The killer’s heart beat faster, thinking about it. It was all coming together beautifully. What a pleasure it would be to turn the tables on this man.
The killer followed him, staying in the shadows. Turning a corner, the manager shambled toward the small office. The killer was close behind.
The manager was strolling along, unworried. A little high, but not suspicious. Maybe he was thinking of the girl. But she was nothing to him. His squeeze toy. A means to an end. It was a violation. And that’s what he was. A violator.
Rage surged in the killer at the unfairness of the situation. There was only one way to make it right and it needed to be done.
The manager stopped by the beer barrels, tapping his fingers on the tops of the drums. He did it in an absent way, a distracted way.
Four yellow tops. Perfect. The man didn’t even notice that one was already loosened and ready. He wasn’t thinking of his job. Why would he? He was not that caliber of man. He was getting high, and most likely thinking of the woman.
Only she was not his, and never would be. And in a few more minutes, he would never see her again.
He stood there, his back turned, smoking his joint. Then, satisfied that all was as it should be, he turned to the door and went inside.
Soon, the killer thought. Soon.
The manager sat down heavily at the desk and pulled out the forms he needed for his records.
He reached for a pen, took a swig of his coffee, then he began to tap on his laptop and write on the forms. In the quietness of the warehouse, the rattle of the keyboard and the scratching of the pen on paper sounded loud.
Gripping the wrench tightly, the killer smiled.