By Crystal Collier
Every day I look into the eyes of a stone-cold killer. Sometimes he’s straightening his tux bowtie before a fancy shin-dig. Sometimes he’s grinning madly while brandishing a knife. Sometimes he’s spattered in blood.
The point is, it’s my job to look into his eyes, day after day, unable to raise the alarm or warn his victims—like the middle aged woman he’s just finished off—because I inhabit the world on the other side of the mirror.
I’m Jak Ralston, reverse identity to a man known also as Jak Ralston. His prisoner.
He wipes his blade clean having already sheared off his trophy, a finger, and turns away from the mirror to the mess of a hotel room. I relax. My shoulders ache from the tension. He is always intense. Always serious. Always angry. But not the explosive kin
