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This is the time he enjoys more than any other. The anticipation, knowing what he’s about to do. In this second, he’s in control. He owns them, these people, and once they’re dead, they will become his possessions. They will be a part of him.
He felt that thrill at age nine, young and inexperienced. He feels it the same way now. He lies down slowly, placing his cheek against the man’s warm, bare chest. He hears the man’s heart beating slowly, feels his lungs taking in air. Steven, he thinks. He smiles.
This is different, this calm. He remembers the women from Monday night screaming. He remembers the pregnant whore, pleading for her life as he stabbed her over and over, the men crying like little bitches as they tried to escape. The feeling of sticky blood on his face, soaking his clothes, warming his skin.
He likes that too. More so, usually. But this? This is nice. Pleasant, even.
But it’s time.
He sits up, then moves until he’s straddling the man’s chest. He carefully places his hands around the man’s neck, his thumbs interlocking. Then he leans forward, all his weight on his arms. He starts to squeeze.
He feels cartilage give way, a snap as a bone breaks in the neck. The man’s face changes color, turning red. Minutes pass. He watches for the telltale purply-blue tinge as hypoxia kicks in. A line of pink drool runs down from the man’s open mouth—blood mixed with saliva.
He holds his hands there longer than he knows is necessary, feeling his arms starting to shake from the exertion. Just enjoying the moment.
Then he sits back. He places his cheek against the chest again. There is no heartbeat anymore, no rise and fall. He knows before long the body will start to grow cold, and he’d like to stick around a bit longer, but he has to go.
He stands up, leaving the corpse on the sofa. It’ll be fine there for a while. He knows there is more he needs to do before it’s ready.
CHAPTER
16
GRIFFIN PUSHES THE door open to his apartment. He starts to call out, then stops himself as he realizes nobody’s there. Jess has gone.
He feels odd. Seeing Cara today has stirred up something in him. Memories of his past life. He’s spent the last year resolutely by himself, but with the simple act of one night in someone’s company, he suddenly can’t bear to be alone.
He glances at his watch: he’s been gone two hours. He wonders where Jess is. Before he left, he gave her his number on a scrap of paper, but she has no phone, and he has no way of contacting her.
He remembers last night. It wasn’t a great thing to do, he knows that. To kiss her, then push her aside. In that moment he’d wanted her, and he knew she’d wanted it too, but something had felt amiss. Sex, for all the wrong reasons.
Her husband had just died. But who decides the best way forward after a death is quiet, dignified grieving? Maybe all she needed at that time was him. Maybe they were just two lonely people connecting the only way they knew how.
Is that what I am? he thinks to himself. Lonely? Since she’s been here, he’s certainly felt differently. Someone to share the burden, maybe. Because suddenly someone listened and believed him and made the connection he hadn’t been able to reach.
He goes to the kitchen counter and puts the kettle on. He feels the familiar pain and tentatively bends from side to side, wincing slightly. It’s not good. Griffin reaches into the drawer next to him, pulling out the box, the last box of drugs, pushing two free of their foil and putting them in his mouth, swallowing them. He feels them move slowly down his throat, and reaches for a glass. He runs the water and downs it. It would have been quicker to bend and put his mouth under the tap, but that movement is impossible, not before the capsules do their job.
The lack of drugs concerns him. He mentally counts up how long he has. Four days, maybe five if he holds back.
He makes a mug of coffee and sits at the table.
He could see Cara hadn’t taken him seriously. His sister has had to put up with more than the usual level of shit from a sibling over the past year.
At first she was understanding. The grief, it seemed, she could deal with, but the obsessive searching, going off the book at work. She could only defend him for so long, and when he’d been suspended, she’d agreed.
“You need some time off,” she’d said. Then, as an afterthought: “Try and get some help.”
Griffin knows she’ll be angry with him today. But he also hopes that maybe her detective instincts will kick in, and she’ll stop for a second. She’s a good cop, she’s curious.
But so is he. He wonders about the murders she referred to. He goes online, using her log in, mentally swearing it will be for the last time. He looks at the details of the case—the forensic reports, the make of the car, the victims, the MO. He goes on Wikipedia, pulling up a basic entry on serial killers, his eyes scanning the pages.
He clicks and reads, time passing without him noticing. At last he finds something that makes him stop. He sends Cara a text, then glances up at the clock. Jess has been gone for four hours now.
He logs on to the system again, searching for Jess’s name. Her record is still there, stating the live BOLO. But that doesn’t mean anything; she could have been arrested. It often takes hours for these things to be updated.
He sighs, annoyed with himself. Worrying about some woman he’s just met. What’s got into him? He’s not going to sit here and stress. He has to do something.
But he knows where he’s going to go. He made a promise. After all, it can’t make him feel any worse.
