Coffee and Cream

The First Kill

EMRYS

I wasn't sure what the fuck I was doing here. Dressed in this low-budget disguise—hoodie pulled over my face, cap yanked low to avoid attention—I stood in the shadows, watching. Watching him. Fucking Mal. He had no idea I'd been on his ass all day. Dude had been moving in on my territory, and that's something I don't fucking tolerate.

It wasn't about Darcelle being exclusively mine—hell, we weren't officially anything. But there's this unspoken line, and Mal was crossing it. I've always had a bad habit of not sharing, especially when it comes to something I've laid claim to. Darcelle was mine, and I wasn't going to let some wannabe knight-in-shining-armor fuck around with that.

I had to admit, though—Mal was persistent. According to Topher, he'd gone on three more after that one in the park? It makes me wonder what else had happened between them. Had he kissed her? Touched her? I tried not to let that thought linger. I hated asking Darcelle about it because it always led to the same goddamn argument. She'd throw Isabelle in my face, like that was some kind of ace card she could pull whenever she felt like it.

I clenched my fists, the leather gloves squeaking slightly. It was getting old—her using Isabelle as a shield to do whatever she wanted. Before Mal came into the picture, Darcelle didn't give a shit about my relationship. She knew what we had was something else, something that went deeper than whatever I had with Isabelle. But now? Now she had Mal hanging around like some alternative, like he could somehow take my place. The more she entertained him, the more she pulled away from me.

I couldn't let that happen.

I had to fix this. I had to redirect her mind and remind her who she belonged to. But first, I needed to deal with the real issue—the snake himself. Mal was the problem. Cut off the head of the serpent, and it all falls apart.

His routine was practically clockwork, and I knew every part of it. 6 a.m., he hit the gym. 8 a.m., breakfast at Bo's Café. 8:30 a.m., back home to freshen up. By 10 a.m., he was out the door, and depending on the day, he'd either head to his classes or to work in that skyscraper where he pretended to be important. He kept his schedule tight, but I knew how to slip in between the cracks. I'd been following him for two weeks, meticulously planning this moment. I didn't want to leave any room for error.

When I saw he was occupied at his office, I made my move. I walked casually to my low-key Toyota Camry parked a safe distance away. Nothing too flashy—just an everyday car that didn't call attention. As I drove toward his house, my fingers tapped the steering wheel rhythmically, my mind running through the plan again. Everything had to be perfect.

I parked a block away from his house, pulling on my mask—can't risk being identified by some random security camera or, worse, leaving any traces of myself behind. The leather gloves were snug on my hands as I grabbed the spare key I'd made for myself. It was surprisingly easy to get, considering how careless he was. Last week, I'd "accidentally" bumped into him, and with my quick fingers, I'd pressed a piece of gum against his house key on his belt loop. It was an old-school way to carry keys, but it worked in my favor.

I slipped inside without a sound, just like I'd practiced. The house was quiet, almost eerily so. I moved through the hallway, past the living room, straight to the water heater. A little tampering with the gas lines here, a little twist there. Carbon monoxide poisoning from faulty water heaters—an easy, clean death. Something that could pass as an unfortunate accident.

The click of the wrench in my hand was the only sound in the room as I tightened the last screw, my heartbeat steady and focused. I wasn't some amateur. I'd done this before. Clean, quick, and no one would suspect a thing.