Grayson doesn't hurry beyond the normal demands of night to night walking in following the scent. He takes care of his angles with regards to city cameras. In all other ways, he's unremarkable on his path. The home is one of the more detached ones in a quiet suburb. When he arrives, he realizes it has two occupants, not one. An unfortunate night and association for someone who isn't deserving of this. Pity her husband is.
He yanks the electric cable to the outside box and circles to a window at the back of the house to TK the locks and let himself in silently. The woman is in the kitchen lighting candles and muttering under her breath about the power grid, dressed in a robe and slippers, her hair in foam curlers. He lets her finish her task. When she turns with a candlestick in hand and spots him across the room, she shrieks and drops it, backing up and stammering. The candle hits wick first, extinguishing.
Closing the distance, he keeps his good hand up and visible, his sleeve over the damaged one altogether. "I have no quarrel with you," he says. "It's your husband who has brought this onto your head." He pitches his voice to command, easier to use a discipline than force her to what he has in mind. "Now come. We need to get you ready. He'll be home soon. Arrange the candles first, then meet me in your bedroom."
Her wide eyes are glassier now. She nods and turns toward the remaining lights to get them set in the kitchen and living room. By the time she joins him in the bedroom, she's carrying two. She sets one on a nearby dresser. He gestures silently toward the bathroom and follows her in.
By the time he hears the approach of hurried, panicked footsteps, he's back in the living room on the sofa with the man's well groomed, well dressed wife seated in his lap. She looks calm save for the tears staining her cheeks. He has left her enough will to understand what's happening. He'll ease up on that much control once the man is inside. Her fear will set him off, undoubtedly. Exactly what he wants and exactly why it's satisfying knowing Amelia is on his heels. His injured arm is clasped firmly around her waist. He sinks his fingers into her hair to tilt her head to the side and force her gaze toward the front door, easily visible from their vantage. His is intense from over her shoulder.
CW: Ongoing, physical and psychological torture, death of an innocent
He yanks the electric cable to the outside box and circles to a window at the back of the house to TK the locks and let himself in silently. The woman is in the kitchen lighting candles and muttering under her breath about the power grid, dressed in a robe and slippers, her hair in foam curlers. He lets her finish her task. When she turns with a candlestick in hand and spots him across the room, she shrieks and drops it, backing up and stammering. The candle hits wick first, extinguishing.
Closing the distance, he keeps his good hand up and visible, his sleeve over the damaged one altogether. "I have no quarrel with you," he says. "It's your husband who has brought this onto your head." He pitches his voice to command, easier to use a discipline than force her to what he has in mind. "Now come. We need to get you ready. He'll be home soon. Arrange the candles first, then meet me in your bedroom."
Her wide eyes are glassier now. She nods and turns toward the remaining lights to get them set in the kitchen and living room. By the time she joins him in the bedroom, she's carrying two. She sets one on a nearby dresser. He gestures silently toward the bathroom and follows her in.
By the time he hears the approach of hurried, panicked footsteps, he's back in the living room on the sofa with the man's well groomed, well dressed wife seated in his lap. She looks calm save for the tears staining her cheeks. He has left her enough will to understand what's happening. He'll ease up on that much control once the man is inside. Her fear will set him off, undoubtedly. Exactly what he wants and exactly why it's satisfying knowing Amelia is on his heels. His injured arm is clasped firmly around her waist. He sinks his fingers into her hair to tilt her head to the side and force her gaze toward the front door, easily visible from their vantage. His is intense from over her shoulder.