window was populated with mannequins dressed in the latest fashions. Coincidentally, his own reflection almost perfectly lined up with one of the dummies, and it seemed for a moment as if he was wearing the colorful suit. Bright colors were in this year, and he looked more like Joachim Delacroix than himself.
It was hard to make out his facial features in the dark, but everything seemed normal: his head was the right shape, no obvious bumps or lumps or contusions. Which made sense, since, as best he could recall, the Stuffer hadnât done anything to his face.
But then what was that about a mirror?
Styx shrugged.
But he hadnât meant to shrug. It had happened all by itself.
It had happened without volition. A sort of tic or reflex.
What the hell was going on?
On his way home Styx considered detouring past the Stufferâs apartment in the Hofstraat but decided to check in with the squad first. He felt tired and empty and wasnât in the mood to take unnecessary chances. His best bet was to talk with John Crevits as soon as possible.
But, no, even that would have to wait. First home to his family, who were probably worried sick by now. First to Isabelle and Victor, to reassure them that everything was fine, that heâd met the serial killer and survived. He could see the scene play out: heâd stumble across the threshold, switch on the hall light, drag himself up the stairs . . . and there would be Isabelle, who would take him in her arms and hold him close.
I thought something must have happened to you , he could hear her whisper.
Isabelle in her low-cut black nightgown. Even if he was all drenched in blood, she wouldnât mind.
I thought something awful must have happened to you .
âIâm okay,â he heard himself rumble.
How many times have I begged you to take your phone with you?
âIt wouldnât have made much difference. Anyway, Iâm home now.â
And then Victor would be there. He would keep his distance, at first, until Styx gathered him into a group hug.
Iâm sorry, Dad, Styx heard. Iâm sorry Iâve been so weird.
âShhh, now, itâs okay,â he would reassure the boy. âIt doesnât matter. The important thing is weâre all together.â
Thatâs how it would go. Maybe not exactly in that order, butâ
But was that how it would go?
He and Isabelle had grown apartâbut she would still worry about him, right? Maybe heâd find patrol cars in the driveway when he turned onto their street. Maybe Crevits and Delacroix would be there, waiting for him, ready to drape a blanket around his shivering shoulders before questioning him about his encounter with the Stuffer. He was a witness now.
Looking like a lost tourist, he came to the Ostend train station, which was on his path toward home. He heard himself growl, like a dog, a clear sign that he needed to rest. The taste in his mouth was so awful he had to rinse it away.
âLike I drank a bucket of shit,â he muttered.
He limped into the cavernous station hall and saw that the arrivals and departures board was completely blank. The ticket windows, kiosks, and bistros were all deserted. Here and there, a hobo lay stretched out on a wooden bench, sleeping.
Styx shuffled into the menâs room. He thought of Shelleyâs awful morning breath. This, he thought, was worse. Where was Shelley, anyway?
He leaned on one of the white porcelain sinks, his eyes adjusting to the glare of the neon lighting. He squinted, then cracked open the taps to wash his hands. The water was cold. He scrubbed off the dried blood and stuck his head under the tap. He gulped greedily and swallowed. He almost choked and found himself coughing.
Blood splattered the porcelain. He was coughing up blood. Was that bad? Was he bleeding internally? He ducked his head back into the stream of water and cleaned himself as best he could.
When he stood up and got a good look at
It was hard to make out his facial features in the dark, but everything seemed normal: his head was the right shape, no obvious bumps or lumps or contusions. Which made sense, since, as best he could recall, the Stuffer hadnât done anything to his face.
But then what was that about a mirror?
Styx shrugged.
But he hadnât meant to shrug. It had happened all by itself.
It had happened without volition. A sort of tic or reflex.
What the hell was going on?
On his way home Styx considered detouring past the Stufferâs apartment in the Hofstraat but decided to check in with the squad first. He felt tired and empty and wasnât in the mood to take unnecessary chances. His best bet was to talk with John Crevits as soon as possible.
But, no, even that would have to wait. First home to his family, who were probably worried sick by now. First to Isabelle and Victor, to reassure them that everything was fine, that heâd met the serial killer and survived. He could see the scene play out: heâd stumble across the threshold, switch on the hall light, drag himself up the stairs . . . and there would be Isabelle, who would take him in her arms and hold him close.
I thought something must have happened to you , he could hear her whisper.
Isabelle in her low-cut black nightgown. Even if he was all drenched in blood, she wouldnât mind.
I thought something awful must have happened to you .
âIâm okay,â he heard himself rumble.
How many times have I begged you to take your phone with you?
âIt wouldnât have made much difference. Anyway, Iâm home now.â
And then Victor would be there. He would keep his distance, at first, until Styx gathered him into a group hug.
Iâm sorry, Dad, Styx heard. Iâm sorry Iâve been so weird.
âShhh, now, itâs okay,â he would reassure the boy. âIt doesnât matter. The important thing is weâre all together.â
Thatâs how it would go. Maybe not exactly in that order, butâ
But was that how it would go?
He and Isabelle had grown apartâbut she would still worry about him, right? Maybe heâd find patrol cars in the driveway when he turned onto their street. Maybe Crevits and Delacroix would be there, waiting for him, ready to drape a blanket around his shivering shoulders before questioning him about his encounter with the Stuffer. He was a witness now.
Looking like a lost tourist, he came to the Ostend train station, which was on his path toward home. He heard himself growl, like a dog, a clear sign that he needed to rest. The taste in his mouth was so awful he had to rinse it away.
âLike I drank a bucket of shit,â he muttered.
He limped into the cavernous station hall and saw that the arrivals and departures board was completely blank. The ticket windows, kiosks, and bistros were all deserted. Here and there, a hobo lay stretched out on a wooden bench, sleeping.
Styx shuffled into the menâs room. He thought of Shelleyâs awful morning breath. This, he thought, was worse. Where was Shelley, anyway?
He leaned on one of the white porcelain sinks, his eyes adjusting to the glare of the neon lighting. He squinted, then cracked open the taps to wash his hands. The water was cold. He scrubbed off the dried blood and stuck his head under the tap. He gulped greedily and swallowed. He almost choked and found himself coughing.
Blood splattered the porcelain. He was coughing up blood. Was that bad? Was he bleeding internally? He ducked his head back into the stream of water and cleaned himself as best he could.
When he stood up and got a good look at
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