Katie saw her own reflection in the blade. Its keen edge gleamed as it passed through the space between them. A shadowy figure shared the tight space; a man she didn’t know. Her eyelids fell. Her foot slipped in the crimson pool spreading on the tiles.

Her neck ached and her outstretched arm throbbed. How long had she sat like that this time? The misshapen shaft of quartz she’d uncovered in a creepy antique shop had helped her build her career and shaped her work. Not the usual way to get into crime writing; no careers adviser or self help book would tell you to buy a magic lump of rock. However, it worked for her. If she closed her eyes and opened her mind, while resting her hand in it, it gave her visions, or dreams, or premonitions, or whatever. She’d never thought too deeply about whether it was real, or imagined; from the past, present or future. If she thought too long it all got a bit morally murky, and who needed that in their lives. She wrote down the stories she witnessed. She was  a crime writer. Her stories garnered enough views on crimesquare.com and to make enough money to eat poorly and drink cheap wine. 

This vision was different. It had all the same sort of detail, she could feel the cool tiles under her fingertips, smell the stale, sour whiskey she spilt late last week and hear the dull boom of music from a passing car. She knew this place, it was her own bathroom.

She couldn’t let it happen here. 

Her head span. There were too many questions. Who was he? She never invited anyone back here unless she couldn’t help it. Why was he in her flat? How could she stop what she didn’t understand?

A pounding on the door made her leap right out of her own skin. No one could murder her if she died of a heart attack. 

“Ms Shelley, this is the police,” a woman’s voice rang out from the other side of the door. She was firm but polite. Not urgent but important. 

Katie opened the door, and the police officer, in full uniform, held up a warrant card. 

“Hello, Ms. Shelley. Can we come in?” she asked. It didn’t feel like a question. Katie found herself opening the door wider.  Looking beyond the first officer she saw him. A man in plain clothes, maybe a detective or something. It was him. They said some other things, introduced themselves, and asked to come in again. She didn’t really hear any of it. She moved over and cleared the threshold

He was bigger than her, perhaps bigger than both of them put together. His coat strained and tugged around his ample middle, but also around large round shoulders. There was a hidden power revealed by the way he moved. The doorway seemed too small for him. 

“Can I, er, I make you a, ah, cup of tea?” she asked, her words as jumbled as her thoughts. She wondered if she owned three mugs.

“Two sugars, love,” said the man. 

“Not for me,” said the uniform. “Actually, you might want to sit down for this.” 

Blood was draining from her face and limbs. She felt light headed as her legs gave up and she practically fell onto her chair. The two officers sat opposite her on the sofa. This was a violation, like they were sitting on her bed. They shouldn’t be here. No-one came into her flat. 

“We have reason to believe you may be in danger, Ms Shelley,” he said, leaning forward with his meaty fists clutching the cup of tea. Katie didn’t remember making that.  

She stared at his feet. There was mud around the edge. He’d left a trail of it. 

“The stories you’ve been writing on the website,” she glanced at her notebook, “On Crimesquare, have caught the eye of, shall we say, a fan. DCI Johnson here has read everything you’ve ever written. He says you are describing the things a little too well, and we were wondering how you knew some of the details of the crime scenes. You describe things only the killers would know…” she left that last one hanging in the air. Not a threat, not yet. 

“Can I use your loo?” he asked, shattering the silent ice, frozen in the air.

“I guess so, if you must.”

“I must,” he interrupted and got up without waiting to be directed. He walked straight to it. He opened the door and squeezed inside. 

The officer fixed her eyes on Katie. “Your turn,” they said. Katie watched her back; watched her sip the tea she didn’t want; watched while the officer’s eye blinked for a long time. Her eyes closed and didn’t reopen. The last dregs of tea fell from her fingers. 

Katie stood. She had to know what he was doing there. She heard a thud, like something heavy hitting the carpet. Was it the officer’s cup finally leaving her grasp, or did it come from the bathroom?

She opened the door and saw the scene she’d seen before. Her own face in the knife, gleaming as she raised it. The detective saw her too, snatched at the knife to protect himself. Blood dripped from the blade. He was too slow, too late. She brought it down again, again, again. She smiled. Her foot slid on the slick floor. She closed her eyes to take it all in. The feel of the tile, the smells, and sounds. In the darkness, she thought about what a great story this would be. 

Katie saw her own reflection in the blade. Its keen edge gleamed as it passed through the space between them. A shadowy figure shared the tight space; a man she didn’t know. Her eyelids fell. Her foot slipped in the crimson pool spreading on the tiles.

Her neck ached and her outstretched arm throbbed. How long had she sat like that this time? The misshapen shaft of quartz she’d uncovered in a creepy antique shop had helped her build her career and shaped her work. Not the usual way to get into crime writing; no careers adviser or self help book would tell you to buy a magic lump of rock. However, it worked for her. If she closed her eyes and opened her mind, while resting her hand in it, it gave her visions, or dreams, or premonitions, or whatever. She’d never thought too deeply about whether it was real, or imagined; from the past, present or future. If she thought too long it all got a bit morally murky, and who needed that in their lives. She wrote down the stories she witnessed. She was  a crime writer. Her stories garnered enough views on crimesquare.com and to make enough money to eat poorly and drink cheap wine. 

This vision was different. It had all the same sort of detail, she could feel the cool tiles under her fingertips, smell the stale, sour whiskey she spilt late last week and hear the dull boom of music from a passing car. She knew this place, it was her own bathroom.

She couldn’t let it happen here. 

Her head span. There were too many questions. Who was he? She never invited anyone back here unless she couldn’t help it. Why was he in her flat? How could she stop what she didn’t understand?

A pounding on the door made her leap right out of her own skin. No one could murder her if she died of a heart attack. 

“Ms Shelley, this is the police,” a woman’s voice rang out from the other side of the door. She was firm but polite. Not urgent but important. 

Katie opened the door, and the police officer, in full uniform, held up a warrant card. 

“Hello, Ms. Shelley. Can we come in?” she asked. It didn’t feel like a question. Katie found herself opening the door wider.  Looking beyond the first officer she saw him. A man in plain clothes, maybe a detective or something. It was him. They said some other things, introduced themselves, and asked to come in again. She didn’t really hear any of it. She moved over and cleared the threshold

He was bigger than her, perhaps bigger than both of them put together. His coat strained and tugged around his ample middle, but also around large round shoulders. There was a hidden power revealed by the way he moved. The doorway seemed too small for him. 

“Can I, er, I make you a, ah, cup of tea?” she asked, her words as jumbled as her thoughts. She wondered if she owned three mugs.

“Two sugars, love,” said the man. 

“Not for me,” said the uniform. “Actually, you might want to sit down for this.” 

Blood was draining from her face and limbs. She felt light headed as her legs gave up and she practically fell onto her chair. The two officers sat opposite her on the sofa. This was a violation, like they were sitting on her bed. They shouldn’t be here. No-one came into her flat. 

“We have reason to believe you may be in danger, Ms Shelley,” he said, leaning forward with his meaty fists clutching the cup of tea. Katie didn’t remember making that.  

She stared at his feet. There was mud around the edge. He’d left a trail of it. 

“The stories you’ve been writing on the website,” she glanced at her notebook, “On Crimesquare, have caught the eye of, shall we say, a fan. DCI Johnson here has read everything you’ve ever written. He says you are describing the things a little too well, and we were wondering how you knew some of the details of the crime scenes. You describe things only the killers would know…” she left that last one hanging in the air. Not a threat, not yet. 

“Can I use your loo?” he asked, shattering the silent ice, frozen in the air.

“I guess so, if you must.”

“I must,” he interrupted and got up without waiting to be directed. He walked straight to it. He opened the door and squeezed inside. 

The officer fixed her eyes on Katie. “Your turn,” they said. Katie watched her back; watched her sip the tea she didn’t want; watched while the officer’s eye blinked for a long time. Her eyes closed and didn’t reopen. The last dregs of tea fell from her fingers. 

Katie stood. She had to know what he was doing there. She heard a thud, like something heavy hitting the carpet. Was it the officer’s cup finally leaving her grasp, or did it come from the bathroom?

She opened the door and saw the scene she’d seen before. Her own face in the knife, gleaming as she raised it. The detective saw her too, snatched at the knife to protect himself. Blood dripped from the blade. He was too slow, too late. She brought it down again, again, again. She smiled. Her foot slid on the slick floor. She closed her eyes to take it all in. The feel of the tile, the smells, and sounds. In the darkness, she thought about what a great story this would be.