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"I should have punished her worse," he muttered, his mind veering back unexpectedly to the asset that had escaped at midnight last night. By a massive stroke of luck, she’d run into his dwelling quarters, and not straight to the outside door. He'd gone after her, chased her down, grabbed her, knocked her out, and hauled her back to where he needed her.
It was clear, though, that she was a renegade. That made her dangerous. What if she couldn’t be controlled?
But she was the most beautiful and something about her expressive eyes, that perfect, heart shaped face and flawless skin, had stayed his hand even as he decided to get rid of her.
He'd paused, waited, and then the moment was past, and the rage was over, and instead, it had been replaced with thoughts about what would happen when the apocalypse was over and it was time to repopulate the human race. Then, he knew, his decision to keep her would be wise, and lustful feelings rushed through his mind about how he would use his power over her.
It was not time for that yet, though. He couldn't afford to do that until the first step of his mission was complete. Until then, violence alone must rule him. Violence and cunning. That was all he had on his list for now.
But he was planning. Frantically. He was stocking up, doing what he needed to do. He, and he alone, could stand against the apocalypse to come. And he was going to prevail.
He wheeled his cart out to his car.
Grimly, he unloaded the groceries into the trunk, running the list through his mind of what else he would need. His mind was already racing, already calculating what he needed to do next. Thinking ahead was a talent he had that had served him well.
There was already a stockpile in his secret bunker and underground quarters. He'd chosen a place where he knew he could keep his assets secure, even if someone should pass close by. But that was unlikely.
The survivalist had surveyed the area months ago when he first thought that he might need the space. He'd chosen the most remote place he could and then taken action, building something unique that he hoped would withstand the annihilation that was in all of their future.
And now, he was glad he had.
He had a secret place deep in the woods. A place that only he knew about. It was the only spot he felt safe leaving his precious assets. It was still a work in progress, but it would be strong, solid, and sealed when the worst happened.
It was going to be his final stronghold, and he would stand to save the human race from extinction there.
The survivalist smiled grimly, imagining what it would be like to be the one to claim the earth. To be the one to stand at the top with the ultimate power. To be the one to decide who would live and who would die.
A shiver of excitement went through him.
The parking lot was busy now, and he knew the inside of the store would be filled with the happy people of this town, buying last minute items. Eating meat pies and sweets and laughing.
They were ignorant and unaware. He started his car and pulled away from the store, driving carefully.
He was not ignorant. He was fully aware. His mission would be for the good of the human race, even though he knew it would be hard and brutal. It was his destiny.
Thinking of the future, violence flaring in his mind, he drove.
CHAPTER TWELVE
May felt her heart speed up as if they were on the verge of a breakthrough while sitting in the small lounge and speaking to this grieving parent. Mrs. Sandler might hold the key that would allow them to give a name and a face to this violent criminal.
"Who do Giselle and Chloe have in common?" she asked.
"I really don't know if this is going to be helpful," Mrs. Sandler said, and May could see she was now feeling hesitant and doubtful. This was understandable. It was a big step for someone in a small community to point a finger at someone else and, basically, send the police their way to question them about a murder.
Especially seeing the parents had thought until now that this was a jewelry robbery gone wrong, it must be difficult for Mrs. Sandler to think otherwise. And to actually acknowledge that someone her daughter knew might have killed her.
May reached out, gently touching the distressed mother's hand.
"I am so sorry for what you're going through. But I need you to help me," she said. "It's okay to give a name. Remember, it doesn't automatically mean this person is guilty. It simply gives us a new direction to go in our questioning."
Owen cleared his throat and May saw, gratefully, that he was going to help reassure her.
"It's sometimes friends or associates of individuals that do such a thing," he explained. "Sometimes, all that a name will do is help us follow the links until we reach the right person. You’re not doing anything wrong. Whoever you’re thinking of might be glad to speak to us if they’ve been feeling the need to say something."
Still, May could see that Mrs. Sandler was battling, feeling overwhelmed by the shocking turn this situation had taken.
And then she glanced at a photo of Giselle on the mantelpiece. Looking at the smiling, dark-haired portrait seemed to give her the courage she needed.
