The Creeper is determined to pull me into his perversion, but cowering would give him power.
That isn’t a path I’m willing to take.
Despite that, I’m not so foolish as to spend my evening aimlessly walking around in public. I let myself into my more-or-less boyfriend’s building, walk to the third floor, and use the key Andrew gave me last year. I sent him a text a half hour ago. He didn’t reply, but he never travels more than an hour or two from home, so if he’s not here right now, he will be soon.
He’s not the sort of man who would ask me to cower—or to submit to anything. He doesn’t try to take control of my life or freedom. It’s why he’s in my life at all.
He won’t call me out on the way I test myself. He’d understand that I needed to get out of the house. I needed to know that I wasn’t crippled by the fears that I couldn’t quite put to rest. I don’t know how to sort through what it means that a killer has decided to notice me.
I’ve never met the Creeper, but I do know him. I know he’s right-handed. I know he’s of average build. Both were theories I shared with the Durham police because of the bruising on Christine Megroz’s body.
I see things that let me know him better than I would ever want to know anyone capable of such violence. I chose to protect the dead, to shepherd them to their rests, to ease their families’ pain.
I didn’t choose to be a detective, but a serial killer has forced me to think about motives, about his identity.
“Jules?” I hear Andrew before I see him.
Andrew is wearing a towel. I swear the man showers three times a day. I won’t say he’s overly body-conscious, but he’s definitely aware of his body in a way that’s unusual to me. I like his attention to his cleanliness and fitness most of the time, but I sometimes worry that his obsessive showering is a hint that the scent of my work lingers on my skin.
I drop my things on his sofa and close the distance. He’s a smart man, sweet in ways I appreciate. If I were a different person, I’d tell him I need to talk, but I’m here to feel alive. Andrew is handsome in the way typical of the sort of man who spends more hours exercising than in the library, but I know for a fact that those muscles actually come from riding a bike or walking everywhere. He’s an environmentalist and a part-time researcher.
He doesn’t resist when I remove his towel. He doesn't need words from me, not to tell him what I need, and not to tell him how I feel.
Andrew understands me, all the words I'm not saying, and in short order my shirt and skirt are on the floor. As lovers, we fit. He knows that sometimes the only thing that matters is feeling the world go silent. It’s not a show. It’s not about racing to orgasm. Those are perfect on other days, but the desperation that drives me when the job gets too much is different.
Skin on skin is all that matters when I feel like this, which means that being bent over the back of the sofa is exactly right. His hands roam, holding my hips then stroking up my sides.
Touch is everything.
My mind falls into that glorious place where there are no thoughts, no fears, no worries or self-consciousness. All I know is that I am safe here. I don’t need words or voice; I don’t need to see him. In these moments, I am alive as I can possibly be.
Andrew gives me a space where I can fall apart. Tears come with my orgasm, and I can’t say which I needed more.
He leans down so he's holding me and kisses my neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
“Are we going to anyhow?”
I snort. “Probably.”
He stands up, letting me have space to come to my feet. He treats me with a level of kindness I'd found uncomfortable initially. With Andrew, everything—no matter how simple—requires consent in some fashion.
"Tea?" he asks.
“What’s with the tea thing? Uncle Micky has corrupted you, hasn’t he?” I tease.
“So, coffee?”
I bend to pick up my clothes. I’m not going to bother getting dressed, but if I don’t pick my things up, they’ll end up in his wash—as if too long on the floor makes things instantly dirty--or perhaps it’s just his theory that washing our things together is an encouragement of a primal bonding. Andrew’s current research area is biology, and it’s led to a few peculiar theories.
“I can stuff my bag in the closet.”
He grins and holds out a hand. “Or . . .”
I give it over. His quirks are more than made up for by his kindness and tolerance of my own eccentricities.
He says nothing as he takes my clothes out of my bag and sees the stack of manila files under them. Instead, he pulls the files out and puts them on his table before he folds my clothes. It’s as close as we get to him offering to help me. A lot of our conversations are ones with no words in them.
“Coffee?” he asks again.
“Please.”
He glances at the files again and makes enough coffee for both of us. Tea is more of a social drink for him. He doesn’t drink alcohol, and it’s only on rare occasions that he drinks anything other than coffee, fruit juice, or water. People often assume he’s a recovering alcoholic, but in truth, it’s a lot like his fastidiousness with cleanliness and order. Andrew likes things the way he likes them.
I’m not interested in poking at his reasons why, and he gives me that same consideration. Maybe that’s all love truly is: two people who accept each other as they are without needing to change or control the other. Still, ‘love’ is not a word I’ve ever used. There’s a stability to our relationship that makes me wish we could use that word sometimes, but using it would mean things changing. I don’t want that. What we have is enough for me.
“You’re a good man,” I tell him as I get out a couple of cups.
He looks over his shoulder at me. “Really bad day, eh?”
“Body dump.”
He nods, waiting for the rest.
“Carolina Creeper,” I add.
“Those are always hard.” He motions to the fridge. “Do you need food?”
“No.”
For several moments, the only sound is the steady flow of coffee. It’s comforting. Like everything with Andrew, there’s a familiar warmth to the simplicity of it. There’s nothing confusing or complicated between us. It’s peaceful.
And I am about to ruin it.
“He sent a note.”
“Who?” He meets my gaze. “Who sent a note?”
I hear it, the unspoken urging to tell him he’s misunderstanding me. I want to. I want to lie. To him. To myself. Saying it aloud, telling Andrew, makes it real in a way I have been trying to avoid.
“The Creeper.”
“Jesus, Jules!” He’s across the few yards separating us in a heartbeat. His arms are around me, and his hand cradles my head like I’m precious and vulnerable. If I hadn’t cried when my orgasm hit earlier, I’m fairly sure that the tears I prefer to never shed would be impossible to ignore now. Sex is a much better way to release emotions.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You’re not.” He only leans back far enough to look into my face. “What’s the plan? What are they doing to keep you safe? Do you want to move in here?”