I See You (4 page)

I
CREEP ACROSS THE BACK
wall like a shadow, watching her as she works. Her interactions are polite and gracious, but she doesn’t flirt with customers like the other girls do, hoping for bigger tips. She wears very little make-up, but nothing about her is understated; she’s too naturally appealing to pull that off. Her clothing isn’t as revealing as the other girls’, yet she oozes sex appeal nonetheless. It’s the sway of her hips when she glides through the club from table to table. The smile she uses only for the one waitress, Tricia. It’s the movement of her body when she relaxes into the music and her body flows in rhythmic sways to the beat. It’s those eyes piercing through a darkened, crowded club, like a beacon of purity and light.

Her hand rubs over the back of her neck when she thinks no one is watching her but I’m not the only predator out here in the shadows—I’m just the most dangerous one.

I leave an hour before she does so I can let myself into her house with a key I had made from the spare set she keeps in the plant pot next to her shed. I’ve been staying in the empty house that backs on to hers so I can document her precisely; every perfect detail of her. She is by far the most fascinating mark to grace my lens, and grace it she does. I capture her giggles when her cat waits for her at the door every time she returns. She takes such comfort in that feline, I almost feel guilty snatching it up by the scruff of its neck and taking it with me.
Guilt
? I roll the word around my mouth. Guilt is an emotion I haven’t touched in a long time. I rearrange the magnets on her fridge, take the cat, and leave.

Meow, meow
. The fuzz ball keeps wrapping itself around my ankles and looking up at me as I sit by the window, waiting for Nina to come home. Usually cats have an instinct about evil, yet here it is trying to seduce the very worst kind of it. I’m under no illusion I’m a monster. I was born from one, raised by one, and brother to one who lacks any trace of ever owning a soul. I’m a monster, and despite the draw I feel, oddly but so intensely for Nina, I’m still here documenting her so Noah can destroy her. This is the job, how it’s always been.

My heart thuds in my chest when her headlights illuminate the side of the house as she pulls onto her drive. She comes to the side of the house where her front door is, and startles when the man next door to her pops his head over the fence.

Mr. Patrick Ilavich, forty-nine years old, wife died ten years ago. He fathered no children and lives alone.

I capture her grimace in an image.

Click.

Watching her close up through my lens, her hair falls around her face, shielding it from him. She turns and offers him a practiced smile, and takes the mail he offers her.

“Ginger?” she calls out, searching her surroundings, and her eyebrows pull together in confusion. Disappearing into her house and returning with a box of kitty nibbles, she shakes the box and calls out for her stupid cat again. “Ginger, where are you girl?” After fifteen minutes of hopelessly hunting for her cat, she goes back inside, and the lights flick off one by one until the house sits in complete darkness.

“Looks like time for some shut eye, Ginger.”

T
HE BUSINESS CELL CONSTANTLY RINGING
wakes me from the deep void I fall into when I sleep. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to dream, but all I see when I close my eyes is black. Wrapping my hand around the morning wood tenting the sheets, I think about the woman Devon has on surveillance for a high paying client. He informed me in his email that she’s not like any we’ve marked before, but to me they’re all the same. They are all playthings for me to torment. I let my mind wonder into the acts I plan to force on her, and the grip on my cock tightens, my fist pumping over my shaft. Devon said she’s blonde and petite; I’ve always had a thing for blondes, ever since I didn’t get to fuck the mouth of our stepsister. Courtney’s image comes to mind as I thrust into my fist. Devon had such fondness for that girl; she was his weakness.

It’s hard to believe he’s from the same bloodline as our father and me; it didn’t take much for me to be completely corrupted by the draw of debauchery, but for Devon it took their deaths, and even now he’s showing signs of empathy for this new mark, asking for detail on the client. He has never done that before. My balls tightening bring me back to the task at hand. I picture Emily, my first kill, the tears in her eyes, and that brings me over the edge. Ribbons of cum spurt onto the bed. I swipe the sheet up and wipe my cock down. I hate how my memories show me my life. It’s like seeing my life in a movie rather than reliving it. My memory has been that way ever since I killed our stepmother. Although I didn’t feel anything for her, my mind punishes me for the act and only shows me my memories looking down, as if I’m floating above everyone.

Meh, so I’m a little insane. Who can blame me with the upbringing I had?

The ringing is back on the work cell and if it’s the client calling to cancel today’s mark I’m going to be pissed. Payment isn’t the issue; they pay when we design the plan, and whether they follow through or not, the fee is always non-refundable. I’m not a realtor; they’re not buying a fucking house. My service is one of a kind and comes with extreme risks. That’s why all my clients come recommended by another; they then become their guarantor. If anything goes wrong by fault of the client then both client and guarantor pay the price. The price being their lives.

My blood feels static in my veins; the sexual release doesn’t quash it. I need a release of a different nature. I grab my cell and answer the call.

“You’re through to the servicing department,” I answer.

“Reference 1320 confirming the go ahead for renovation.”

Ah, he’s not cancelling. Excellent.

“Renovation will take place within the next two hours.”

“Confirming courtesy call needed.”

“Noted. You’ll receive a courtesy call. Make sure you’re in a quiet, private place when receiving.”

I end the call and stretch out my muscles.

I open the parcel Devon left for me with everything I’ll need for today’s mark, and get ready.

It’s only a twenty minute drive to the client’s apartment. His wife will be in bed sleeping as she works night shifts, and her husband
, my client
, has left for work already. In an hour, her lover, also married, will let himself in and slip into her marital bed and they’ll spend the afternoon fucking before her husband returns home. Whore. Today will go a little differently for them both.

I park a few blocks away in one of my many cars used for work, and keep to the shadows of the buildings. It’s early so it’s deathly quiet, with only a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves of the trees.

I keep my head down and hoodie up as I slip in the front door left open for me by the client. It’s dark throughout the apartment with only bands of light penetrating through the blinds. I place my bag on the floor, pull out my overalls, and slip them over my clothes before I venture any further into the house.

I love it when their eyes expand when they first see me standing there like a crime scene investigator. They’re shocked and confused, but deep down a part of them knows they’re going to die. I gain a piece of their soul before they’ve even exhaled their last breath.

Her plump, bare legs hook the quilt beneath them. She’s a fuller build, wide hips and a big ass. I can see the appeal. I enjoy a woman with meat on her bones; more to play with.

I take out the burner phone and dial the number for the courtesy call. When he picks up the line I mutter, “Refurbishment in progress,” and place the cell on the bedside table on speakerphone. Opening my bag back up, I take out the zipped plastic bag with the positive pregnancy test she thought she hid well enough from her husband, along with her lover’s watch and hair sample taken from his apartment by Devon. I put on the latex gloves before handling the contents.

I place the test on the floor near her bed. Clenching the wristwatch, I pull until the link breaks. I whistle loud enough to startle her.

“What the . . . ?” She gasps.

“Catch.” I throw the watch to her, which she instinctively grabs as it flies towards her face. I tighten my left fist and swing it out at her as she tries to scurry from the bed, entwined in bed sheets. I connect with her jaw, her lip tearing open from my knuckle. She’s dazed, her eyes unfocused as she tries to grasp onto reality. She tries to stand so I jab her nose with another punch, enjoying the popping sound it makes as the connection breaks the bone. Blood showers out, staining the floor and my boots.
Perfect.

I launch forwards, wrapping my hands around her throat and straddling her as she topples backwards. I make sure to use more pressure with my left hand than my right. She flays beneath me as her hands reach up and grapple at my chest, but it’s weak and too late. Her eyes bulge, the blood vessels popping as water pools and drips from the corners. She’s gurgling as her lungs scream for air. Blood runs in rivulets from her nose and down her cheeks like a cerise dam burst. Shaking her body with the final squeeze, her arms drop heavily and her mouth falls closed. Her dead eyes look blankly up at me.

I climb from her body, end the call on the cell, and chuck it into the bag. I drop a couple of her lover’s hairs on her. I slip off my boots, and make my way to the back of the apartment to wait.

Twenty minutes later, her lover arrives. He enters the back door with no shoes, just like Devon predicted. Apparently lover girl didn’t allow shoes on the carpets. I wait for him to pass though the kitchen and then I sneak from the pantry and out the back door, taking my overalls off and taking his boots with me. I make the urgent call to the police about hearing a woman screaming then hurry back to my car. I drive to the underpass where a group of homeless people set up camp, and I take the bag, dropping it in one of the fire pits they have burning.

I pull out the piece of paper, the last remains of evidence from this job, which is a typed note from Devon.