Chapter 12 – Behind the Smile
Michael Rowe had replayed the bar scene in his head a hundred times. The way Eleanor's hand had rested too comfortably on Martin's shoulder. The way Martin had vanished the next day, his flat left unlocked, his bed unmade.
The police dismissed it as another lost man in London's underbelly. But Michael knew.
So when he saw Eleanor in the café on Whitehall during his lunch break, he couldn't hold back. He crossed the room in long strides, notebook in hand, his pulse drumming.
"Eleanor."
She looked up from her coffee, her expression smooth, polite — almost pleased. Her blonde hair framed her face like a halo in the weak London light.
"Mr. Rowe," she said lightly. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."
He leaned closer. "Not a ghost. A murderer."
Her smile didn't falter, though her eyes flickered for the briefest second. Then she chuckled, low and soft, as if he'd told an off-color joke.
"Careful," she murmured, stirring her coffee. "Words like that can ruin reputations."
"I know about Martin," Michael pressed. "He left with you. And now he's gone."
She set the spoon down gently, her movements calm, deliberate. "Martin? The man at the bar?" Her tone was airy, almost dismissive. "Michael, half the city disappears every night. Bars, alleys, rivers. You can't pin every missing man on me."
But Michael saw it now, clearly — the way her hand lingered on the spoon's handle, tightening just enough to betray her composure.
"You slipped," he said quietly, leaning closer. "Just once. You enjoy the pain too much. It's not about control anymore, is it? It's about the thrill."
Her lips curved upward in a smile that was no longer polite. It was sharp, dangerous, a blade disguised as silk. She leaned forward until her breath brushed his ear.
"Do you know what his last word was?" she whispered.
Michael froze.
"He begged. And it was ugly. You should have seen it — the tears, the shaking. Do you know how disappointing it is when they crumble too fast?" She sat back, her eyes gleaming with something cold and radiant. "But then again, I've always loved the sound of begging."
Michael's stomach turned. This wasn't rumor anymore. This was confession.
"You're insane," he said, his voice shaking.
"No," Eleanor corrected, tilting her head. "I'm necessary."
"Necessary?"
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs elegantly. "This city is full of rot. Men who abuse, who consume, who leave wreckage in their wake. I give their endings meaning. Order. And people like you," she smirked, "will never stop me, because deep down… you're too afraid to see me for what I am."
Michael gripped his notebook so tightly the pages crumpled. For the first time, he saw the full monster staring back at him — not hidden, not pretending, but gloriously unmasked.
He stood abruptly, his chair screeching across the floor. "I'm going to Harland," he said. "He'll believe me."
Her smile returned to its polished, professional mask, though her eyes still glittered with menace. "Of course you are. Do hurry. I'd hate for anything… unfortunate to happen before you get the chance."
Michael stumbled out of the café, his chest tight, his head buzzing with terror and determination. He had proof now — not in evidence, but in her words, her eyes, her chilling lack of fear.
What he didn't know was that Eleanor was already one step ahead. She watched him go, sipping her coffee with poise.
Michael Rowe thought he had confronted the Angel of Whitehall.
But Eleanor Marks had just marked her next canvas.