The days following the event passed in a strange haze. Becker had somehow inserted herself into my thoughts, not in an intrusive way, but in a way that I couldn't quite shake off. She wasn't like the others. There was something about her—something warm, something real.
But real didn't belong in my world.
I let her linger in my messages, in the quiet moments when I wasn't thinking about my work. I even entertained the idea of responding to her quicker than I usually would. A distraction? Maybe. A useful connection? Perhaps. Either way, I wasn't in a hurry to push her away.
Still, I had other matters to focus on. My patience was thinning.
Cooper was still making headlines. His face stared back at me from the glowing TV screen in my apartment, his wide, toothy smile a stark contrast to the way I had last seen him. The news anchor droned on about possible leads, about authorities asking for any information regarding his whereabouts. A missing person. A lost soul.
But I knew exactly where he was.
Or rather, what was left of him.
I turned the volume up, listening carefully as they speculated about his last known location. A bar. A night out. A friend who claimed he left alone. No security footage of him ever getting into a car. No signs of struggle.
They had nothing.
I smirked to myself, swirling the coffee in my mug as the report ended. The world would move on. They always did. A few more days, maybe a week, and Cooper would become another unsolved case, another whisper in the city's long list of forgotten mysteries.
And that's when I'd strike again.
I already had my eyes set on the next one.
Claire.
I had first noticed her a few days ago, sitting in a quiet little café, completely lost in a book. Something about her had caught my eye immediately—the way she seemed so unaware of the world around her, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear in the same absentminded manner every time she turned a page.
She was predictable.
And predictability made things easy.
I had started watching her, mapping out her schedule like an artist preparing a blank canvas. She always came to the café at the same time, ordered the same drink, sat by the same window. When she wasn't at the café, she was at work—some generic office job that made it easy for her to blend into the background. No boyfriend. No close family nearby.
No one would notice when she was gone.
I didn't rush it. I took my time. This time, I would be more meticulous, more methodical. Cooper had been a test run—an experiment, a taste of what I could do.
Claire would be different.
Claire would be perfect.
I followed her from a distance, never too close, never too obvious. I learned the way she walked, the places she frequented, the little habits she had that made her human. She never locked her car doors immediately after getting in. She always had her headphones on, music too loud to hear anything around her. She took the same route home every night.
She was making it too easy.
But I waited.
And in the meantime, I allowed myself to live in the illusion of normalcy.
Becker messaged me again, asking if I wanted to meet up for coffee. I hesitated before responding, telling her I was busy but that we could plan for another day. She seemed excited at the idea, and I didn't mind the way her texts made me feel—lighter, almost.
It was dangerous, entertaining this side of me. The side that could hold a normal conversation, that could pretend to be interested in weekend plans and casual outings. But maybe it wasn't all bad. Maybe it would help.
After all, everyone needed a mask to wear.
Days passed. I continued my routine, balancing between two lives—one with Becker, where I played the part of someone ordinary, and the other with Claire, where I watched, waited, and planned.
And then the night came.
I knew it was time.
Claire had stayed late at work, leaving the office building after almost everyone else. The streets were quieter, the usual flow of people reduced to a trickle. She was alone. She looked tired.
And she was completely unaware of the fact that she was being hunted.
I followed her, keeping my distance, waiting for the right moment. The alley near her apartment complex was dimly lit, a perfect blind spot from the main street cameras. She walked past it every night.
This time, she wouldn't make it to the other side.
I reached into my pocket, fingers brushing against the cold, damp cloth of the chloroform-soaked rag.
Tonight, she was mine.