I can only look away when a server comes up with a towel and starts cleaning up my mess.
“Oh god, I’m sorry. Here, I can help.” I reach for the towel.
But she only smiles back and says, “All good, happens all the time.” And that’s my cue.
I shove my phone in my pocket and speed walk down the street, away from the eyes of a killer that I can feel boring a hole in my back.
I spend the rest of that night on the floor of my bedroom with a chef’s knife in one hand and a hammer in the other. Waiting. Anticipating. Staring at my locked door. He never comes.
But the next morning, call it determination or call it sleep deprivation, I am ready to do this the right way. Or at least the best way I know how.
Trying my best to ignore my coffee shop disaster of yesterday, I settle into a window seat of a neighboring bookstore. I even buy a few non-fiction books, and I brought a notebook to make it look like I'm studying. I need a better reason for sitting here for potentially hours than scrolling on my phone. I need to blend in. Become so average and boring, nobody will remember me.
Safely behind the glass, I can watch the doors to both the restaurant and the apartment. My pulse spikes every time the apartment door opens, and each time it’s not him, I get this sinking feeling. I don’t know if it's a relief or disappointment.
When he finally does appear, I feel as if every nerve in my body jumps to attention. He’s talking on the phone, but I can’t hear him. I pack up my things, slip on a baseball cap, and remove the sweatshirt I’d been wearing, stuffing that in my bag as well.
A white brunette in leggings and a matching sports bra exits the building a few moments after him, and I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach when he gives her a hug and kiss on the cheek. She waves goodbye with a giddy pep in her step, and he waves back, all without pausing his call. There’s a roiling in my gut at thefuck-meeyes she gives him, and I wonder, would she still look at him like that if she knew? Would she still be able to stand his hands on her if she knew all the blood that stains them?
Slow and unrushed, I walk out of the bookstore while pretending to be texting, keeping my head down, but my eyes are glued to him under the brim of my hat. He paces on the sidewalk while he talks. I can make out the deep, authoritative tenor of his voice, but not what he’s saying. And I can’t risk getting closer, not after yesterday. He’s seen my face. At least I was wearing sunglasses.
Did he recognize me? Does he remember the way my body jolted and spasmed before I fell to the ground? Did he see enough of my face as I fought for consciousness, cheek squished to the pavement? Did he pay me any mind as he slaughtered Beth?
I wonder how long I can stand out here pretending to text before it gets suspicious. He never looks directly at me, but he does continuously scan his surroundings with subtle sweeps of his gaze. I’m hoping the lamppost I’m leaning against is doing enough to block any recognizable features.
He pulls a cigarette from behind his ear, and I bite my lip to keep from squealing in satisfaction. I came prepared for this very moment.
I grow anxious as the cigarette smolders shorter. He finishes his call at the same time he flicks the cigarette butt to the ground. Then he strides right toward me.
I slide around the lamppost so my back is facing him, my heart racing and begging me to jump behind one of the cars parked along the street. But I have to keep it together, and playing hide-and-seek on the sidewalk isn’t exactly normal. I use the selfie feature on my phone camera to watch over my shoulder. I melt against the post in relief when I see him get in a black BMW sedan.
He wasn’t striding toward me, he was striding to his car.
Feeling like I just won the lottery with that close call, I bounce on my heels until he drives away. As soon as his car is out of sight, I run across the street and kneel down as if to tie my shoe. But instead of tying my shoe, I slip a small, plastic bag over my hand and pick up the cigarette butt.
Gotcha, bastard.
1.like that—Bea Miller | SummerOtoole.com/Playlists
Chapter four
Villain Origin Story
Cash
30hoursearlier
1The stairwell has that musty, wet-cement smell that old industrial buildings get when it rains. I’m tempted to run the rest of the way, hoping that he hasn’t died yet. But I need to keep my heart rate down if I’m going to go about this methodically. You can’t rush excellence.
And I only accept excellence, especially when it comes to inflicting pain.
We reach the door to the roof, and I pull Roan back by the collar. “If you’re gonna puke again, stay the fuck back. I don’t want anyone seeing that weak-ass shit.”
“I won’t,” he grinds out through a clenched jaw. “It’s not like he’s going to live to tell anyone.” He scoffs, and I sock him in the stomach.
“That’s not the fucking point.” I push past him and swing open the door. Cold wind whips my face, and I get that sweet, tingling sensation in my hands I always get before an execution. My fingers are literally itching to get started.
This is the culmination of a ten-year hunt.