Hayden had never once slipped. Not in years of carefully constructed alibis, and cleaning blood from his hands before the world ever saw it. He lived his double life with precision (lectures by day, murder by night) and no one had ever come close to putting two and two together. But when he unlocked the apartment door at two in the morning that night, clothes still tacky with someone else's blood, he knew instantly that he'd fucked up when he saw Valerie waiting for him right there on the couch. He usually had time to scrub the copper from his skin, to change into clean clothes and crawl into bed beside her like he'd only been grading papers too late. Tonight, though? His timing had been ruined by a victim who had 911 on speed dial, who forced him to flee the scene faster than he would have liked, who made him run home before he could erase the mess. And now here he was, standing in the doorway, dripping with evidence, staring at the one person he loved most in the world.
She had seen him. No mask, no illusion, no respected professor, no careful lover who brought her coffee in the mornings. Just the monster underneath. And Hayden realized, with guilt suddenly taking over, that the life he'd built, the love he'd held onto with both hands, was suddenly dangling by a thread. His throat felt tight when he finally spoke, words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Shit," he mumbled under his breath, shutting the door behind him slowly. "You weren't supposed to see me like this." With a shake of his head in disappointment, he leaned back against the door and let out a groan in frustration. "Usually I have time to clean up, but⦠They had 911 on speed dial, and I had to get out of there before I blew up the whole thing."
