Page 143 of Captivated

Rich’s mother.

Marcie Earl tugged on the leash connected to the collar of a small Pomeranian. The little dog looked like a giant ball of fluffy hair as the animal practically bounced down the steps. Its fucking legs weren’t even long enough to get from one step to the next—it actually had to jump to get down.

Kind of amusing, really.

Joe never understood the point of having a dog that small. What else did it do but sleep on your lap, and bark too loud?

Anyway.

As Marcie headed down the block—a usual ritual for her to walk her dog at this time of night, according to information he’d gotten pulled on her—Joe pushed away from the lamp post, and headed after the woman. He kept his steps fast, but light. There wasn’t a single sound coming from his shoes hitting the pavement, not that he wanted her to know he was following behind just yet.

Soon, but not yet.

Marcie barely took in her surroundings as she walked her dog, never looking over her shoulder, or checking for anyone else around. It was a sure sign that said she felt safe in this place, and thought of it as her environment.

People were predictable in that way. They had a way of assuming that nothing bad could ever happen to them as long as it was their space. No one would dare to intrude on their life in that way, as though their familiar, comforting places were sacred, or some kind of shit like that.

Wrong.

That’s where everything bad happened.

Marcie only stopped occasionally when her fluffy little dog wanted to sniff, or piss in someone else’s grass. Joe made sure to keep a respectable distance, but he never even needed to slip behind a vehicle to stay out of sight as the woman went about her nightly business.

She wasn’t worried at all.

Stupid woman.

Once Marcie made it about halfway around the block, she stopped to sit on a bench while her dog finally seemed to take notice of Joe down the sidewalk. The little Pomeranian barked at him, but he wasn’t paying it any mind.

Ankle biter.

What was it going to do to him, really?

His wrist was as thick as its head.

Marcie stiffened a bit on the bench as Joe approached, and then glanced away from him. She clearly didn’t recognize him—which wasn’t a bad thing for his side of the equation—but his presence obviously made her uncomfortable.

Good.

She was about to get even more uncomfortable.

Joe took a seat on the bench, leaned back to put his arms behind his head, and crossed his boots at the ankles. “Nice evening, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

Polite.

Strained.

Joe almost smiled.

She was clearly the type of person who would engage a stranger in conversation simply because she didn’t want to be rude. A part of him found that both annoying, and amusing. Neither part of him cared all that much.

Marcie glanced over at him—the lines around her eyes and frowning mouth spoke of her age, but other than that, she was a pretty woman. Her pale blonde hair had been pulled back into a simple chignon, and her warm brown eyes took him in. He almost wondered if this woman even understood the kind of hell her son was.

She probably did.

That sort of behavior was learned, after all.