Dark Pursuit

“I see.”

He looked down on her with heavy-lidded eyes. “I’ve been doing a little checking on you.”

Her breathing hitched.

The chief sniffed, and his large nostrils flared. “Seems you’ve done some time. For drugs.”

She should leave this party now. Just walk home.

The chief raised his thick finger and pointed at her. “I don’t like that kind of background dating my son. You could bring him down. And I won’t let that happen. He’s going to be chief some day.”

Kaitlan swallowed.

“Unfortunately I can’t control my grown son’s choices.” The chief gave Kaitlan a penetrating look. “I raised him. Now he’s his own man. He’s going to do what he’s going to do.”

His gaze dumped ice in the pit of her stomach. What was he really saying?

“So I’m telling you, Kaitlan. Watch yourself. Don’t do anything, don’t say anything that would give Craig trouble.” He thrust his head forward—and for one second fear gripped his features. “Am I making myself clear, young lady?”

Kaitlan had gone numb.

He knows.

The hard, meaningful stare screamed his story—sleepless nights, the decisions he’d made, and chances he’d taken to sweep his son’s guilt under the rug.

Craig must have told his father she’d found out. Driven by the fear of being caught, he’d confessed he’d killed again—and begged his dad to help him keep her quiet …

How easily they could. Given her history, one planted package of drugs in her car could send her away for years.

Or worse. Craig would kill her.

“Kaitlan. Answer me.”

She willed full understanding into her expression. “Yes, you’ve made yourself clear. Completely.”

Chief Barlow pulled back with a slow smile of satisfaction. He nodded once and raised his bottle of beer in a toast.

“Enjoy the party.”

OBSESSION

twenty-five

My first kill happened the night of a party.

A friend of mine and his wife found out she was pregnant. They were ecstatic after trying for over three years. His wife wanted to wait to tell people until she was sure the pregnancy would last. Women always seem to be more cautious about such things than men. My friend—forget it. He wanted to tell the world. And he did.

That weekend they threw the celebration. “Everybody, come over! Bring a bottle of wine, let’s celebrate!”

Of course I went. Of course I was happy for them. Bringing a baby into this world. Messed up as it is. Going to hell as it is.

You can always hope. Maybe redemption’s out there somewhere.

It had been a week since I bought the fabric. I was still running on automatic, my insides twisted and waiting for … something.

At the party I watched his wife, knowing she shouldn’t be drinking. The thought of alcohol mixing into that tiny little baby’s blood made my own boil. You don’t mess with kids. You don’t want to screw their lives up—before they’re born or after. They just might turn into something you wouldn’t like.

She drank three glasses of wine.

At her first sip I told her she shouldn’t. “It’s not good for the baby. All the warnings tell you not to drink.”

She grinned at me and raised her glass. “I know!But it’s only tonight. I’m so happy. Just one night won’t hurt.”

How do you know?

After that I moved through the house like a robot. I did everything right. Talked to people, raised toasts to the parents-to-be. But every move I made, every word I spoke tremored with vibrations from that new mom. Even with my back to her, I knew where she was at all times. I felt her walk, sit down on the couch, get up. I swear I could even hear her think. When she touched her husband, I was aware. When she leaned against the kitchen counter, I felt the tiles under my own palms.

Every time she took a drink, it burned my throat.

Weird, I thought, as I stood in the corner of the living room, watching her. What was happening to me? Since when did I feel so in tune with a pregnant woman?

Only then did the realization hit me. It wasn’t the mom I identified with.

By the time I left the party—early—I wanted to kill that new mother. Wanted to feel my hands around her throat. Watch the life choke out of her. Wanted to see in her eyes the regret, the guilt over her supreme selfishness.

I drove the streets randomly, chaotically, not wanting to go home. Knowing I would only claw the walls if I did. But I didn’t understand what was happening inside me. As if the cloth thing a week ago hadn’t been enough. Now a ball burned in my stomach, churning, churning. Felt like the Hyde coming out of Jekyll. Memories of childhood and my mother flashed in my head. Memories of Dad. I didn’t know why, didn’t understand how they were connected.

It was barely ten o’clock.

I drove along the south end of town. Saw a woman coming out of a bar. Alone. No one else was in the parking lot. She vaguely resembled my friend’s wife. Medium-length brown hair. About the same build, same height. A small purse slung on her shoulder. She had a haughty walk, as if saying to the world, “I’ll do as I please, just see if you can stop me.”

Everything in my being fastened on that woman. My hands gripped the steering wheel, my eyes glued to her. I watched her cross toward a car and get in. Throw her purse on the passenger seat.

And then I knew what I would do.

My body relaxed. I fell into a state of heightened numbness, if that makes any sense. Very aware but emotions turned off. Except for a vague anticipation in carrying out justice.

How I would go about my business I didn’t know. Somehow. That night. Before the woman got home.

I would follow her.

Sometimes the world turns on its axis right. Sometimes it gives up the deserving.

The woman’s car wouldn’t start.

I drove up beside her and offered help. Told her who I was. Who wouldn’t trust me?

“I have Triple A,” she said. “I’ll call for a tow truck.”

“Let me take you home. You don’t want to be waiting out here in the dark. Tomorrow’s Sunday anyway. It’s safer to take care of this in the daylight.”

“Okay.”

Just like that—“Okay.”

She picked up her purse, locked her car doors, and slid into my passenger seat. Told me where she lived.

We talked as I drove. I asked if she had children. A young daughter, she told me.

“Oh. Who’s watching her now?”

“Her grandmother.”

Her grandmother. While Mom went out to bars.

The ball in my stomach flamed.

“You lived here long?” I asked.

“No.”