December 24th, 9AM -- Gilman and Samuel Belli
Gilman was actually standing outside of the shop before it opened. If he had been a smoker, he would've been pacing with a cigarette. As it stood, he was empty handed, said empty hands shoved in his pockets. In the few days since the Christmas party, Gilman felt like he was on edge the entire time. He was increasingly obsessed with the album. Gilman had fiddled and fussed with the camera, and he'd scoured every inch of the album, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't right, having the album incomplete. Just like he had to have his trailer more or less spotless? He needed the album to be completed. It had to be. And to complete it, he needed it to be his. Gilman would've turned up sooner, but the fact that not being full owner of the album kept him from acting on his thoughts had kept him away.
Not anymore. Fuck it. He wouldn't actually go through with it, right? Just some filthy pictures. It didn't have to end up like the previous photos. Gilman wasn't a murderer.
Having convinced himself, the second the sign went from 'closed' to 'open', Gilman was in the shop and going up to the counter, sharing wary looks between the door behind him and the Belli himself. He didn't want anyone around, this time. This was private. His life was private. Very private.
"Hey," Gilman said, "I wanted to talk to you about that trade you mentioned. To buy the camera and the album."
He'd blown money on blow, on booze, on going out to any functions he could think of, and he was out of excuses, now. And he wasn't going to hurt anyone. Of course not. He wasn't a monster. That shit only happened in horror movies.