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Ezra
ChapterOne
He doesn’t think anybody’s watching because he’s used to being the stalker. He’s too cocky. Too sure that nobody will notice what he’s doing. I see him, though.
In the corner booth of The Perfect Blend—a local coffee house in Soledad Square, Vermont, I peer over my newspaper and watch as the man smiles charmingly at the waitress as she delivers his order. It’s a plain black coffee because he thinks anything else would be too memorable. However, almost nobody orders plain coffee, so he stands out more than he thinks he does.
When a woman sits at a table across from him, I know that it’s her he has his eye on. She’s blonde, attractive in an average way, and young enough to be naive.
He’s pretty good, not doing too much to be obvious. He doesn’t look up from his sketchbook for almost three minutes, focusing on whatever he’s drawing while sporadically running a finger under his bottom lip. When he does look up, his eyes land on her, move to his book, then he does a double-take. The girl’s eyes were already on him, so she gives him a shy grin when he locks onto her the second time.
His lips turn up on one side as he runs a hand through his hair in a boyish way before going back to drawing. He plays this game well. Show enough interest, pretend to not be a predator, and get your prey to come to you.
Once the girl’s coffee is delivered, she takes a few sips, her eyes constantly dancing toward the handsome man in front of her. With half the drink down, she finally gets up and makes her way to his table.
I should warn her—get up and intervene. Instead, I settle in and watch how this plays out.
She creeps over, like she doesn’t want to startle him, but he knows she’s coming. He anticipated it. He jolts, though, pretending to be scared, and then they share a laugh before he offers her the free chair at his table. She gestures to his sketchbook, and he hesitantly displays it to her. Her hands go to her lips, her mouth ajar, shocked at his apparent talent. The man closes the book and hugs it to his chest, playing modest and shy. They talk for another thirty minutes before he gets up, glancing at the watch clasped around his tattooed wrist. She watches him, expectantly, waiting for him to ask for her number, maybe a date. He puts money on the counter and leaves, the bell ringing above the door. She looks disappointed until thirty seconds later when he appears right outside the storefront window, scratching his tilted head as he gazes back at her with a crooked smile.
She gets up and meets him outside, and once again they share a laugh before he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. She nods, her grin wide, and they take off together.
I shake my head, sighing as I put down the paper. The waitress left my check several minutes ago, so I leave a ten on the table and get up to follow them.
Unaware, like every other person in this quiet,safetown, they amble down the cobblestone road, oblivious to the killer among them. In this case, there’s two. Now, I don’t have proof of what this man does with these women, but considering I never see them reemerge after he’s set his eyes on them, I can only assume he does away with them in a permanent fashion.
It’s not like I have much room for judgment. My moral compass is broken beyond repair, but this man seems to solely focus on women, and I can’t help but wonder why. Color me intrigued. I have to know more, because I’ve never met another person like me.
I first caught wind of this guy a couple months back when I noticed him spending time with a woman who worked at the convenience store I frequent to grab my cigarettes. She’d take her breaks to eat with him in the small food court area, then one day, weeks later, she no longer worked there. After that, I started paying closer attention.
The second woman was someone who went to the community college. He conveniently ran into her in a library, like this crazy motherfucker reads books. Not to say that just because he’s covered in tattoos, has a piercing through his nose, and occasionally has black painted nails means he’s not capable of reading. But unless it’s ahow-toon stalking, I don’t see this guy spending much time with his nose in a book.
I saw him by chance, through a window as I was working outside, and then I kept coming back. He was there pretending to be consumed byThe Handmaid’s Talewhen she noticed him. I expect it was the book that kept her away. She probably thought he was reading it for tips and ideas on how to abuse women. Not the best choice. So the next time we were all there, he was readingA Vindication of the Rights of Woman, which made my eyes roll to the back of my head. Trying too hard. But it worked. She finally approached him when he took a break to take a sip of his coffee.
They met up a few more times, until they didn’t. I tried following them on that last evening, not knowing it would be the final one, but of course, I got pulled away by a phone call from work.
I’ve made a few more visits to the library, wondering if she’d show back up, but she hasn’t. Just like the convenience store girl. Neither have been reported missing, but I still feel the need to keep a close eye on him.
With a soft touch on the small of her back, he directs her into a red brick building. I hang back so as to not be too obvious. Scrutinizing the three-story structure that curves around the corner, I wonder why he’d bring a victim to a somewhat busy hotel.
Thirty seconds after they disappear inside, I enter, my eyes roaming the lobby for their figures. I worry briefly when I don’t spot them right away, but I recognize the plaid button up stretching across his back as they enter a hallway.
With quick, yet calm steps, I head in their direction. Someone touches my arm, attempting to ask me a question, but I hardly hear what she says and offer a polite, if not tight smile. “I’m sorry. I’m late for a meeting.”
If she’s offended, I don’t stick around long enough to see the hurt on her face. I dart around the corner and watch the blue and black plaid shirt vanish through a doorway to the right.
Is he killing them in a hotel? How would he get them out?
When I come across the archway he went under, I realize it’s not a door to a room as I assumed. I push open the door to the bathroom, curious as to what I may see when I step inside, but I don’t get far.
He shoves me against the white subway tiles that cover the wall, his forearm pressing into my throat.
“Why the fuck are you following me?”
ChapterTwo
Ipush him off of me. “I’m not following you!”
“Right. You always trail people from coffee houses to hotels?” he asks, stepping into my space again.
