Stalking the Dancer || 18+

Part Sixteen - The Fan

It's a quarter past three in the morning when my boots hit the gravel outside Dorothy's childhood home. My stomach drops into hell as I spot the front door, open just enough for me to make out the hardware on the frame. If I had a gun on me, this is when I'd draw it. Too bad for me, I flew here and had to leave my piece at Rome's when I left. I don't bother knocking before pushing the door open and stalking inside. The lights are off, so I slowly sweep through the hallway. If someone is in here with her, everything will end much safer if I have the element of surprise on my side. 

I find a broken vase halfway down the hall that makes my mouth go dry. What kind of trouble has my little devil found here that I didn't protect her from? I should've been here weeks ago, I was a fool to believe she was better off without me. She needs me just as much as I need her. I can only hope she's come to the same conclusion in the time since she left. 

I find her mother's room first; the bed is made up and unbothered by any indicators of sleep. It takes all of my focus to keep my breath even and my footsteps quiet, but I somehow make it back into the hall and toward the final, open doorway. The closer I get, I can make out a faint light illuminating the room. As my steps come to a halt under the doorframe, the reality of the situation settles over me. The television glows in the darkness, revealing Dorothy's slumped form sitting in the middle of her comforter-laiden bed, back turned to me. She faces her locked bedroom window, staring into the darkness outside. 

There's a shattered lamp lying on the floor near the foot of her bed, the shards littering the rug beneath it. My throat clogs for a fleeting moment when I spot the bloodied man's head peaking out between the wall and the far side of the bed. There isn't enough light to assess the damage from this distance, but the concave of his skull is visible and distinct– dead.

I feel my palms itching with the need to go to her, to pick her up and take her away from the bloodbath in front of us, but I don't want to startle her. She's traumatized in the way that only killers can understand, and as fucked up as that is, it's her new reality. She will have to rediscover herself to survive because standing still is a quick death for someone carrying a burden this heavy. So I force myself to stay in my spot, standing in the doorway, as I take a deep breath and give myself a moment to be thankful that I found her when I did.

I keep my voice steady and quiet, "Doe," Her spine straightens, but she doesn't turn to look at me, rather rolling her head to stretch her neck. I can only wonder how long she's been sitting in this room with the body, but I try not to let myself dwell. I've got a lot of work to do, and I plan to do right by Dorothy this time around, starting right fucking now. "Doe, turn around." I try not to beg, but the desperation crawls up my arms with every passing second. She sucks in a breath and makes me wait a few more agonizing seconds before her shaky voice floats to my ears, "You're not real." I take a step into the room at that. Her hair is wild and spilling out of the elastic that is weakly holding it together. 

"I assure you, my sweet Doe, I am very real. Look at me." She slowly turns at my command, and I'm glad because I don't think I could keep myself from going to her if I tried. Her eyes are glossy and panicked, as if she's seen a ghost. Based on what's happened here tonight, she very well might've.

"It's really you?" Only when she's fully facing me do I see the blood covering her front. I can't stop myself from crowding her as I join her on the mattress and begin inspecting her for injuries. "It's not mine." Her voice is weak, and she sounds like she could use a drink of water, but she does appear to be physically unharmed. Mentally, that will be another story entirely. My girl wouldn't just kill a man for no reason, and whatever led up to her taking this guy's life must have been scary enough for her to take drastic measures to protect herself. It pisses me off but I have to put it aside until I'm sure she's alright. "Yeah, baby. It's really me, I came to see you for your birthday." Her sweet little freckles move on her face when her brows pull together. "That's not until tomorrow." She's lost in thought, probably a side effect of being in shock. I need to get her showered and changed before I can worry about what to do with the body, and I'll need backup if I'm going to get it all done before Dorothy's mom comes back.