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And that serial killer, the one the cops can’t find? It could be any of them. It could be Barry or the next man who hurts a woman.
My mind starts to wonder about the man in the hood. What was he doing there? Was he at the club? Did he hear me and offer help?
Why would he want to help, anyway? Men don’t help girls like me. They say we’re asking for it. We don’t matter. Why would I matter to him?
What if he’s just like Barry, only pretending to be a good Samaritan?
Glancing at my rearview mirror, I look at the cars behind me, wondering if he’s there. Doubt it though. I’m sure he left long before I got into my vehicle.
Barry only lives thirty minutes out of the city, and when I pull up to a small ranch with a wraparound fence, I find one car parked in front of it. His car. The one I saw him drive off in. The house isn’t in the best condition: a broken shutter, slightly overgrown grass, a piece of the fence missing.
He clearly doesn’t worry about taking care of his things. Doesn’t surprise me.
Parking a couple of homes away, I slowly get out, looking all around, not seeing anyone in the vicinity.
When I start for his house, my body quivering with nerves, a light suddenly turns on through his window.
I freeze in place. Pressing my body flat against the shrub in his front yard, I see him moving sluggishly, like he’s still in pain.
Which, of course, thrills me. There’s something about hurting him that excites me. When he shuts the light off, I release a breath of relief and start closer toward the side door.
Not sure what the plan is. But before I know it, I’m opening the door. Of course the idiot left it unlocked. He isn’t afraid of monsters. Because he is one.
I stride gradually through the dark kitchen, a counter to my right and a small foyer straight ahead. A groan comes through, and I follow the sound, tiptoeing forward.
That’s when I see him lying on the sofa, his wound now wrapped, a beer resting on his belly. Another empty one on a pizza box on the floor.
The TV is on low, but I’m not paying attention to anything buthim and the knife in my hand, which is somehow already clutched in my grasp.
I move slowly. Like a gazelle. But my predator doesn’t see me. And if I have it my way, he won’t until it’s too late. I’m right behind him now. But he has no idea what’s about to happen.
He shifts and it startles me, but I stay fastened in place while he begins flipping through the channels. As he does…
“What the fuck?” he snaps.
His mind can’t catch up with what just happened, and neither can mine. My blade’s jammed into the side of his throat, not an inch of it visible.
He jerks up his eyes to find me looming over him.
“You?” he groans, terror there as he tries to yank the knife out.
I grin and help him.
Blood shoots out of the cut.
He lets out a scream, trying to stop the bleeding, but it does him no good.
Pity.
It leaks out like a slow-moving faucet while I step back and watch. I expect to feel something—disgust at this much blood, some kind of sympathy—but I feel nothing but joy.
“You—you won’t g-get away with this…” The last few words sound like a strangled whisper as he starts to collapse to the floor.
“Of course I will…”
Eyes opened, he’s staring at the ceiling, crimson pooling around the pizza box, his body now on it.
I continue to look down at him until so much time passes that I don’t realize I’ve been here for an hour. If not for a car rolling down loudly on the street, I wouldn’t have glanced at my phone.
