TAMED | FREENBECKY

36

The cops had been watching him for at least eleven days now, maybe longer. Kirk noticed them first while sitting at the coffee shop near Rebecca Armstrong's apartment, two men in the dark sedan who sat parked nearby. They watched him without watching, obvious in the way law-enforcement types always seemed to be. They clearly underestimated his intelligence, because after he picked them out the first time, they were consistently easy to spot.

Kirk didn't let on that he knew. Since they'd already seen him visit the coffee shop, he continued his daily trips. He stuck to the habits that wouldn't incriminate him, not wanting a change in behavior to raise any alarm. It was better for him if they didn't know he realized they were watching. He figured if they thought he was ignorantly doing nothing wrong, maybe they would look elsewhere.

They had to have a reason for placing him under surveillance. But no matter how many times he retraced his movements and actions over the past couple of months, he couldn't figure out how they knew who he was. He'd given Becca his first name, but he couldn't imagine that would be enough to find him. He wasn't on anyone's radar. No criminal record, nothing to suggest anything off about him.

The timing was suspicious—he'd spotted his surveillance detail not long after that damn dog had chased him away from Becca's apartment. He hadn't left any evidence behind. He hadn't spotted any potential witnesses during his escape. Despite his failure to get to Becca, the mission hadn't been a total disaster. He'd gotten away without being seen.

But his head hadn't been right since that night, and he was starting to second-guess his instincts, maybe even his sanity. Because as angry as he was, he still didn't understand where his little dog had gone.

He remembered being enraged, knowing he would take it out on the dog, who ran under the bed and hid. And then the dog was gone. Disappeared.

Now the cops were tailing him. That meant he'd done something wrong, even if he couldn't figure out what. Maybe he was losing it—maybe he'd made a mistake with one of the bodies, or with that phone call to Rebecca Armstrong. His present. The clue. He'd gotten cocky. Over-confident. Most regretfully, he'd become obsessed.

He was positive he wasn't leaving behind any usable evidence at his scenes or on his victims. His biggest risks were when he attempted contact with Becca. That's when he bent his self-imposed rules, the basic tenets to which he'd sworn to adhere lest he be caught. Be smart about forensic science. Don't make hair evidence available, so shave your head, eyebrows, and body. Don't take trophies. Don't stash evidence. Use a new weapon every time. Above all else, don't do anything stupid. Act from the brain and not the heart.

With Becca he'd thrown not being stupid out the window. When he'd imagined this game before it started, he fantasized about leaving a trail of victims behind him, perpetually unknown, slipping out of the shadows only to kill before disappearing into them once again. As soon as he attacked Becca the morning of his first kill, he'd changed the game. He'd allowed his desire to inflict fear and pain on Dr. Rebecca Armstrong to overwhelm his sense of caution and his intelligence.

Not anymore.

Kirk didn't plan on getting caught. Tonight, two detectives were parked outside his apartment building, but tomorrow was a new day. He'd leave tonight, go somewhere else. Do what he loved to do but make it about himself next time—not about some goddamn best-selling author / forensic pathologist. Just about him and the women he chose, the ritual, the pleasure it gave him.

He'd get back to the basics.

Just as soon as he finished here.

Kirk couldn't just leave Rebecca Armstrong without some kind of closure. He wasn't suicidal—going after Becca directly was no longer an option. It was too dangerous when the cops had their eye on both of them. So his original endgame was, tragically, aborted.

But that didn't mean he couldn't still pull off a closing move with a flourish.

A couple of days before he discovered the cops' presence, Kirk had been doing his own surveillance of Becca's block, noting the comings and goings at her apartment. To his surprise, her old friend showed up. Freen, according to the mail he'd intercepted one day at her house. Kirk had written off their relationship as over after their shouting match a couple of weeks prior, but it appeared that they'd rekindled something. Freen had entered the apartment in the morning and still hadn't emerged by the time he packed in his surveillance.

Unfortunately, Kirk hadn't been able to monitor Becca at all since making his tail, but he suspected that Freen was still important enough to Becca that her murder would be devastating. If he was lucky, Freen might be home alone in her apartment tonight. Even if she wasn't, he should be able to break in and lie in wait. When Becca went to work tomorrow morning and Freen returned home, Kirk would deliver his parting shot. He'd give Becca something to remember him by.

Then he would disappear. He would win.

This Plan was even better than his original—this way he wouldn't kill Becca. He would destroy her spirit, but let her body live. A new concept for him, admittedly, but he appreciated the poetic nature of this ending. Never-ending torment for Rebecca Armstrong. Because of him.

And who knew? Maybe he'd come back for her someday.