Page 5 of King of Hollywood

Instead, I watched the lights in Felix’s downstairs windows flick off one by one. Watched as the ones upstairs turned on, and the silhouette of his body peeped through the glass as he climbed upward.

Despite the hiccups, the hat, and the fact I hadn’t sated my curiosity, today had been a good day.

The chirp of crickets was peaceful. It reminded me of my youth. Of nights spent on the farm with my window open, listening to the breeze.

I wasn’t ready to go inside, not yet.

Despite the fact that the narrow house across the street was an eyesore at best. It was tall, comprised of three stories with dark wood paneling and drooping vines that dripped like ink down its walls. At night the house almost seemed to loom. It tipped to the side in an illusion that made it look like something out of a storybook for goth children. Very Poe, Felix’s house was. Tim Burton-esque.

In the daylight, the chipped indigo paint was almost cheerful, but at night it gave the home a quite severe presence. It looked aged and worn. Ill maintained. Like the owner who’d had it before Felix hadn’t known how to take care of a home at all.

The yard—which was more of a jungle than a yard at this point—only further solidified that assumption.

I wondered if he’d inherited the home.

It was odd that a man like Felix lived in a home like that. He was soft sweaters, rainbow yarn, and floppy hats. He should be in a home covered in flowers, with honeysuckle and brick. This house was more suited for Dracula than a man who wore his heart on his sleeve etched in unpracticed, loopy embroidery.

I wasn’t naive. I knew Felix Finley had his secrets. We all did. Me especially. This town was full of them. The Club was a prime example of that. A town like Beach Town—small, quiet, off the beaten path with no beach in sight—should not have housed such an eclectic mix of murderers, but it did.

It was one of the reasons I loved it.

Like all of my colleagues, I was intelligent enough to hunt in the city an hour or so north.

Don’t shit where you eat, and all that.

Which was why it was uncomfortable to think that Felix had so clearly not gotten the memo. He’d killed inside his home, in a town small enough that missing citizens would go noticed. I could only hope the man he’d been with had been a one night stand like the others—and that he’d traveled here, as I had no idea how else Felix planned on getting away with it.

I was tempted to warn him—to give him some…friendly advice. But I still wasn’t certain if this was a one-off, or if he—like me—had a taste for things of a more bloody nature.

I wasn’t about to blow my cover. Not to a man that wore pastel unironically.

So yes, I wasn’t naive. Felix Finley could keep his secrets for now, just as I would keep mine.

I would wait, I would observe, and I would try to forget that sunny, pointy little smile—at least until later, after work, when I’d help him clean up the mess he’d made.

That smile certainly wouldn’t follow me to bed.

No.

That would be inappropriate.

Later that day, at six thirty p.m. exactly, I arrived at Felix’s door. I’d managed a few hours of sleep, but otherwise had been too excited to rest. Felix didn’t answer when I knocked the first time, or the second, or the third. Irritated, I rang the doorbell, only for the front door to creak open, a beam of light flooding the dark hallway. I’d had to traverse his mess of a yard to get to the steps, and I was in no mood to be trifled with—even though the prospect of cleaning up after a murder was quite exciting.

“Finley?” I frowned, glancing left and right before finally spotting him, half concealed by the door itself. He was wearing pajamas. As though he’d still been sleeping. I stared at him as the soft melodic curl of his voice met my ears.

“Sorry,” he croaked. “Just woke up.”

I supposed it had been a late night. I’d always operated fine with barely any sleep, so I couldn’t actually understand. But still.

Felix didn’t move into the light. In fact, he didn’t move at all. He stayed half hidden, his sleep-heavy lashes blinking as he stared at me. “You can come in,” he offered, clearly waiting for something.

I supposed it wasn’t that odd that he was hiding behind the door—even though it was. If he hadn’t been Felix Finley—social recluse—but a normal person, he would’ve greeted me and ushered me in rather than skulking about in the shadows. But he wasn’t a normal person. So therefore, lurking was to be expected.

I shrugged off my unease, entered the house, and moved out of the way so he could shut us inside. Immediately the scent of dust hit my nose and I nearly sneezed.

“Would you mind closing that for me, please?” Felix cocked his head toward the shade that covered the stained glass that lined the side of his door. “I forgot when I got home last night.”

How very polite.