Chapter 33 Fall for the Bait

Chapter 33 Fall for the Bait
Morgana POV

My apartment looked exactly as I'd left it four days ago, but felt like a stranger's home. I stood in the doorway, keys gripping my palm, while Officer Ramirez did a final sweep of the rooms even though tactical teams had already cleared the space twice.

"All secure," he said, emerging from the bedroom. "Remember—we're right across the hall. Martinez is in the apartment below. FBI tactical is in the building next door with sightlines to all your windows. You're covered from every angle."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The wire taped to my skin under my shirt felt obvious, conspicuous, like everyone who looked at me would know I was broadcasting every sound to a van three blocks away.

"Test the mic," Ramirez said gently.

I touched the small device hidden in my collar. "Testing. Can you hear me?"

Bruno's voice came through the earpiece so small I'd forgotten I was wearing it. "Loud and clear. You're doing great, Morgana. Just go through your normal evening routine. Make tea, watch TV, get ready for bed. Act like everything's normal."

Normal. Right. Act normal while wearing surveillance equipment and knowing that somewhere in the city, David was planning to kill me.

Ramirez squeezed my shoulder. "You say the word 'red,' we're through that door in five seconds. Don't hesitate. Don't try to be brave. You feel threatened, you say red, and this operation ends."

"I understand."

He left, the door clicking shut behind him. I turned the deadbolt, engaged the chain, checked the window locks even though I knew tactical had secured everything.

Then I stood in the middle of my living room and tried to remember what normal looked like.

The apartment was exactly as I'd left it. Coffee mug in the sink from my last morning here. Book open on the couch where I'd been reading when Marcus called to warn me about David. Mail piled on the counter, unopened bills and grocery store circulars.

A life interrupted mid-sentence. Paused four days ago when Bruno had moved me into protective custody.

I moved to the kitchen, going through motions I'd performed a thousand times. Fill the kettle. Turn on the stove. Get a mug from the cabinet—the one David had given me two months ago with some quote about coffee being life's most important relationship.

I'd thought it was sweet then. Now the mug felt like evidence of how thoroughly he'd infiltrated my life.

"Doing good," Bruno's voice murmured in my ear. "Natural movements. If David's watching, he needs to believe you've actually come home. That protective custody ended and you're resuming normal life."

If David's watching. No—when David's watching. Because Bruno had confirmed through monitored channels that David had seen the reports of my return. Had probably been staking out the building since dark. Was somewhere out there right now, studying my windows, planning his approach.

The kettle began to whistle. I poured water over a tea bag, watched it steep, added honey the way I always did. My hands were shaking, tea sloshing over the rim.

"You're doing fine," Bruno said quietly. "Fear response is normal. David would expect you to be nervous. Just keep breathing."

I carried the tea to the couch, turned on the TV to a show I didn't watch, stared at the screen without processing the images. My mind kept cataloging everything—exits, weapons, distance to Ramirez across the hall.

The windows looked dark and hollow. Anyone could be out there. David could be out there right now, watching me sit on my couch like nothing had changed.

Three months. Three months of my life stolen by someone who'd studied me like a lab rat. Three months of manufactured romance and orchestrated encounters. Three months of believing David cared about me when he'd actually been documenting my routines for eventual murder.

The anger felt cleaner than the fear. Sharper. More useful.

I picked up my phone, pulled up the text conversation with David. Our last exchange from three days ago, his threat about unfinished business. I typed a new message: "I'm home. If you want to talk, you know where I am."

Sent it before I could second-guess.

"Morgana—" Bruno's voice had gone sharp. "That wasn't part of the plan."

"He needs to know I'm here. Might as well be direct."

Silence in my earpiece. Then: "Okay. Good improvisation. Reinforces that you've chosen to stop running. He'll respond to that psychologically."

My phone buzzed thirty seconds later. David: "I know. I've been watching your windows for an hour. You look beautiful when you're trying to appear calm."

Ice flooded my veins. He was here. Right now. Close enough to see my windows.

"We've got movement," a different voice said in my earpiece. Male, professional. FBI tactical. "Male subject on the roof of the building across the street. Confirming visual with binoculars. It's him."

"Do not engage," Bruno ordered. "Let him watch. Let him think he's in control. Morgana, keep doing what you're doing. Finish your tea. Go get ready for bed. Normal routine."

I forced myself to drink the tea even though my throat had gone tight. Forced myself to stand and walk to the bedroom like nothing was wrong. Like David Kellerman wasn't watching me from a rooftop with binoculars.

In the bedroom, I changed into pajamas. The wire made it awkward, but I managed. Washed my face at the bathroom sink, brushed my teeth, looked at myself in the mirror.

I looked terrified. Eyes too wide, skin too pale. Nothing about my expression said "normal evening routine."

"You're doing great," Marcus's voice, quiet in my earpiece. They must have put him on the tactical channel. "I'm right across the hall, Morgana. I can hear you through the wall. You're not alone."

The tears came without warning. I gripped the sink, let them fall silently. Not because I was afraid—though I was. But because Marcus was across the hall listening to me brush my teeth while a serial killer watched from a rooftop, and somehow this was my life now.

"I see her," David's voice suddenly filled my earpiece, tinny and distant. "Is this a party line?"

I froze. He could hear the tactical channel. He'd hacked their communications.

"All units, switch to encrypted backup frequency," Bruno ordered. Static filled my ear, then silence, then Bruno's voice again on a different channel. "Can anyone else hear me?"

Confirmations from tactical positions. But the damage was done. David knew we were listening. Knew this was a trap.

And he was still here.

I walked back to the bedroom, climbed into bed with my clothes still on under the covers. The wire pressed against my ribs. The earpiece carried Bruno's quiet instructions to tactical teams, repositioning now that David knew about the surveillance.

My phone lit up on the nightstand. Text from David: "You brought company. I expected better from you, Morgana. I thought we were going to have an honest conversation."

I picked up the phone, typed: "I'm done with your games, David. You want to talk? Come up here and talk. Face to face. No more surveillance, no more manipulation. Just you and me, finally honest with each other."

"Morgana, what are you doing?" Bruno's voice was tight.

"Drawing him out," I whispered. "He wants to complete his research. Wants to understand why I survived. Give him what he wants."

"That's not—"

"Trust me." I sent the message.

David's reply came immediately: "You know I can't do that. Your FBI friends would take me the moment I approached the building. You're not that naive."

"Then what do you want? To watch from rooftops forever? To send threatening texts until one of us dies of old age? You said you needed to complete this. So complete it."

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

"You've changed," David wrote. "The Morgana I studied would never challenge me this directly. She'd analyze the situation, weigh options, make rational decisions based on data. But you're operating on emotion now. Anger. That's new."

"You murdered seven women. Studied me like an animal. Stole three months of my life. You're damn right I'm angry."

"Seven that they found. The actual number is higher. But who's counting?" A pause, then: "I missed this. The real you, underneath the corporate polish and analytical thinking. You were always most interesting when your emotions surfaced."

I wanted to throw the phone across the room. Wanted to scream at him through the window. Wanted anything except this clinical dissection of my anger like it was just another data point.

"Last chance, David. Come up here and finish whatever you think needs finishing. Or walk away and let me rebuild my life without you."

"Subject on the move," tactical reported in my earpiece. "He's leaving the rooftop. Lost visual. Searching."

My heart hammered against the wire. David was gone. Either running or approaching.

"All units maintain positions," Bruno ordered. "He could be testing our response. Morgana, stay where you are. Do not open the door for anyone."

I sat up in bed, every sense hyperalert. The apartment was too quiet. The kind of quiet that felt like held breath, like waiting.

The clock on my nightstand showed 11:43 PM. Four minutes until 11:47—the time stamp on his previous victims. The time he'd called it his "optimal research window" in his journals.

"Power company reports no scheduled maintenance," someone said in my earpiece. "If the building loses electricity, it's David."

11:45 PM.

I got out of bed, moved to the living room. Better sightlines. Closer to the door where Ramirez was positioned across the hall.

11:46 PM.

My phone buzzed. David: "You said you wanted honest conversation. Let's start with honesty. I'm not on that rooftop anymore. I'm closer than you think. And in exactly one minute, your tactical friends are going to have a problem that will give us about ninety seconds of privacy. Use that time wisely."

"He's in the building," I said aloud, for the wire. "David's inside—"

The lights went out.

Not just my apartment—the entire building plunged into darkness. Emergency lighting didn't kick in. The hum of electricity died completely.

Shouts erupted in my earpiece. "Power's out, entire block—"

"All units converge on Ms. Gaius's location—"

"Backup generators aren't engaging—"

"Ramirez, get to her now—"

I heard footsteps in the hallway. Running. Then Ramirez's voice, muffled through my door: "Morgana, it's me. I'm coming in—"

The footsteps stopped. A thump. Heavy, final.

Silence.

"Ramirez?" My voice came out wrong, too high. "Ramirez, respond."

Nothing.

"All units, Officer Ramirez is not responding," Bruno's voice crackled with static. "Someone get to that door—"

A key turned in my lock.

My lock. The one only building maintenance and Ramirez had keys for.

The door opened slowly. Emergency lights from the stairwell cast a figure in silhouette.

David stepped into my apartment.

"Hello, Morgana," he said quietly. "I think it's time we finished our conversation."