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Angry shouting filters in from the apartment across the hall. Curses tumble from my mouth as I check my alarm clock: 10:59 AM. The perpetrators are Alex Harris, the resident tweaker, and his drug dealer. One of them, at least. I have tried to talk to Nancy about him, but she gives him a free pass because he—somehow—always pays his rent on time. I’ve even tried to talk to Alex myself, but he’s always too high to have a conversation.
I’m at my wit’s end—and I’m starting to get a littlestab happy.
But I can’t shit where I sleep, so I throw on some clothes and storm out of my apartment. I cross the hall and bang on Alex’s door. “What the hell is going on in there?!” I shout, my old southern lilt creeping in.
Ugh. It reminds me of my tyrannical mother.
And that just makes me even angrier.
The door opens a crack, and Alex’s bloodshot eyes peer out. “What do you want?”
“Could you please keep it down?” I say in the blandest, most basic of American accents I’ve perfected over the years. “Some people are trying?—”
“I’m busy,” he snaps, slamming the door in my face.
Anger has me clenching my fists as I head back inside my apartment. Sitting on the couch doesn’t help me calm down; I can still hear Alex’s stupid fucking voice. I want nothing more right now than to cut him in half and dispose of his body somewhere in the park. But I stow away my rage, trudging to the bathroom before stripping off my pajama sweatpants.
I turn on the shower and step in without waiting for it to warm up. Eventually, the water becomes hot and I let it soothe my back, unwinding any knots. I stay in longer than usual, leaning my head against the tile wall, imagining Alex choking on his own blood from the slashes on his neck.
After rinsing, I turn off the shower and grab my threadbare towel from the rack. I dry off and head to my bedroom, putting on the first clean shirt and jeans I see. Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I notice my natural brown roots beginning to show and make a mental note to buy more black hair dye.
I put on my fake prescription glasses and plaster on a friendly smile. These days, I’m Blake Sullivan, copy editor for the Fallbank Chronicle. I’m finally putting my degree to good use. It’s an excellent cover; no one would suspect the quiet and humble editor of the local newspaper to be a serial killer. He’s talented, but not overly confident enough to stick out like a sore thumb. He doesn’t have any tattoos or piercings—nothing that will stand out.
Thoroughly average. A complete square.
Not like my beloved Gwendoline Cirillo—or Mia Underwood, her current chosen persona. I have been hunting her across the northeast for some time now, but she is unaware of my pursuit. Despite changing identities almost as much as I do, she’s still Cameron’s magnetic, beautiful daughter. She can’t fool me, and she cannot escape me this time.
From the moment I saw her all those years ago, I knew she was mine. Her secret can’t stay hidden forever. She is a woman whose darkness matches my own. I will never let her go—because people like us are meant to be together.
One day, she’ll surely understand.
I’ll make her understand.
I pad to the kitchen, my stomach rumbling. Opening the refrigerator, I’m met with a disappointing sight: a half-eaten pizza, wilted lettuce, and a carton of milk about to expire. I sigh and close the door, opting for toast instead.
Helping my dear Gwen move her boxes into her apartment made her so grateful, so happy. Seeing her smile is like witnessing the first bloom of blood from a freshly cut artery. Euphoric, exhilarating. I spent the evening watching her. She almost caught me, but that was on purpose. I wanted to plant a seed of unease in her.
I watched as she undressed, her breasts bouncing as she removed her bra. She is a goddess, perfection carved in marble. And her tattoo, which spans her upper back and part of her shoulders, is very telling. It’s a bird, but I am unsure of what kind. I’m not even sure if she knows, either. Her desire to escape her past and rebel led her to get it in Massachusetts while inebriated with friends.
As my breakfast erupts from the toaster, it comes to me.
Little Finch.
And unlike the Little Bunny, I won’t let this precious creature go extinct.
I drive to the pawn shop on the outskirts of downtown and park. I can’t take any chances that Gwen will see me—at least not yet. After securing my car, I make my way to Tetra Brew to fuel up. Standing in line, I can’t help but long for the diner I used to frequent back in Vermont. Mackay’s was always busy, but never too crowded. Their grub wasn’t the best, but there’s something about small-town food joints that just hits differently.
Finally, it’s my turn to order. I choose iced coffee and a blueberry muffin. The barista quickly prepares my order, and I find a table by the window to watch the people walking by. I sip my coffee and contain the smirk that threatens to tug at my lips; the residents of Fallbank have no idea what’s in store for them.
Because I’ll be making headlines they’llneverforget.
Feeling refreshed and invigorated, I rise from my chair—and then I see her passing by the window. She doesn’t notice me staring, her brows scrunched in concentration as she power-walks to her destination. I wait a moment before departing Tetra Brew, tailing Gwen as she crosses the street and enters Epic Flix Rentals. Vaguely, I wonder if her other attempts at employment didn’t pan out. I know this because earlier, I slipped inside her apartment and snooped before leaving.
Then I wait. And watch.
When the owner, Brian MacDonald, inches too close to her for comfort, my nostrils flare. I take a deep breath and collect myself, pushing down the murderous urges that bubble up, and head over. Inside, a girl named Zoey, as per her nametag, greets me with a cheeky smile behind the counter. I pause, observing how Gwen stands her ground against the taller, chunkier man, despite her smaller stature.
As expected from the daughter of the Lakestone Reaper.
