Violently Yours

The thing about being called crazy is that it covers everything from mildly unlikable to clinically unhinged. But when a woman is given that label, it’s rarely meant as a warning. More often, it’s dismissal. And that is their biggest mistake. They never realize I don’t sit on the harmless end of the spectrum until it is too late. 

I am the other kind of crazy. A certified psycho.

Sitting on top of my newest victim’s neighboring roof at 1 a.m. only further confirms it. The gravel bites through the thin soles of my boots, cold seeping up into my bones as the city hums below, blissfully unaware that something is already unfolding above it.

I’ve been waiting for Mr. Three-Piece Suit to get home all evening, and he finally does—sliding into his luxury loft like he owns the night along with everything under it. His dating profile says his name is Matteo, but I seriously doubt that’s the name his mother gave him. Putting his real name on the app would have been a dumb move and he doesn’t strike me as a dumb man.

But he’s the last person to see Katie two nights ago, which makes him the most likely reason she’s missing.

This is why I don’t do online dating, no matter how hard Katie tries to convince me to give it a chance. You never really know who’s behind the screen, and in my experience, men are pigs anyway. Pigs with good lighting, curated photos, and just enough charm to make most women forget to be careful.

Katie loved it, though. The dates. The dresses. The flirty little messages that made her smile at her phone like it had personally promised her happiness. She loved the butterflies, the hope of something good waiting on the other side of a dinner reservation. I warned her, more than once, that not all men were worth trusting. But somehow, the world we grew up in never dulled her joy the way it sharpened my instincts.

And that might have been her downfall.

I waited for her to come home all day yesterday. I told myself she was busy, her phone could have died or maybe she stayed out late and crashed somewhere without thinking to warn me. But she didn’t answer my messages or calls all day, and when night fell again and she still wasn’t home, I stopped pretending this was normal.

Katie doesn’t disappear.

Hell, she doesn’t go an hour without checking her phone. If something has pulled her off the grid completely, then something is very, very wrong. And if anyone has hurt her, I’m going to show them exactly why my diagnosis sticks. Labels are useful when you stop fighting them.

Thank God she showed me her date’s profile before she left, giddy and glowing and too excited to notice the way my stomach knotted. One quick picture. A name. Enough for my contacts to do the rest. Enough to put me here, freezing my ass off on a rooftop in the middle of the night.

September turned cold faster than it should have. The wind bites at my exposed skin until I shove my hands deeper into my jacket pockets and grit my teeth. I don’t need binoculars to track Mr. Three-Piece Suit’s movements. His floor-to-ceiling glass windows and obnoxiously bright lights give me a perfect view.

I watch. I wait. I look for any sign of Katie, anything that tells me if she was ever here. But there’s nothing.

Maybe he’s not stupid enough to keep a woman against her will in his own apartment but I’ve seen criminals do far dumber things. Either way, I luck out tonight because Katie certainly isn’t here now.

Which means I wait.

I’m not stupid enough to try and take him from a building crawling with security cameras, dragging his much larger body into my car while the city watches. That would be sloppy. And I’m many things, but I’m not sloppy.

It’s fine. I have a plan.

All I need is patience.

I pass the time by letting my eyes trace his every step.

I can’t see enough detail from here to study his face properly, but I don’t need to. I have his dating profile for that. He’s a good-looking man, that’s why Katie was so excited to meet him. Sharp jaw. Clean cheekbones. Dark, silky hair that’s clearly well cared for. Expensive taste in clothes. This is why she smiled when she showed me his pictures, like this one might finally be different.

He pours himself a drink at the kitchen counter, then wanders toward the windows that face my roof. The suit jacket and tie are gone now, discarded somewhere out of sight, but he’s still wearing the dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up like he’s settling into comfort. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s a whiskey man. He carries himself like one.

As he stands there, sipping and staring out over the city, I notice one difference from his pictures. He’s grown a short beard since they were taken. I can’t tell if it suits him in this light or just makes his dark eyes look more sunken, more severe. Beards are always a gamble on men.

He doesn’t bother drawing the blinds. He stands above the city like he owns it—relaxed, unbothered, untouchable. Like the thought of being watched never even crosses his mind. Rich men like him always think they’re immune to the pain the world inflicts on people beneath them. That the world bends to them. That nothing reaches this high and consequences are for other people.

He’s in for a rude awakening.

I pull my hood higher, the fur lining doing little more than dulling the edge of the cold. I’ve done much worse than a little kidnapping and interrogation. And for Katie—for my sister—I’d do far worse again without hesitation.

I will find her. No matter what it costs. No matter what needs to be done.

All I need is time.

And when it comes to stalking my prey, I am nothing if not patient.