Part 96
By afternoon, he knows her rhythm.
Alex checks on him every few hours—always with tea, always smiling, always saying his name like a lullaby.
She wants calm; he gives her calm.
He thanks her for the tea, for the food. He even asks about the weather, about the news. Each small conversation is a thread he lets her believe she holds, though he's the one weaving it tighter.
When she talks, he listens as if every word matters. When she hesitates, he looks at her softly, the way he used to look at fans during meet-and-greets—warm enough to lower their guard.
Inside, his thoughts are sharp and quick.
Every time she opens the door, he notes how long it stays unlocked.
Every sound she makes in the house—footsteps, water running, drawers opening—he marks it quietly in his head.
That evening, she brings dinner.
He smiles at her. "You've always known what I like."
The compliment lands exactly how he hoped. Her eyes brighten; she relaxes a little.
"I told you," she says. "I remember everything about you."
He nods, lowering his gaze to hide the calculation behind it. "I know you do. That's why I trust you."
He lets the word trust hang in the air like bait.
After she leaves again, he moves to the window. The paint sealing it is soft, fresh. It would take time to peel—but time is what he's collecting. Time and opportunity.
He touches the sill, whispering to himself,
"Tomorrow, maybe."
He turns back toward the room, toward the note still lying on the table.
His plan isn't ready yet—but the mask he's wearing fits better every hour.