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And since they don’t find you either consciously or unconsciously threatening, stalking them is insultingly easy.
Except Winnie Sakurai. No, that’s not accurate—stalkingher had been easy. But figuring out how to kill her had been a challenge, because she was almost never alone. Her relationship with her husband bordered on codependent, and he rarely left her side. They went to the gym together and they went for walks together and they did charity work at the community food bank together. They played endless games of backgammon and cribbage together. They even did their solitary activities together—she read while he watched the news, and painted vases of painstakingly arranged flowers while he sat just feet away in an armchair reading historical biographies.
I could find only one opening. Every other week, as regular as her disgusting morning-fiber-stirred-into-water eye-opener, she came to Burkefeld Gardens alone at the break of dawn and lost herself in its fifteen acres.
She had several favorite spots, so I arrived earlier and waited near the entrance, watching for the tiny figure with the bold gait, silver-streaked black hair bobbing as purposefully as if she were late for an important meeting. I followed her, careful to keep my distance, breathing in the smell of dew and dirt and decaying leaves, pulling my coat closer against the burgeoning bite of the fall air.
Today she chose the topiary Zen garden, and I had to laugh—so perfectly symbolic in so many ways. Lined with hedges almost like a maze, the sections set aside for dry waterfalls and raked sand and shaped conifers made convenient cover with easy visibility. She selected a spot at the far end of the grotto, near a topiary shaped vaguely like a dragon. I judged the angles and the distance as she settled onto a bench, organizing her notebook and pen next to her, then lifted her binoculars toward the copse of elms that bordered the grotto.
Then I waited, watching her face with my own binoculars.
A bird flew up and out of the copse. She jotted something in her journal.
When she looked back up, it was there—the look of pure peace on her face. Watching them transported her, and for the final time, I pondered why. Was it their tiny, unspoiled innocence? Their freedom, the ability to soar unhindered over fields and mountains and trees? Or was it the intimacy of observing habits and rituals she had no right to be party to? I understood the magnetic pull of all those things.
But then, the why didn’t matter. I soaked her expression in, allowing it to feed my anger and stoke my resolve. It built and swelled and magnified, and when I felt my fingers clench so hard I thought my bones would crack, I began.
She didn’t look up as I approached, or even when I stopped behind her. Finally, when I didn’t move for a full minute, she lowered her binoculars and glanced over her shoulder at me.
She flinched when she realized I was staring at her, and the peace dissolved into confusion. When I explained why I was there, the confusion gave way to fear.
I lifted the stone I’d selected and smashed it into her skull. And I didn’t stop until she was still, and silent.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Jo stood under a stream of warm water, eyes closed, silently regretting both the wine and the late-night aerobics session she’d had with Matt the night before. The cruel reality was that with each year that passed, biological necessities like regular sleep became harder to deny.
An eddy of cool air announced Matt’s entrance into the bathroom. She forced her eyes half-open and smiled.
“Hey, beautiful.” One of Matt’s hands poked into the shower and handed her a cup of coffee.
She gulped greedily before replying. “You didn’t have to get up just because I have to. You deserve your Sunday sleep.”
His face, blurry through the fogged glass, shifted into a smile. “I kept you up far too late. The least I can do is help ease your entrance into what’s likely to be a very stressful day.”
“It’s gonna be a busy one, that’s for sure.” Jo took another large sip of the coffee, then reached out of the shower to set it on the sink.
“I got that feeling. Your phone is blowing up,” he said.
Her eyes flew the rest of the way open. “What’s happening?”
He looked playfully offended. “I’d never read your texts.”
She hurried to rinse off. “The most recent should show on the home screen. Can you read it to me?”
He disappeared, then returned with her phone a moment later, expression now somber. “Someone else has been found dead. Winnie Sakurai?”
Jo froze in place. “WinnieSakurai?”
He glanced up and searched her face. “You know her?”
“My God.” She snapped off the faucet and snatched up her towel, hands shaking as she tried to dry herself. “She’s a judge.”
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
Arnett’s somber demeanor as he climbed into Jo’s car hit her with the frightening déjà vu of a recurring nightmare.
“It could be a coincidence,” she said after a minute of saturated silence.
