some steam. Hot, uncontrollable anger festers in his stomach. He remembers the listless, condescending voice of Avery over the phone the previous night.
“You can’t possibly think you’re ready,” he had said, his voice thick with disbelief. “Leave it to the professionals, won’t you? Hm?”
It is then that Regulus makes his decision.
He waits until he’s ordered—a caffeinated herbal tea—and paid before he stands. He walks, purposeful and strong, until there is the sound of a scream.
“Shit!”
The man staggers from his seat to clean the spilled coffee from his pressed suit. Hot spilled coffee. No sweetener, no cream, no sugar.
Who really was the psychopath, between the two of them?
Regulus adjusts his sunglasses, peering down like he isn’t entirely sure what he’s done. His mouth forms a perfect O in surprise. “I’m so sorry,” he gushes, letting his French accent wrap around his vowels. “My mistake, really. I’m so sorry. Do you want—”
“This was Italian knit, dickhead!”
Regulus holds up both hands. “I apologize. I can help pay if you’d like…”
He would never do such a thing but, predictably, the man wouldn’t give him the opportunity. The man sneers at him, patting down his suit, the coffee forgotten.
Regulus goes around the back. He waits until the man ventures into the men’s room to clean up, then makes his move.
He strolls in, lazily, whistling a jaunty little tune that’s been stuck his head all morning. Traces his fingers around the rim of the sink. Stares in the mirror, setting his sunglasses on top of his curls. His smile is thin but genuine. It even reaches his eyes.
The man recognizes him on sight. “You bastard.”
“I think this will do you good,” Regulus says, leaning back on the sink. He faces the wall, craning his neck to the side to look at the man. “Might humble you, even.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’d like to see you clearly when I do it, I think.” Regulus tilts his head. He frowns, just barely. “I’d like to remember your terribly punchable face.”
Regulus is never this candid to anyone but his victims. Never this honest to someone who will leave to remember it.
When he slots the knife in the notches of the man’s ribs, he grins.
He is able to see the man’s horror oh so clearly, of course. Just as he liked to.
It is just luck that when he emerges from changing his clothes in a shop, Regulus spots the wandering detective in his pajamas.
For that’s what he is, after all. Lonely, aimless, and poorly dressed. Regulus makes a point to bump into him immediately.
It’s refreshing to be talked to so openly, so authentically, that Regulus very nearly forgets himself. He slips into his favorite mask—lovely, harmless, charismatic—and happily obliges the detective’s yearning for company.
It certainly isn’t to appease Regulus’ needs, no.
James the detective chats with him. He talks with his hands. His nose scrunches when he asks questions.
An inquisitive thing.
Regulus leaves him only when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It is with a heavy heart; James certainly has his uses.
Ergo, the reason Regulus turns back to give him his number.
James grins so wide it almost makes Regulus lose his breath. It shocks him, like drinking ice water after brushing his teeth. His jaw tightens.
Detective, you will not be the one to ruin me, he vows. Not until I get to you first.
And get to him he will.
Regulus sighs. How he loves a day gone well.