Chapter 22 Red Hands
Red Hands
Her car’s lock doesn’t fight me, and I easily slide into her back seat and breathe in deeply.
The air carries molecules of her—skin cells, exhaled breath, faint perfume that has settled into the fabric. A scent that is earthy and honest.
I lower myself below the window line, arranging my limbs to become part of the shadows. Patience has always been my sacrament. Time means nothing when you are waiting for something holy.
From here, I can watch her house. The windows glow amber with the mid-day sun. She moves behind them, though I cannot see her just yet. Sera Vale. A name she chose, not the one she was given. A disguise worn over bone.
I know her routine better than she knows it herself, better than the man in the white van who often prowls by her house.
In approximately seven minutes, she will exit to go to her job at Gas N’ Go.
She will pause on the porch—three seconds while she adjusts her bag, four more while she sorts her keys.
Then twenty-two steps to reach this car in the gravel drive.
I flex my hands in my lap. These hands have unveiled so many women. Released them from their lying skin. My fingertips tingle with the memory of warm blood, how it feels when it first emerges, hopeful and bright, before it understands it is leaving home forever.
Will I open her throat? Perhaps. The neck is sacred geography—voice, breath, and pulse all gathered in one vulnerable passage. But Sera may require something more elaborate. Something worthy of her complexity.
In the quiet of her car, I imagine her body going limp as the sedative takes hold. How her eyes will widen first in recognition, then narrow with the betrayal of consciousness. Will she fight? The others did. But fighting only hastens revelation.
My heartbeat remains steady and controlled, unlike the frantic percussion of my previous subjects. This is what separates us because I am the knife, not the flesh.
The door opens.
She emerges, keys already separated from the others on her ring. Her bag hangs from her shoulder, weighted with whatever secrets she carries. Her black hair falls across her face, and she pushes it back with nonchalance.
She doesn’t know I am here. Doesn’t feel my gaze caressing the back of her neck. Doesn’t sense how close transformation waits.
One foot descends the first step. Then the second. She doesn’t walk like prey, even though she is.
I do not move. Do not breathe. My body becomes the stillness between heartbeats.
She walks toward the car. Toward me. Each footfall bringing her closer to her real self—the one hiding beneath her skin, waiting to be freed.
And with each step closer, she is already mine.