There’s something very satisfying about being able to watch the rain from behind a window. Especially when the rain is audible- that little drip-drip-drip of water splashing against the sill just heightens the experience. It gives me a warm feeling inside- the feeling that I’ve managed to win against nature itself, in a small way. Of course, it’s the human race at large that’s been able to triumph over the elements in such a manner, but I personally can do it from a spacious flat rather than some cave. And it’s not hard to feel I’ve won over my fellow humans.
Another stir at the pot on my stove, to ensure the spices fully diffuse. I’m mulling some late-season apfelwein, an added insurance for the health of my impending guest if he’ll take it. I can’t very well let nature defeat him, either. If it did, I’d have my victory by default, and I would rather have this end on my terms.
There’s plenty to be done, ranging from the mundane to the unique, but my self-control can’t quite get me away from the window. Perhaps I could write an algorithm to determine how wet this rain will make him? Oh, it would require so many variables, but what doesn’t, when dealing with people? It’s what makes them interesting. It’s what makes them fun.
Heavy footfalls on the stairwell outside. Oh, let this be him. I’m too excited to see what he thinks of the latest development to wait terribly much longer, and those steps seem just off-tempo enough for a man who’s been running. And here he comes…
My door slams open, and like a perfect picture in the frame I get the day’s first sight of Peter Cho. This is one to remember, the confusion, the rage, the rain-soaked clothes. Mmm, I couldn’t have hoped for better.
He’s barely there long enough for me to save the mental image for later. Four steps on those cat’s legs and he’s through my foyer, almost to the kitchen. Almost to me. “Peter,” I greet him, keeping my tone calm for contrast’s sake. He might take my anticipation the wrong way, angry as I’m sure he is. “I was hoping you’d come today.”
I barely get the words out before he’s pushing me against the refrigerator, one powerful hand against my throat and jaw. Oh my, he’s responding well. “Why did you send me Julia Henry’s engagement ring?” he growls.
“D’you haff new ‘eed?” I squeeze through his grip. Seeming to realize what he’s doing, he releases me and angrily stalks to the stove. “Would you like something to drink?” My throat hurts, and I’m sure I’ll have a bruise, but oh, was it worth it.
“You mailed me a ring stolen from the scene of the crime,” he accuses. “We’ll prove it was you.”
“Mail? Really?” I shoot him a sly smile. “Did I send it by stagecoach?” I left it in a five-o-clock box, of course. The best way to make mail untraceable.
“Did you steal it before or after you killed her?” There’s that spiteful tone again, the feeling of helplessness given auditory form.
“You know I’m a model citizen by now, Detective,” I taunt, crossing to the stove to ladle myself some steaming liquid. It pours smoothly, half-filling one of the pair of Irish coffee mugs I’d left out earlier for just this purpose. “Would you like some mulled wine?”
I can see the muscles in his neck standing out. I take a sip as quickly as I can manage while still looking graceful, and the hot, sour liquid seems to spread through my veins, exquisitely making me aware of the skin border between myself and the rain-soaked air blowing in from where Peter left the door open. Rain without, warmth within.
“You killed her.” Peter reiterates. It’s like he’s repeating one of those religious mantras that people only really believe because of how many times they’ve said them. I don’t contradict him, if I can help it. “What sick pleasure did you get from taking that ring from the woman you killed?”
“Well, regardless of the conclusion you’ve jumped to here, I have the distinct pleasure of your presence.” Another sip of the apfelwein, hiding the mirth in my lips and letting him only have it from my eyes. “Are you recording me, Peter? You know you’ll only get so far if you are.”
He pulls out his phone, holds it up, turns it off. “Now, do I get to talk to the real Angela Martin?” He shakes his head, a stiff twisting motion. “Angela. I feel bad for whoever named you that.”
“My mother’s dead, Peter. But you knew that.” The request to turn off his phone is pure theater. I turned on the interference before he walked in; any electronic receivers will be picking up a blast of feedback, and I’m honestly not sure if he knows that. He’s never given any real indication of trying to record me outside the precinct station.
“Forensics has the ring. Want to tell me what they’re going to find on it?”
“Julia Henry’s DNA, if I had to guess. But really, the answer you want is what they won’t find.” He’s growing methodical again. What a shame- I was hoping this would finally be the straw that broke the camel’s back. We’ve been playing this game for months. But perhaps he can be lured out still. “Tell me, why come here for answers you already believe you have? Or were you expecting… something more?” I gesture vaguely with the mug, raising an eyebrow that’s equally open to interpretation.
A step toward me- he’s taking the bait. “You think you’re better than me. You probably don’t even think about the woman you killed. But you will slip up. Like you did that first day.”
“Slip?” The laugh comes out easily, well-primed by the drink. “Oh, Peter. You and I both know what this is.”
“You think I’m here for you to keep as a pet. So you can watch the detective scurry around after the toys you throw me. But it’s not the toys I’m after. It’s you.” Another step. I can practically smell the sweat under the petrichor on his wet clothes. Even if it weren’t for my designs, this would be quite the stimulant.
But I’m still in control. “Well,” I offer, setting the mug down on the counter and planting my hands on my hips. “What are you going to do about me? You’re here. You got all wet running over here, with nothing to say to me that you haven’t said already. You’re after me?” I lean closer, straining up to bridge the six-inch vertical gap to his eyes. “Here I am. Come get me,” I whisper.
He pulls back slightly, and the split second of disappointment feels like an eternity. But it only makes the rough kiss that follows so much sweeter. He’s angry, his body moving on momentum from a fall across that fine line between hate and what promises to be a vigorous love. Those same hands that nearly crushed my jaw now slam me against the counter, a dull bar of pressure in my lower back. Just a garnish for the kiss.
It was inevitable. Peter took on a case that I’d designed to be impossible to completely solve, and the lack of usable evidence drove him to focus more and more on me as a person. Building a case on his interactions with me, and to his credit, he’s come remarkably close. My clothes might be on their way to a pile on the bedroom floor, but he’d laid me nearly as bare on paper over the last few months. He knows things about me that my parents didn’t. Of course, my parents didn’t know their daughter killed a neighbor to prove she could.
Peter Cho does. This man maneuvering me through my apartment (we managed to get the front door shut, somehow) learned what makes me tick, and in turn I’ve done the same for him. While I’m still confident in my plan, it never hurts to have a backup. And if I’ll be honest with myself, he’s earned this. Shame that “this” is probably the end of his career. I give his muscled back an extra squeeze, trying to return his vigor. He is, after all, acting on all this pent-up frustration, and he deserves that much.
I’m not a very physical person. If I need my body to be able to do something, I’ll make it happen, but it’s just not my highest priority most of the time. I’m exhausted by the time we’re done, even if I’ve let him do most of the work. This is a true high, and every second of it was made the better by this feeling of triumph. But I can feel it fading quickly, giving way to the dull heartache of finality. As much as I enjoy proving I can accomplish something, the true pleasure is the chase, not the kill.
Rain within, warmth without. I turn to Peter, more with my eyes than my limp body, and see a similar mix of emotions playing across his face. He was my project these last few months, and what am I to do with him now? It’s never easy to let go, and who knows? Maybe he’ll continue going after me, and what fun would that be?
“I shouldn’t have done that.” His voice is a hoarse wheeze. I’m not surprised. I feel a tightness growing in my chest, as though my heart is some rapidly crystallizing liquid. We’re back to normalcy, back to a detective trying to solve a murder. “You got what you wanted. Now you’re hurt because it’s over, aren’t you?”
For once, I’m actually surprised. I know Peter’s been fixating on me, but I didn’t expect he’d be able to infer that. “Every victory is a Pyrrhic one,” he continues. “Oh, I know your game. You don’t think I’ve been on that end of it? All the work to turn a suspect into a convict, and then it just goes away? Then that piece of your life is gone.”
“It’s not over for you, is it?” I can’t look at him now. He might see something other than the dead void he once called my eyes. I loved that; it was such a taunt, another obstacle to overcome. The road is ended now, though, and there are no more obstacles on it.
“You’re not in jail.” He draws out the last word almost smugly. “So the anticipation is still there for me.”
“That hurts.” And I’m not afraid to admit it. “You can still get something out of me, but I can’t? I just have to spend my days knowing you’re the one benefiting from our relationship?”
“Or you can turn yourself in and we’ll be even.”
I feel well and truly used. I felt so clever, setting this trap. Doing what I thought was breaking the soul of this man, this perception that could match my intellect. And all the way, he was setting his own trap for me. “No.”
He smirks, barely visible at the corner of my eye. “You will. You can’t bear to let me have something you can’t. Can you?”
“No.” I can’t believe this. I have to win, to end this situation on my terms. Wild ideas dance through my head, and my chest heaves faster as it tries to pump the poisonous thoughts away.
And then, finally, it comes to me. “This isn’t over,” I announce. “I can’t just bring you to bed and give myself a ribbon. I have to actually break you. You’re still taunting me.”
“Or you can turn yourself in,” he repeats.
“We’ll just have to see who can outmaneuver whom.” I feel a rush of excitement replacing the fatigue.
“I’d still say I have the advantage. You’re the one who’s going to have to work harder for it.” He folds his hands behind his head and closes his eyes.
Filled with newfound excitement, I roll myself on top of him and deliver a peck. “Challenge accepted.”
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