Nightfall

s i x

Of course, psychopaths are astronomically likely to have run ins with crime, because they lack basic reason, logic and most importantly, empathy.
But not all psychopaths are gruesome murderers.

The fact that the handsome male that sat before her, had just self admitted to being born a killing machine, whirled her mind on a whole different level.

It unnerved her, how she would have never seen his true self, had he passed her by the street any other day. Just an insanely attractive Adonis-like creature.

A raging murderer? Never.

Once she broke out of her little reverie, she let out a shaky breath, trying to get her brain to shake off the perturbation and focus on the next question to ask.

"Your- your victims were all females. Marissa Marano, the youngest was 18 and Moira Jackson, the oldest was 39. Was there a specific pattern you liked to follow?"

He kept silent, like the frail breeze that blows before the storm hits; turning his gaze away towards the plain white ceiling, choosing to stare at the most random of spots.

"Did they remind you of someone specifically? Why these women?" She stressed to his mute avatar. "Why women?"

Suddenly, his terror-brewing stare met hers, tongue darting out to lick his chapped lips. As much Tahlia hated admitting it, she couldn't help but find her gaze discreetly lingering over the small action.

"Women are easy."

She looked up at him, brow furrowed.
"Excuse me?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, "Women are easy. Gullible. Desperate. You don't even have to lay out a bait, they'll throw themselves at an attractive, mysterious man carelessly."
His lips, then, sported a vain smirk,

Tahlia couldn't believe what she was hearing. She fell silent.

"They didn't know who you were. What you were. They were innocent." Her voice came out a broken whisper, juxtaposing the harsh grit she'd quietly expected them to possess.

"Is that so?"

His tone dripped with arsenic, as if it had been smeared in gallons and gallons of acrimony.
So Tahlia decided on not replying, lest she should be poisoned.

"Open the drawer on your right Natalia."

She blinked, disarmed, "Why?"

"Because it's where I keep my knives."

Her grip around the red button stiffened.

The part of her brain that distinguished whim from reality seemed to malfunction for a small second, chilling her entire stance.

But when, she weighed his words with the leverage of reality; realization and relief were quick to flood her system.

He's just trying to screw with your mind.

She glimpsed at him once, at his maddening grin, then turned to her right. And indeed, there was a drawer in the desk.

With wary hands, she pulled the compartment open.

She looked at the contents of the drawer, then back at Logan Hunt's face. The look in her eyes said it all.

You bastard.

It was just bundles of paper, racks of plain white envelopes to be specific.

"Do you know what those are Natalia?"

She shook her head in negation, still miffed.

"Fanmail."

She flinched visibly, unconcealed to the monster, the word fan not making comprehensive sense together with 'Logan Hunt' in her psyche.