Killer Affair | Spencer Reid Short Story

Project

Gwen

Spencer was sweet. I wish I would have gotten his number. But it's okay because I'll see him again.

I settle into my usual spot by the window, sipping coffee that's long gone cold. I've been here for hours, watching the door every time it swings open, hoping to see that familiar, hesitant look in Spencer's eyes. He doesn't seem like the kind of man who'd come here every day, but still—I can't leave. Not yet.

I barely even know him, but I feel that same itch I always do. The pull. The need. I haven't felt it this strongly in a long time, not since—well, he's different. Spencer's quiet, almost naive in a way. It's rare I see someone who genuinely doesn't know how they affect people. But he's captivating. Just thinking about how his eyes lit up when he talked about his book—how he clumsily stumbled over his words—it makes me want to see that look on his face again.

Hours slip by. I scroll through my phone, fingers itching for answers, but no matter how many times I search, nothing comes up. No social media, no clues about who he is or what he does. No one just vanishes like this. It's like he's a ghost.

But ghosts don't make me feel this alive.

The bell above the door jingles, and my heart leaps. There he is, pushing open the door, completely absorbed in his own thoughts, clutching a worn leather book to his chest. He hasn't noticed me yet, so I watch him. Every movement is careful, calculated. He orders his coffee, pays with cash, and heads toward his usual table.

I could go over and say hi, strike up a conversation, ask for his number like a normal person might. But that's too easy. Too simple. I want to understand him first. I want to watch him, figure out who he is before he ever realizes how much he's drawn me in.

So instead, I let him leave.

I wait five minutes before I stand, my steps light as I slip out onto the street, keeping a safe distance behind. He doesn't even look back as he heads down the sidewalk, following a route I memorize immediately. Each turn, each intersection—it's like a map unfolding in my mind. It doesn't take long before I have it memorized.

The next morning, I'm back at the coffee shop, watching, waiting for him to appear again. And he does. Every day, like clockwork. For hours, I keep my distance, trailing him through the city, piecing together his patterns. His habits. Spencer is almost too easy to follow—so absorbed in his own world that he doesn't even realize there's someone else there, studying every step he takes.

I don't know what he'd think if he knew I was watching him this closely, but it doesn't matter. Spencer will know me soon enough.

It's day seven of following Spencer. By now, I know his routine like I know my own heartbeat. I know the way he pushes his hair back when he's deep in thought, how he's always got a book in hand, and that his favorite coffee is plain black, no sugar. I've mapped out the streets he walks and noted the hours he spends at the coffee shop, the bookstore, and the small park tucked away just past 6th Avenue. I tell myself I'm learning, that I'm observing.

But today, something goes wrong.

I'm a few paces behind, careful as always, when he suddenly stops. He stands in the middle of the path, gaze fixed on something in the distance. For a second, I hesitate, wondering if I should turn and leave before he catches on. But I wait, half-hidden by a tree, my breath steady as I watch him.

And then he turns around, his eyes landing directly on me.

I freeze, not sure what expression to wear, but Spencer's face breaks into a surprised smile. I immediately relax, blending the thrill of almost getting caught with an easy grin of my own.