Chapter 2 – A Smile Too Perfect
Clara’s Pov
I told myself the headline was just bad timing. New York was a big city, right? Terrible things happened all the time here, and the fact that the woman looked even a little like me was only coincidence. At least, that was what I repeated in my head like a worn-out mantra when Adrian knocked on my door that night.
When I opened it, there he stood—still damp from the misty weather, holding Chinese takeout in one hand and a bouquet of tulips in the other. Tulips, of all things. Simple, cheerful, the exact opposite of the crime scene photo burning into my brain.
“Surprise,” he said with that easy smile, his voice warm enough to melt anyone’s apprehension. For a second, I let myself believe the uneasy storm swirling inside me would subside.
“You didn’t have to bring flowers,” I said, stepping back to let him in.
“Maybe I didn’t, but you deserve them.”
The words were smooth, effortless, the kind women swoon over in books. And part of me did swoon, against my better judgment. Still, as he brushed past, I noticed that scar again on his hand when he set the flowers on the table. That same scar I couldn’t stop thinking about—thin, jagged, almost deliberate.
We settled at the table, the cartons steaming between us, and I tried to act normal. Tried to pretend that the newspaper folded on my counter wasn’t practically screaming at me. But my eyes kept darting toward it anyway.
Adrian followed my gaze. “What’s caught your attention?”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “The news. That murder in Chelsea… Have you seen it?”
He paused with the chopsticks halfway to his lips. Something, just a flicker, passed across his face before he nodded. “Yeah, it’s awful. Tragic.”
His tone was steady, casual even, but something about his quick glance toward the paper made my stomach tighten.
“You… knew her or—?”
“No.” He leaned back easily, shaking his head, and the smile returned, disarming again. “I just mean, New York can be a dark place sometimes. That’s why I try to make little pockets of light.” He nudged the tulips toward me, a soft gesture that almost made me feel guilty for doubting him. Almost.
But the words stuck in my throat. Because wasn’t that what people always said about killers? That they hid in plain sight using charm as their mask?
I forced a laugh. “That’s… poetic of you.”
“Architect,” he said with a grin. “We think about light and structure all the time.”
We ate after that, quiet settling over the room. I picked at my noodles more than I ate them, watching him. Every time his eyes met mine, I felt like he was studying me too closely, as though I was some blueprint he wanted to memorize. It should’ve been flattering. It should’ve made me feel adored. Instead, it made me wonder if this was how those women had felt—close enough to see the glimmer of danger but too enthralled to walk away.
When dinner ended, Adrian gathered the cartons and offered to take out the trash. A boyfriend offering to handle the garbage should have seemed normal. Sweet, even. But my skin prickled watching him scoop it up like he belonged here, as though he were settling into my life faster than I’d planned.
The minute the door shut behind him, I practically lunged for the paper. My eyes locked again on the photo. The woman’s hair was styled differently than mine, but something in the slope of her jaw, the set of her eyes—it was like staring at a blurred reflection. Goosebumps crawled across my arms.
I stuffed the newspaper back into the drawer just as Adrian returned, his shoes dripping faintly on the tile. He looked around, frowning faintly.
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” I lied, forcing a smile. “Just tidying up.”
He stepped closer, brushing his hand gently down my arm. That scar dragged lightly against my skin. If his touch hadn’t felt so tender, it might’ve made me flinch.
“You’re tense,” he said casually. “Long day at the office?”
“Something like that.”
His gaze lingered a little too long, as though he was reading between words. Then, without warning, he pulled me into his arms. Strong, steady, enveloping. For a moment, I breathed him in, let myself melt into his certainty.
When he pulled back, he kissed my forehead. “You should trust me, Clara. You can.”
The words sent a chill straight through me. He’d said them so calmly, so deliberately, as if he knew my doubts already.
“Of course,” I murmured automatically. What else could I say?
He left not long after, and I stood by the door listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway. My apartment suddenly felt cavernous, the silence pressing too tightly against the walls. I sat on the couch, staring at the tulips brightening the corner of the table, their colors too cheerful to belong in a place where dread grew like a shadow.
Everything about Adrian seemed flawless—the thoughtfulness, the charm, the quiet sophistication. But wasn’t that the problem? No one was flawless. And the more perfect he appeared, the more I wondered what he was hiding beneath that smooth exterior.
I should’ve called Renee. Should’ve laughed about my paranoia, chalked it up to midnight news and an overactive imagination. Instead, I found myself replaying his voice in my head.
“You should trust me, Clara.”
There was something in the way he’d said it, not desperate, not pleading, but assured. Like he knew I didn’t trust him—and that it didn’t matter.
I told myself it was nothing. That I was tired. And yet, as I crawled into bed that night, I left the lamp on. Just in case.
Sleep came in restless fragments, broken by the city sounds through my window. At one point, I dreamed I heard my lock clicking open. I jolted upright, heart pounding, but the apartment was empty except for me and the lingering scent of his cologne from earlier that night.
I almost laughed at myself. Almost.
Then my phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen lit up with a message from an unknown number.
It read:
“Sweet dreams, Clara. Don’t stay up worrying.”
I froze. My chest tightened, my breath caught at the back of my throat. The problem wasn’t the words themselves. It was the fact that it wasn’t from Adrian’s saved number.
It was from someone else.
And whoever it was knew exactly what was on my mind.