Beaufort, South Carolina
March 26
Tonight was the night. For six weeks, Milo had observed Charlotte Devlin. Well, he supposed he should probably call her Twitch. That’s what her friends called her, and he certainly felt that after weeks of following her, learning her routine, and watching her through her window that they were, if not friends, intimately acquainted. Milo sat at the dressing table, his stage makeup spread out before him, and bemoaned the fact that he would not be applying an elaborate disguise. He touched each hairpiece: wigs, beards, the goatee he had worn with Regina, each one eliciting a fond memory of retribution.
He opened the box of latex gloves and withdrew two. DNA wasn’t a concern as his genetic material wasn’t stored in any database. Fingerprints, however, were another matter. Milo pulled on the gloves with his fingers pointed upward, imagining himself a skilled surgeon preparing for a procedure; in a way, he was. He examined his hands, front and back, giving a sharp nod of approval. His sense of touch was disappointingly impaired but all in all acceptable. He removed the gloves and slipped them into the zip pocket of his black jog pants next to the condom. He pulled on a hoodie bearing the logo of a local college and slipped on his trainers. Standing before the full-length mirror in the corner, he confirmed the hoodie covered the knife sheathed at his waist and gave a final perusal to his trim frame.
Milo closed the front door of the rented cottage, placed the house key under the mat, and set off at a slow jog. The March evening was cool and humid. He glanced at his watch as he waited at the corner for a car to pass, five pm. Perfect. Twitch usually arrived home from work around six. A creature of habit, she stayed in her front room working on her computer until well after midnight. For the past several weeks, however, she had been going to bed closer to ten. He wondered what had prompted Twitch to change her routine. Maybe she was sick. No matter. This wasn’t about Twitch; this was about him. Like a nobleman of yore, he had been affronted, and he demanded satisfaction.
Stopping in his tracks, Milo pondered the word he had summoned: satisfaction. It all came down to that. In his thirty-eight years, he had garnered impressive accolades, made substantial accomplishments, but nothing had ever felt quite so satisfying as this.
Young Charlotte Devlin was the final name on his list. Would Milo ever find another means to even the score that was so fulfilling? He placed a hand on the flat of a broad tree trunk and stretched his calves. He could make a new list. Milo gripped the bark beneath his palms and inventoried potential candidates who had wronged him. This newfound power was heady—he was a king commanding the fate of his subjects, unchecked. Pity his parents were already dead.
Chiding himself for his runaway thoughts, Milo continued jogging. Rounding the corner, he slowed his pace. Twitch’s gray bungalow was illuminated by a welcoming porch light and the dim glow of a lamp in her living room. The upstairs dormer windows were dark. All was as it should be.
Milo cut along the side of the house and climbed the three steps to the cedar deck. Skirting the porch furniture, he stepped to the back door, and, using a small hammer and a rag to absorb the sound, he broke the pane of glass nearest the knob. Within seconds he was in the kitchen silencing the beeping alarm using the code Mrs. Critchfield had so willingly provided.
Twitch would be home soon—an hour at the earliest if she came straight or two if she stopped at the store. Milo guessed two; she hadn’t shopped for groceries in several days, and a quick peek in her fridge confirmed she was running low on what she considered staples: flavored coffee creamer and mixed berry yogurt.
He stopped in the living room and knelt before the sleek laptop resting on the coffee table. Using the specialty tools, he opened the machine and attached his little demon to the internal hard drive. That task done, he pocketed his tools and reset the burglar alarm before heading upstairs.
Standing in Twitch’s bedroom aroused him. In this reincarnated version of himself, Milo had forgotten how attracted he had been to Charlotte Devlin. He had met her at the HackAttack opening reception. Back then, Milo could have any woman he wanted. He was living with a swimsuit model; however, the relationship rarely curtailed his libido. In fact, he had attended the event with a rather uniquely talented adult film star.
Nevertheless, Twitch had turned his head. She had a perfect figure—tits slightly large for her frame, shorter but with great legs. She had brushed off his advances claiming it wouldn’t be appropriate during the competition, but he had seen the desire in her eyes. He had planned to pursue her after the contest, but then she cheated and claimed to have outsmarted him. The spark instantly fizzled. MIlo didn’t need some woman undermining his intellect.
Libido in check, he pulled the small ziplock bag from his pocket and shook out the contents. He gripped them in a latex-covered palm and scanned the dresser. There. In the back, behind a framed picture of a group of young women on a beach, was a small decorative box. Tipping up the lid, he placed the items inside.
His business concluded, Milo checked the time. He still had at least twenty minutes. Pulling open the top dresser drawer, he was hit with the fragrance of lilacs. Her lingerie was a chaotic heap of silk and cotton. He noticed most of the sexier scraps still had the tags. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers, then brought a simple, white cotton pair to his face and breathed deep. Milo closed his eyes. What would the panties smell like flooded with her scent? He inhaled again, then neatly folded the garment and replaced it in the drawer.
With one final glance around the room and his hand firmly gripping his erection, he slipped down the hall to Twitch’s spare room and settled on the twin bed to wait.
An hour later, Milo heard the front door open. He exited the game he had been playing on his phone and sat up. Twitch was home. He stood, cracked the door, and pressed his ear to the gap. The sounds matched the movements he had noted while observing her: the beep of the alarm keypad, the refrigerator door opening, the microwave humming. Strangely, he heard her voice. He couldn’t make out the words, and there was no response. Was she on the phone? Did his little hacker talk to herself?
The front door opened and closed. Damnit. Where was she going? She rarely went out at night. Milo crossed the room and peered out the dormer. The window faced the wrong direction. With a calming breath, he took a seat at the small desk. Everything was fine. She probably just ran to the store. Even if she was meeting her obnoxious gaggle of friends, she would return eventually.
Twenty minutes later, the door opened again. Milo’s head shot up. His prediction of a quick errand had been correct. His pulse spiked, and he started to rise from the chair. Marshaling his control, he sat. If her schedule held true, which it would, Twitch would work on her laptop while she ate some reheated junk, then, depending on her mood, she would either play MagiCraft or watch ridiculous reality TV. Milo pulled out his phone and tapped the little skull and crossbones icon. Twitch’s laptop image filled his screen. He smirked. His little demon was working like a charm.
Milo nearly fell asleep watching Twitch online shop. When the screen went dark, his ears perked. Ah, so MagiCraft it was. God, he wanted to sneak out, peer through the window, and watch her play. Her avatar was a green fairy warrior with orange hair and massive wings. She was, as expected, an exceptional player. Milo closed his eyes and pictured the avatar felling trolls and stealing potions. He heard Twitch speak.
“Come on,” she said. Then, “Good girl.”
Milo suppressed a chuckle. No doubt she had lured an unsuspecting devil witch into a trap.
An hour later, the house was quiet, and through the gap in the door, Milo saw the downstairs lights go off. He desperately wanted to see her, watch her climb the stairs, shed her clothes, and slip into the shower. Silently turning the knob, he closed the door. Patience. He had been delaying his gratification for this long; he wasn’t going to blow it in the final stretch.
The shower stopped, the lights went out, the house fell silent.
It was nearly time.
Milo paused at Twitch’s open door, spying her sleeping form. He had waited so long. Gripping the handle of the knife at his waist, Milo stepped into the bedroom.
Twitch awoke. Had her alarm beeped? The room was empty and still. Or was it?
She heard a noise, the creak of a floorboard.
Scanning the space for the source, Twitch froze. By the door, a silhouetted form of a man appeared.
The man stepped closer. She shrank back and said, “What do you want?”
He smiled and pulled a handkerchief knotted in the center from his pocket, a makeshift gag. “I want to take my time.”
Twitch felt more than heard the rumbling at her feet.
Before she could scream or lunge for her phone, a streak of black shot across the bed. Coco, Tox and Calliope’s eighty-pound rottweiler, lunged at the man clamping her massive jaws onto his shoulder and bringing him to the floor. The intruder screamed, pushing and kicking at the dog. He shoved the animal away and scrambled to his feet, staggering to the bedroom door and grabbing blindly for the knob.
Twitch grabbed her phone, activated the emergency signal to the Bishop Security team, and called 9-1-1. Coco continued her attack, biting the man’s calf through the fabric of his black joggers. He cried out again, pulled open the door, and tore his leg from the dog’s mouth. Coco gave chase as the intruder stumbled down the stairs. The front door flew open, and the burglar alarm blared. She cautiously made her way to the top of the stairs. Coco remained on the threshold, barking and snarling, as the attacker fled into the night.
Halfway down the steps, Twitch collapsed with a hand over her belly. With a final threatening bark, Coco turned and met her dog sitter. Twitch smoothed the fur standing straight up on Coco’s back and snuggled into the dog’s neck. With paws astride her trembling legs, Coco licked Twitch’s face. Through the front door, she saw Chat’s jeep screech to a halt, two tires on the curb.
Her friends were coming. Everything would be okay. An image of Finn flashed in her mind. Despite everything, Twitch couldn’t suppress an undeniable longing. She wished he were here.