Page 56 of Midnight Creed

The unraveling. It was starting again. He could feel it. Thread by thread. Everything he had carefully constructed coming apart at the seams.

First came the hallucinations. Then the paranoia. The killing was supposed to help. It was supposed to staunch the leak.

Don’t look in the mirror. Don’t do it. He’s not really there.

His hand slipped into the duffle bag, searching until he found the prescription container. Just once, he’d like to control these meltdowns without pills. Still, he twisted off the lid, popped two tablets in his mouth and dry-swallowed.

Then he closed his eyes. He tried to shut out the sounds of sirens. Counted to sixty. Listened to his heartbeat. Steadied his breaths. Then counted again.

When he opened his eyes, he pulled in a long, deep gulp of oxygen, like a swimmer coming up for air. He put the car in gear and drove. Out of the parking garage. Onto the street. And away from the chaos.

He stopped at every red light. Every single stop sign. Flipped on his turn signal long before he turned. Kept to the right. Attention focused. Back rigid. Fingers gripping.

One turn, then another. One deep breath, then another. And another. He drove until he knew no one had followed. Still, he didn’t feel safe until he parked two blocks away, let himself into the house and locked the door behind him. Only a lamp on the side table in the entrance lit his path.

He had leftovers. He’d make himself eat. It would settle him down. Maybe help clear his head.

Then what? He hadn’t planned to leave until the next day. But of course, he had the option to bump that up. Maybe he could get some sleep.

A sound spun him around in the dark living room.

A key in the lock. Metal against metal.

The doorknob.

There was no mistaken. Someone was coming in the front door.

No, no, no!

This couldn’t be happening. Was he hallucinating?

Footsteps on the hardwood floor.

His hand dived into the duffle bag. Fingers searched, then clawed around a handle. By the time he pulled it out, a figure came around the corner. The man didn’t see Gregory until he lunged at him, his arm already up and swinging. The hammer made contact with a satisfying thud, and the man crumpled to the floor.

In the light from the hallway, Gregory recognized the face from photos around the house. On the mantle in the living room, atop the dresser in the master bedroom.

The man had made the decision for him. Gregory would wipe down surfaces, gather his belongings, eat his leftovers, and leave.

He looked down at the man. “You really shouldn’t have come home so early.”

Then he hit him again, just in case once hadn’t been enough.

37

Sunday, December 3

Florida Panhandle

“How is this your fault?” Creed asked.

“I’m not sure. But it feels like it is.”

He didn’t like that Maggie sounded so...defeated.

“I got impatient with Racine,” she said. “I thought she was being sloppy. But I was totally careless. I missed how dangerous this guy is.”

“Aren’t all killers dangerous?”