Warm air wheezed from the side vents, what should’ve been cold air almost the same scorching temperature as outside the crappy-ass car. Using the hem of my cotton T-shirt, I swiped away the trails of sweat from my temples and relaxed against the seat, adjusting on the worn cloth to get comfortable after sitting for so long in the same position. Watching through the cracked tint of the driver’s side window, I studied the few families who pushed full baskets along the car-lined aisles and others who weaved between cars, hurrying for the front entrance of the massive supercenter that held anything and everything a person could want or need.
Tapping the bottom of the soft pack, I plucked a cigarette free and leaned forward to manually roll down the window, lighting the end with Dad’s old Zippo before taking a deep hit. Lids half closed, still monitoring the busy parking lot, I savored the burn in my lungs, remembering all those nights smoking with Dad, talking about the day.
Attention still partially on the older-model gray sedan parked three cars down and across the row from where I waited, I stretched over the center console and swiped the worn paper off the passenger seat. Inhaling another deep drag, I glared at the list of names written in my handwriting, the holes and thick lines displaying the anger coursing through me when I wrote them. The same rage that rolled through my veins as I sneered at the names.
They were why I was alone. Why I had zero fucking family left to call my own.
Before, it was a way to play with my obsessions, to have them once before moving on to the next who caught my attention. Then as months passed, it was fun seeing how many I could have without getting caught. I was too clever, smarter than the forensic team in this shit city, than all the cops and detectives assigned to those cases.
Fifteen women and they still didn’t have a damn clue who I was.
I should’ve become a cop like Dad wanted,” I huffed around the filter between my lips.
Maybe then they’d have fewer cold cases, never solved because of gross incompetence. They could use someone like me who knew how to watch from the shadows without being seen for months, who could memorize every detail of a target’s routine and life. But instead of using that honed skill to help find justice for victims, I chose to channel it toward making more.
Like now, as I sat in my shit car waiting to catch a glimpse of the next name on the list ready to be marked off.
Soon.
First, I needed to learn her routine all over again. Understand who she was after four years of us being apart before snuffing her out like I should’ve done all those years ago. None of them deserved to move on from me, to live happy, fulfilling lives. Not when mine was ruined because of them. Destroyed after what I had to do to the only person who ever loved me unconditionally.
Well, unconditionally until realizing his son was the serial rapist who’d terrorized the greater LA area for years. The list of names crumpled beneath my tightening hold as an all-too-familiar anger raced through my veins. It happened every time I remembered the look of disgust, then shock that registered on Dad’s face that night in the high beams of the car’s headlights.
They made me do it. They were why I was without him.
After that night, all alone in our home, I knew those bitches needed to pay the ultimate price. Without the access to find them again, it took months to locate them all and form a plan before I made my move on the first.
Oh, I had my fun with her before dumping her like the trash she was.
Then the next two followed, and it was just as exciting to steal their fight and drain any ounce of hope of survival. The few weeks I spent with each one I’d no doubt remember for the rest of my life, though the videos would help if I ever started to forget the finer details, like how their screams echoed off the basement walls and their fight turned to begging after days alone with me.
Now it was time for the next one on the list.
Calista Hart.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the sedan’s partially rusted trunk popping open as if triggered remotely. A wave of excitement had me sitting up straighter in the seat, wedging the cigarette butt through the cracked window and folding both forearms on top of the steering wheel as a familiar figure drew closer. Her long, brilliant blonde hair flashed in the afternoon sun, drawing the attention of every male to the model gracing their presence. Fuck. I inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring with the memories of her tied up beneath me. She was still just as beautiful as back then, the sole reason she’d attracted my obsession in the first place.
Images of her in my basement, getting to feel her again as many times as I wanted before doing away with her, came to a grinding halt at movement in the seat of the barely filled cart. My grip tightened around the steering wheel. A mop of blonde curls, porcelain skin just like her mother’s, and chubby arms waved all around, making Calista laugh so loud that it carried through the parking lot and into my car.
A baby.
No, a toddler.
Gaze focused on the two of them through my windshield, I absentmindedly tugged at my curly dirty-blond hair. Hair that looked too similar to the little girl holding Calista’s attention.
Mouth suddenly too dry to swallow, I barely breathed as Calista Hart placed the meager groceries into the trunk, keeping one hand wrapped around her daughter’s foot the entire time.
At this distance, there was no way to make out the child’s features or even the color of her eyes, but the warmth pooling in my chest said I knew the answer to the question I couldn’t get out of my head.
Mine.
Her child had to be mine.
I didn’t have a damn clue what age she must be, but if I had to bet, I’d put my money on four. Which lined up exactly to when I’d visited Calista that amazing night in her home, when I’d allowed all my fantasies of us together to come true.
Eyes gritty with the need to blink, I forced my lids to remain open and not miss a minute of my beautiful family loading into the car, and I continued watching as they drove away. Once the car turned, disappearing down the row of vehicles, I deflated against the seat. Unfolding the crumpled list, I stared at the names. Fingers searching, I pulled a pen out of the center console, bit off the cap, and ever so gently circled Calista’s name.
She was special now. They were special, not deserving of my wrath like the others.
Calista Hart had no idea how lucky she was.
Now she wouldn’t suffer and die in pain by my hands, serving my own form of justice for what they took from me.
Calista and our daughter would be mine soon.
A happy family.
Forever.