Killer Affair | Spencer Reid Short Story

Addict

Gwen

It's been precisely three days since I decided to give up my curse.

And I can't take it.

The need claws at me, scratching from the inside like nails down the walls of a prison cell. Three days of telling myself I don't need this. Three days of attempting to feel something different. But the thrill, the control, the way their pulse slows under my hand until it's silent—it's a siren song, and I'm too weak to resist.

I tell myself, one last time.

The hotel room is dim, a haze of cigarette smoke left by the last inhabitant lingering in the air. It's dark enough to cover up most of the stains, but I can still see the faded outline of what might have been blood, and that feels poetic, in a twisted way.

I look in the mirror, steadying my hand as I apply the final touches to my makeup. Blood-red lipstick. A thick line of black along my lashes. A face that looks innocent enough, despite the thoughts thrumming beneath the surface. The facade is perfect, convincing, practiced. Tonight, I won't be Gwen the girlfriend. I'll be something else.

The mark—a businessman with a predictable schedule and a penchant for expensive scotch—will be easy to find. I know where he'll be. I know what he'll order. I know what it'll take to lure him back here.

I make it through the night, though it's a blur of calculations and split-second decisions, of knowing exactly when to smile, when to turn my gaze down, and when to look up with just enough vulnerability to get him to follow me back to the hotel. He thinks he's in control. They always do.

Until they don't.

The moment comes swiftly, and he never sees it coming. My hands are quick, practiced. But as I watch him go still, a strange feeling washes over me. It's not relief. It's not the satisfaction I've come to expect. It's...emptiness.

For a second, I'm frozen. It's like the weight of what I've done is pressing down on me with more force than usual. This was supposed to feel different tonight. But instead, it feels hollow.

That's when I hear it—the low rumble of voices in the hallway. Someone is outside the door, far closer than they should be.

Panic seizes me, and I rush to grab my things. There's no time to go through the usual ritual of disposing of the evidence. The clean-up that would make this untraceable is out of the question. All I can do is grab my jacket, shove whatever I can into my bag, and get out of there.

The hallway feels endless. Each step echoes louder than it should, and with each echo, my heart pounds harder. The weight of my failure to cover my tracks, to do what I've always done with precision, is unbearable.

As I finally reach the stairs, I hear a door creak open somewhere behind me. The paranoia sets in, suffocating me. Every face in the stairwell, every passing stranger on the street—they're all witnesses. Every corner holds a pair of eyes waiting to recognize something about me, something off.

I stumble into the alley, hands shaking as I lean against the cold, damp wall, struggling to catch my breath. The need has been satisfied, but it hasn't brought me peace. Only a deeper, gnawing fear.

This was supposed to be the last time. But now, I'm more exposed than ever.

As I get to my apartment I get a text from Spencer.

Rain check on that movie, local case came up.

I freeze.

Not because he's canceling on me, because I know what the case is. I pray that it's not my crime he's about to see. It's really not a pretty sight, but hitting your wife and sending your daughter away to conversion camp isn't either.