12 | Liam
Liam
It was around nine the next night when I finally arrived at the woman’s house.
The day passed with more research, while the guys never left their rooms. I am not sure if they talked at all during the day, but as I was getting ready to leave, I saw Nathan exit his room.
He quietly found his way to the kitchen without saying a word, and I didn’t find it necessary to stay and see if Mike would follow him.
I am now standing in the shadows of the woman’s porch, watching inside her window from a spot where I am hidden, but can still see everything I need to.
Her name is Mary, and as I expected, she is sitting in her living room with a book on her lap and a bottle of wine next to her, a glass half-full beside it.
I was wrong about the drinking. She is reading under the light of a lamp straight above her, while her cat is curled next to her, sleeping peacefully.
When I arrived, I chose a dark spot on her porch, and I have been sitting here for the last thirty minutes watching her. I made sure not to be visible from the inside, or to anyone passing in front of the house. I am good at hiding in the shadows. It’s a skill well-developed by now.
I am pretty sure I am going to spend hours in this spot.
She doesn’t seem like the type to leave the house almost ever.
I knew that much from her social media and my research, but sometimes the online image someone puts up is completely different from reality.
Some people like to portray a persona that isn’t even the slightest bit close to the truth, either to get followers or to maintain whatever image they prefer in the digital world.
Mary doesn’t seem to have the need for that, and I thank my luck for it. I have no intention of putting in more effort than necessary in this situation. I am already uncomfortable with stalking a woman who reminds me of my aunt.
I can’t say I have bad memories of Amelia, which makes the situation harder for me.
I know what happened to Mike, of course, and that her true nature was quite different from what I got to experience.
But still, Amelia was always polite to me.
She always made sure to cook extra food whenever I was over at their house, smiling and playing with us or taking us for walks and playdates.
It pains me that I got the nice side of her while my cousin suffered so much at her hands.
My memories of the woman who looks identical to the one I am now watching read are full of happy summers and flowery scents—smiles and happiness that didn't resemble the darkness inside her in the slightest.
Mike, on the other hand, got her bad side.
The one that starved him, beat him, and locked him in a closet for hours with no food, water, or bathroom access.
The one that would let him go to school dirty, without lunch money.
The one that would look the other way while her husband abused him in every way he desired.
A part of me wants to find an excuse for her behavior, but there is none. She had Mike when she was a teen and got married three years later. Mike never knew his dad; the man died while they were engaged, before Mike was even born. I think in a way, Amelia despised her son for that.
At least, I can’t think of any other reason a mother would let those things happen to her child.
Her own flesh and blood. I would never let anyone touch my own—if I had any—and I am a psychotic asshole who hunts people for entertainment.
I guess even criminals have some morals, but that woman had none.
The night continues in silence as I watch Mary read her book. It is the middle of the night when she finally decides to go to bed, relieving me of my duty. I should really go straight home, but instead, I find myself driving to Jessica’s house. A desperate need to see her grows inside me.
It isn't a long drive before I am parking behind a large tree in her backyard. I am not too worried about the lights being on in the living room; more than likely, her father has passed out somewhere inside. He is too drunk to care about his life or his daughter. He would never notice movement in his yard, even if my motorcycle were visible from his side of the house. I don’t think he would care anyway.
I know for a fact it isn’t visible from Jessica’s room.
I will admit I snuck in once already this morning—after I finished my research on Mary while Jessica was busy at work—and checked the sightlines.
I didn’t have enough time to go to the diner, and since we didn’t hunt, it would have been harder to explain my sudden need for coffee; that's usually more of my routine the morning after a kill.
But a quick stop at her house was easy enough, and the guys seemed to be avoiding me as much as they were avoiding each other anyway.
Her room even smells like her. I was confused when I first stepped inside.
It is decorated like a child’s room, making it a little disturbing that a grown woman still sleeps there.
From what I know about her, it is safe to assume her mother probably decorated it.
Jessica seems like the type to hold onto memories for dear life, so it makes sense that she hasn’t changed the room through her teen or adult years.
Now the room is dark, and even though nothing is visible from where I stand, I can almost see Jessica’s sleeping form in the bed in the middle of the room.
Her bedroom is covered in pink wallpaper with little teal flowers and lined with porcelain dolls on the shelves.
When I was inside, I noticed those dolls couldn't have been moved since her mother’s death.
They are collecting dust, though the room itself is neatly cleaned and cared for.
The comforter on her bed carries the scent of a specific flower I recognize well from its owner.
Scented candles sit on her vanity and nightstand—the only things she has added since her childhood.
The bathroom connecting to her room is decorated in the same pink shades and floral patterns, with bath salts and skincare products piled beside the bathtub.
Fluffy pink and teal towels hang on the bathroom wall, matching the equally fluffy carpet that stretches from edge to edge across the entire bedroom suite.
It is clear to me that this bedroom was designed with love. It doesn’t match the rest of the house, which is unkempt and almost falling apart. It’s as if Jessica has tried her best to keep the space just as her mother left it, keeping her memory alive.
I am a little disappointed she is sleeping right now; I really needed to see her.
I expected it, though, when I drove here.
She works for the better part of the day, and when she arrives home, she has to take care of her father.
It is reasonable that she would be sleeping early, considering her five a.m. start.
Still, I can’t keep myself from frowning at the idea that I will have to wait until morning to see her.
I contemplate climbing through that window and taking a peek inside, just to see her for a minute or two.
Maybe tuck her into bed and kiss her goodnight.
If she is tired enough, she might not notice me, but that's a stretch to believe and a risk I am not willing to take.
I am not sure why this woman’s presence is so addictive.
I am not the type to lust after anyone; I have been alone for years with no interest in a relationship.
There were the occasional hookups in bars back when we attended college or when we visited New York, our home base, but I have always made sure not to get involved with anyone in the towns we hunt. Too much risk for no good reason.
I decide to drive home since Jessica is fast asleep and the opportunity to see her has passed. I get on my bike, glancing one last time at her bedroom window before I head back.
“See you soon, sweetheart.” I whisper into the night.