Page 25 of Heat Lightning

Alone in my bedroom, I took a moment to breathe. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The Masked Man was in my apartment.

The last time I saw him, we were both covered in someone else’s blood, and I was in a state of…. Well. It was best not to linger too much on that particular subject.

In the years since, I’d thought of a million different scenarios where we stumbled into each other in a grocery store aisle, or at the doctor’s office.

His eyes were unmistakable. I’d know him immediately.

And yet, I could never figure out what I’d say. “Thank you for stopping them,” came up in a lot of those imagined meetings, although that spiraled quickly into, “I wish I could’ve been the one to do it,” on my darker days.

“I wish you hadn’t left me to endure that heat alone,” that voice whispered on my worst ones—the ones where I mourned the fact that I’d never have a normal heat again.

I wasn’t ready to look at that one too closely. The stimulants were the reason I’d swiftly and deeply fallen into heat, and were also entirely to blame for the way I’d screamed for him in the subsequent days of riding out the waves in the clinic alone.

It was the only logical explanation.

But now he was in my living room, probably rifling through the giant pile of mail on the table, and I realized how many questions I had. How had he known I needed help? Why did he do it?

I think most good people who walked into that room would’ve tried to stop it, but outright killing them?

It was vicious. Personal.

Maybe he’d known them beforehand, and I just happened to be there. But then, why was he stalking me in the first place?

Quickly throwing on a pair of joggers and a T-shirt, my head spun in circles. The most timely question, though, was why was he here, now? Had something changed? Did the police know what’d happened?

The only way I’d find out was to go out there and ask.

But first, Jeffrey.

“Fluffy boy,” I cooed, down on my knees, peering under the bed. “Wanna come out? I promise I won’t let the big, scary man hurt you.”

He growled. His claws could do a lot of damage if he wanted to, so I doubted he’d been hurt. Plus, a man who killed someone for attempted rape just didn’t give animal abuser vibes.

He seemed more like the kind of guy who happened to be around when animal abusers got into really unfortunate and tragic accidents, but maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.

I gave the bag of cat treats one last shake before giving up. He always hid when the cleaner came; he’d come out when he wanted to.

With a deep sigh, I grabbed the knife, which was even heavier than it looked, and cracked open my bedroom door, slowly creeping down the hall.

I found him standing in the middle of the living room, shuffling from foot to foot like a child about to be scolded. “I’ll fix the wall. And I’ll get you new glasses. I really didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Cradled in his hands were my glasses, frames bent askew. One of the lenses had completely popped out. Welp, I guess I’ll be using my old pair for a while. I looked at the elbow-shaped dent in the wall. “You know how to patch drywall?”

“Yes.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Huh. Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes big and glassy. I couldn’t help but compare him to the night we first met, when he kicked down that door like a demon hell-bent on revenge.

He certainly hadn’t apologized for that property damage.

Where’d that man go? Was he lurking just out of sight, waiting to pounce? Or was this closer to the real man beneath the mask?

I couldn’t take the risk of letting my guard down, so I kept the knife held aloft and pointed to the couch. “Sit. Tell me why you’re here.”

I paused the television when Ina was mid-clambake, and we sat on opposite ends. Knife held between us, braced for any sudden movements, I couldn’t help but notice how uneasy the Masked Man was. He fidgeted with the string on his hoodie and pulled at his collar before clearing his throat.