Epilogue
Igrab the last box of granola bars from the shelf and toss it into the cart.
I wonder if the supplies I’ve gathered will last through the trip. When traveling, I prefer to minimize the number of stores I visit to replenish my supplies. Refueling at gas stations is risky enough—too many cameras, for one. It’s just safer this way, in case law enforcement becomes suspicious.
In small towns, shelves are often bare or picked over by the time you get there. Maggie’s Grocer in Ashburn is no different. Over the years, I’ve learned to make do with less, so I am prepared for the challenge.
In search of more nonperishables to add to my supplies, I push the cart down the aisle. I’m about to round the corner—when I hear her. Halting dead in my tracks, I eavesdrop the best I can over the obnoxious music playing from the overhead speakers. God, the least the owners can do is turn on the top forty radio stations instead of this utterly insipid shit.
“You can’t keep running away from your problems,” an older woman scolds.
I risk a peek around the shelves—and there she is, the one I’ve been pursuing all this time. She crosses her arms, brow furrowed, her hair as red as her flaring temper.
Fucking beautiful.
“I’m not running away from my problems, Aunt Maeve,” my obsession snaps.
“Stop being so disrespectful, Gwendoline, or?—”
Not-Kyla visibly bristles, her face burning crimson. “Don’t ever fucking call me that again. I’m not her anymore.” Her voice lowers. “Gwen Cirillo is dead.”
There it is, confirming what I already know. I can’t help but grin ear-to-ear. I’ve been hunting Cameron Cirillo’s daughter, tracking her movements across the northeast United States. She swaps names and identities almost as much as I do. But she can’t fool me, nor can she escape me.
Not this time.
“You can’t run away from your past,” her aunt warns. “It always has a way of catching up to you. Believe me.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Gwen says icily, walking away. Maeve tries to grab her arm, but she hastily steps out of reach. “Listen. I’m exhausted. They had me in that goddamned interrogation room for hours. Four times in only three days. Do you know what it’s like to be labeled a potential person of interest in the murders of both your boyfriend and your closest friend?”
Maeve adjusts her glasses, sliding the bridge up her nose. “While I may not have been labeled a person of interest before, I certainly know what it’s like to have my life torn apart by a serial killer.”
Gwen falls silent for a moment and bites her lip, chewing on barbs—anything to make this woman cease needling her. But she holds back and departs the aisle, leaving Maeve to shake her head and mutter something under her breath as her niece heads for the store exit. Before she turns around, I push the cart down the same aisle and feign interest in whatever is on the shelves. She ignores my presence, appearing distracted as she shifts the basket to her opposite hand and passes by.
I gather more food and toiletries before heading to the checkout. I greet the cashier with a wave and start placing my items on the conveyor belt. Just as I’m about to retrieve the case of bottled water, something catches my eye on the shelf to my right. Among the trashy tabloids and gossipy magazines, I spot the local newspaper with Bunny’s face on the front page. I quickly grab a copy, place it on the belt, and lift the water for the cashier to scan.
She glimpses the headline and makes atsksound. “What a tragedy. And at such a young age, too,” she says, scanning the barcode of the water and quickly inputting a code into the register. “I know Diane, the girl’s mother. She’s absolutely devastated. Hasn’t left her house since the … incident.”
I shake my head and put the case back in the cart. “It’s such a shame, isn’t it? Seems to me like things are getting worse and worse around here.”
The cashier continues scanning my items before pausing, clearly taking an interest in what I’m purchasing. “Looks like you’re getting ready for a road trip,” she observes. “Where are you headed? Anywhere exciting?”
I swallow the urge to tell her to mind her own damn business and force a smile instead. “If you think going to see your folks is exciting.” The lie comes out smoothly, like melted butter.
She chuckles, finishing her job with no more prying.
Nosy small-towners. I can’t wait to leave this godforsaken place.
And be with my beloved forever.
I driveto 375 West Birch Street, where Gwen lives with her aunt Maeve. As I approach the house, I slow down and carefully scrutinize the windows. Not seeing any signs of activity, I assume that the two of them must have left the house after their trip to the store.
Seizing the opportunity, I pull up to the mailbox and roll down my window, surveying the area to ensure no one is watching. I grab the flyer from my glovebox, drop it in the mailbox, and close it. As I drive away, a surge of excitement fills my chest, lingering all the way back to my less-than-desirable apartment—the same one I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.
I carry my groceries up to the second floor and unlock the door, kicking it shut behind me. With that flyer, I’ve planted a seed—one that will unite us and allow me to stake my claim on her.
On everything she is, and on every part of her she suppresses.
I set the bags on the kitchen counter and resume my project. On my improvised worktable sits something I’ve been working on for over a week. Perfection in sight, I refocus on the references scattered about before returning to my mask-making.
Time slips away unnoticed as I meticulously attend to every tiny detail. I have already created and discarded at least twenty prototypes, none of them good enough. Not one looked exactly like the mask Cameron wore during his most famous, high-profile kill. Until now.
Finally, I hold it up to the light.
The mask looks like it has jumped straight out of the many newspaper clippings, books, and magazine articles I’ve collected and cataloged over the years. When I started back when I was younger, after losing my brother.
Back when I first laid eyes on my beloved Gwen.
You could say it was love at first sight. Or maybe first obsession.
Honestly, it’s worthless to dwell on minor distinctions.
After rising from the chair to stretch, I make my way to the bathroom. I flip the switch, and the bright light makes my eyes ache. Scowling, I rake my fingers through my hair, revealing the emerging brown roots. It’s time for a dye job, a drastic one. I’ve already prepared for my new identity, so there’s no reason to delay.
After darkening my hair and ultimately choosing to leave it slightly longer than Luke preferred, I dig through my basket of sundries to retrieve another piece of my new life. I put on the fake prescription glasses, ruffle my hair a bit, and muster the friendliest, warmest smile I can manage.
From this night onward, Luke Quinn is no more.
The man gazing back at me in the mirror is Blake Sullivan.