The Killer Who Found Me
I went down the steps of a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights into a November Thursday at ten oh-four PM, and I got into my van, and I drove home to my apartment in Ditmas Park, and I locked the door, and I did not check it again, and I sat at my kitchen table with the slip of paper still in the pocket of my coat on the chair beside me, and I said his name once, quietly, to the empty room, just to hear what it sounded like in my own voice.
*Marcus.*
The room did not answer.
I went to bed.
Bab Populer