The Way You End Me

I didn't move to Portland to heal. I moved here because my sister died on a wet sidewalk and everyone decided it was bad luck.

It wasn't.

I sleep in her bed. I drink coffee from her chipped white mug. I walk the same streets she walked the week she was killed. I tell myself I'm honoring her. Really, I'm hunting.

That's how I find him.

Nathaniel Cross. Perfect posture. Perfect suits. The kind of man who makes eye contact like he's already decided something about you. He approaches me in a bar like it's casual, like we just happened to notice each other at the same time.

We didn't. I made sure he saw me.

I think he killed my sister. I'm almost certain. And instead of running, I let him buy me a drink.

I tell myself it's strategy. Get close. Get proof. End it.

What I don't plan for is the way he looks at me. The way he listens. The way his hand settles at my lower back like I belong there. I know what he is capable of. I still go home with him.

He doesn't feel like a monster in the dark. He feels focused. Intense. When he touches me, it's like he's memorizing me. When he kisses me, it's slow and careful, like he wants to taste whether I'm real.

I should hate him. Instead, I start waiting for him.

Waiting for the sound of his car. Waiting for his name lighting up my phone. Waiting for his mouth all over my body.

He stopped killing. I know he did. I can feel the shift. And I know it's because of me.

That should make me powerful. It makes me weak.

Because my sister is still dead. Because I still find what he kept from her. Because loving him doesn't erase what he did.

This was supposed to be revenge.

It turned into obsession. Then desire. Then something that feels too much like love.

And in the end, I have to decide if I can live with myself if I choose him.

Or if I can live without him after I don't.