Two Predators
by Michael J. D’Alfonsi
The lock surrenders with an oily click. I’m in before the echo dies, the door swinging shut behind me on a draft of dead air and air-freshener. The apartment is smaller than I expected, a two-room setup with a single window so clean I suspect Lucas polishes it himself. Everything is in order: couch parallel to television, television parallel to coffee table, coffee table parallel to the couch, as if symmetry was the only design principle Lucas ever learned.
No personal items in sight. The walls are a featureless beige, empty but for the faint ghost of picture frames now removed. A folded fleece blanket is the sole note of color, navy against the charcoal couch. I count three surfaces that could bear fingerprints and decide to keep my gloves on.
I take inventory. One bedroom. Bathroom off the narrow hall. Open kitchenette with an ancient, humming refrigerator. If I had to draw a map, I could do it with my eyes closed. Some detectives get by with intuition; I rely on muscle memory and planning.
The chess set catches my eye right away: a wooden, Reykjavik-style board with carved pieces, king and queen on opposite ends. The arrangement is midgame, black to move. I study the board for a moment. The white bishop is threatening the black king, but the king has room to maneuver. I file it away.
First pass: the freezer. I’ve learned not to underestimate how sentimental people can get about cold cuts, or what they’ll risk freezing. Lucas keeps the minimum store-brand pizza, a bag of edamame, a six-pack of ice pops that look like they’ve never been touched. I scan for taped parcels, Ziplocs with hidden keys, microfilm. Nothing. The fridge is equally uninspiring. Skim milk, eggs, half a sleeve of Oreos, the container of mac and cheese from a week ago.
Next, the bedroom. I step lightly. Lucas is neat, but not obsessive; a pair of slacks is draped across the foot of the bed, and there’s a subtle depression on the right side of the comforter, like someone spent the night lying perfectly still. The nightstand has a single drawer, locked. I jimmy it open. Inside: a new box of condoms, unopened, and a dogeared copy of The Road Less Traveled. No journals, no love letters, no handwritten notes.
I open the closet. Lucas has five dress shirts, all blue, all starched, all lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection. The shoes below are scuffed but clean. Nothing hidden in the cuffs, the soles, or the suit pockets. I slide my hand along the upper shelf and come away with dust and disappointment.
I check the air vent: loose screws, so someone’s been in here before. But it’s empty except for a dead fly and a curled receipt from a dry cleaner. Lucas doesn’t take risks at home; he saves them for his other life.
The bathroom is next, sterile to the point of parody. Cheap white tile, a sink with no sign of a toothbrush. The medicine cabinet is empty. He shaves, I assume, at the gym, or maybe he just doesn’t grow facial hair. There’s a bar of hotel soap in the shower, shrunk to a puck. I press the edges of the mirror, tap on the tiles, nothing gives.
I start to lose hope. After twelve years on the force, I know the rhythm of a fruitless search. I go back through the main room, more slowly this time, and that’s when I see it: the chess set, again. Only now I notice something off. The black king is slightly larger than the white. Not obvious unless you’re looking for it.
I slip the piece from the board. It’s heavy. Unscrews at the base. Inside, a USB drive. I let out a breath that tastes like old resentment.
I pocket the small USB drive, reassemble the king and put it back in its place. I retrieve my portable reader from my coat, power it up, slot the drive, and brace for what comes next.
Encrypted, of course. Lucas is nothing if not diligent. But I’ve spent years learning to outfox people like him. Thirty seconds, and I’m in. The folder structure is as meticulous as the man himself. Videos, photos, each labeled with the cold precision of a scientist cataloging animal species.
I scroll. Faces, bodies, ages. Some as young as Jamie. Some younger.
I clench my jaw until I feel my molars shift. I could empty the entire apartment out the window and still not feel clean.
I back up the files to my reader, then erase the drive’s index, and overwrite the directory. He’ll think it’s been corrupted, maybe he’ll even toss it, not knowing it’s already damning him. I put the black king back on the board, just slightly off-center.
I’m running through my exit when the front door rattles. I freeze.
Keys. I press myself against the shadowed wall, out of sight. The door opens. Lucas steps in, shoulders slumped, humming under his breath. He drops a gym bag by the entry and heads straight for the bathroom.
I hold my breath, every muscle locked. The air grows tight. Lucas closes the door behind him, and I seize the moment: glide to the entry, scan for evidence of my presence, then slip out and down the hall.
Only as I’m two floors down the stairwell does my heart catch up with me. My hands shake so badly that I have to pause and let the adrenaline bleed out, staring at the USB drive’s digital twin, burning a hole through my reader’s screen.
Case closed, I think. But it’s never that easy.
The urge to run never really leaves, but I force myself back to the apartment. This time, no gloves. No pretence. Just me, a backpack with the evidence, and the gun I swore I’d never use again.
The hallway is empty, late enough that the building has settled into silence. I can hear the hum of Lucas’s TV through the door, some late-night preacher peddling grace and redemption. I think about how there’s a comfort in repetition, even if you’re the only one buying it.
I knock hard enough to bruise. Lucas answers in gym shorts and a T-shirt, surprised but not scared. He’s the type who thinks he can talk his way out of anything.
“Detective Chen,” he says, too friendly, like we’re running into each other at a coffee shop. “Long time.”
I show him the gun. Not raised but not hidden. “Inside.”
He backs up, hands half-raised, never breaking eye contact. The chess set is reset with pieces in their starting places. Has he noticed that the black king is lighter in weight, or is he just pretending to ignore it? Either way, I shut the door behind me, lock it, and take a position by the TV.
“You’re making a mistake,” Lucas says. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
I toss the thumb drive onto the coffee table. It lands beside the black king, rolls a half-inch, then stops.
He doesn’t flinch. “That’s not mine.”
“Save it. You’re a creature of habit, Lucas. Routine is your religion.” I gesture at the room. “You don’t just hide the bodies, you dust around them.”
He laughs, a short, sharp sound. “You want to plant evidence, that’s your business. But if you’re going to shoot me, do it fast. I don’t like drama.”
I almost oblige. The weight of the gun is a dare, not a comfort.
Instead, I open the backpack and slide out my reader. I hold it so he can see the screen. Rows of filenames, dates, faces. Some of the children smile, some don’t. None of them know the world is worse than it was the moment before the shutter clicked.
“I know how you did it,” I say. “I know who helped you cover it up. And I know you have an insurance policy somewhere. Maybe a backup, maybe a failsafe, but it doesn’t matter. This is enough.”
Lucas’s posture slumps. He moves to the couch and sits, head in his hands. “You think I like this?” he says, voice muffled.
“I think you like it enough.”
He looks up, and for the first time there’s anger in his eyes, not the practiced concern. “I was a kid, once. You think this happens because people are born bad?” He gestures at the drive, at himself, at me. “You think I wanted this?”
“I think you want not to be caught.”
He leans back, lets out a slow, measured breath. “You’re just like me, you know.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get to draw that line.”
He stands, paces to the kitchenette, pours himself a glass of water with the ritual of a priest. He drinks, then faces me across the kitchen counter. “You ever think about what happens after? You blow my head off, or turn me in, or whatever it is you’re here to do; do you think that makes you a hero?” He smirks. “You’re a predator, too. Different prey, same hunger.”
I feel something snap. “Don’t,” I say, and my voice comes out raw.
“Don’t what? Don’t tell you the truth? You’ve been stalking me for weeks, maybe months. You watched me, recorded me, broke into my home. All for the cause, right?” He grins. “At least I’m honest about what I am.”
I cross the room in two strides, press the gun to his sternum. He stares down the barrel, not blinking.
“You know what happened to my son?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I can guess.”
“Don’t guess. Listen.” The words scrape their way out. “He was ten. He wanted to be a firefighter. He was kind and gentle and smarter than me. And someone like you took that away.” I shove the gun harder. “You know how it feels to live with that?”
He shakes his head. “You think this fixes it?”
“It stops it.”
He smiles, teeth bared. “You think so?”
I step back, lower the gun a fraction. The room spins, the edges of my vision tunneling down to Lucas’s face, those patient predator’s eyes.
“Take the evidence. Ruin me. But you’re not saving anyone.” He turns away, picks up the black king, fidgets with it. “You’re just adding another body to the board.”
He walks to the door, slow and deliberate. The gall of it enrages me. He’s not scared, not really. He’s already won, even in defeat.
My hand moves on its own. The gunshot is quieter than I expect, but the impact is not. Lucas folds at the waist, drops the king, and collapses onto the tile in a tangle of limbs. For a second he tries to stand, then thinks better of it and stays down.
Blood pools, first in neat concentric circles, then spreading fast.
I kneel next to him. His breathing is wet, erratic, each inhale a gamble.
“You could’ve let me go,” he says, voice barely audible. “I wouldn’t have hurt anyone else.”
I stare at the black king, now stained red, and think about how easy it is to lie, even when dying.
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
He blinks, or maybe just loses focus. He dies with his eyes open. Maybe I expected more.
I gather the reader, the drive, and wipe down every surface I’ve touched. I leave the gun. It’s not registered to me and has no fingerprints.
Out in the hallway, I stop and listen to the sounds of the building: a distant elevator ding, a neighbor’s shower, the low hum of life going on.
My hands are steady now.
Though it’s never that easy, for the first time in years, I think about sleeping through the night.
Copyright © 2026 by Michael J. D’Alfonsi
