They Would Die For You

CHAPTER-7

I rummage through the meal package I brought with me and pull out a burrito. As I peel the wrapping off, my eyes wander across the parking lot to the gymnasium. I am unable to suppress a grin at the irony of the situation—as I sit outside a location where individuals are expending considerable effort to burn calories, I am consuming a burrito that contains at least one-third carbohydrates. Classic. With a sigh, I take a hearty bite, chewing slowly as I let the savory flavors fill my mouth. My watch reads 8:15 p.m. now. Matthew had walked into the building at around 6:45 p.m., so he's been inside for over an hour.

Let's assume he took about fifteen minutes to warm up. I'm being generous because most people don't spend more than five or ten minutes getting ready. A few stretches, some jumping jacks, maybe some casual chatting with the gym staff—then they're off to the weights. So, setting aside that generous warm-up estimate, he's been in there, actually working out, for about one hour and fifteen minutes. No, make that sixteen now, considering I just spent another minute thinking through all of this.

I bite into my burrito, savoring the spices. Seriously though, what could he be doing in there? Sleeping? Or maybe plotting some grand plan for world dominance that the rest of us are completely oblivious to. The thought makes me laugh out loud. Even the people who entered after him have long since left. And trust me, I've been watching. I've been diligently counting the people going in and out of that gym, like a bored security guard with too much time on their hands. It's not like I have anything better to do, sitting alone in my car in the middle of the evening.

I take a slow sip of my coffee, which is now lukewarm at best. Funny how even that small act—drawing out a sip—helps pass the time. People think following, or "stalking" someone, is easy. They don't understand the sheer amount of patience it requires. Everyone loves to focus on the moral side, calling it creepy and invasive, but no one talks about the mental endurance it takes. The waiting game is tough, and it can really wear you down. Thankfully, I packed enough snacks to keep me busy. Munching on food helps. It engages my hands and mouth, filling the void in my mind. And the coffee—God bless coffee. Sipping it one slow slurp at a time keeps me from completely losing my mind while I wait.

I'm starting to run out of things to think about, though. My mind keeps wandering to darker thoughts—like how difficult it would be to end Matthew's life. It's not the most noble line of thinking, I know, but when you've been sitting here for hours, your imagination tends to wander into strange territory. He's clearly someone who takes his workouts seriously. Just looking at him, it's obvious. His muscles are too defined for someone who's just messing around with light weights. One idea that comes to mind is to push him beyond his limits. There's something so common about gymgoers—they love to think they've mastered certain weights. They get cocky. They measure their progress by how much they can lift, and they use that as a benchmark to push even further.

Matthew's been working out for a minimum of three years, maybe more, judging by his build. He's probably bench-pressing at least one and a half times his body weight by now. If I could sneak in and change the labels on the weights, tricking him into thinking he's lifting what he's used to but actually giving him something much heavier, that would be amazing. His ego would kick in, and I'm sure he'd power through a full set. That kind of strain could definitely lead to an injury, though I'm not sure it would be fatal. And we're talking about ending a life here, which is, you know, a big deal.

Or maybe I could tamper with the electronics on his favorite treadmill. A lovely six-hundred-watt shock could do the trick. Maybe more. It's amusing to think that if he does both his weightlifting and cardio on the same day, I could theoretically pull off both plans. That way, I'd be covering all my bases.

But then again, he hasn't really done anything to deserve such drastic measures—yet, anyway. So maybe I should spare myself the headache of thinking through all these overly complicated scenarios. I'll cross that bridge if or when I get there.