Chapter 4
Chapter Four
I call Shawn from the car as I drive out of the city.
"What's up, Gray?" His voice reflects his irritation with the late phone call.
He sighs audibly. "I'm tired, man. You need this tonight?"
"I need it yesterday," I bark.
He grumbles his agreement before the line clicks dead.
It's a forty minute drive to my makeshift graveyard; a secluded spot deep in the forest. The terrain is rough enough to keep hikers out, and there aren't enough animals for hunters to bother with it.
It's dead silent in my car. Usually, the radio would be tuned into a local rock station, but not tonight.
I don't want the music to distract me from the sound in my head—her hushed thank you, the quiet, breathy way she says please.
I white-knuckle the steering wheel, imagining that please being directed at me. I bet she begs so sweetly.
At the edge of the forest, I maneuver my car around a dark wall of looming evergreens and into a small clearing.
When the engine clicks off, the only sounds remaining are the soft hush of the wind and the chirping crickets.
I give myself a moment to savor the night air before hauling the tarp-wrapped corpse out of my trunk.
With a shovel in hand and a body over my shoulder, I make the half-mile trek into the woods to the place where I dug a grave early this morning before the sun came up.
There’s just enough moonlight spilling through the heavy tree cover to light the ground with thin, silver beams. The air is thick with the musk of damp soil.
This place would seem beautiful, if I didn’t know that it was littered with the graves of my former targets.
Grunting with effort, I heave the body from my shoulder and into the deep hole.
The damp earth is heavy on my shovel, but I’m glad for it.
I need some heavy labor to work out the frenzied energy that’s been lighting my nerves on fire since I laid eyes on her.
Filling in a six-foot hole should work for that.
After Barry’s good and tucked in, I pull my phone out of my pocket and find an encrypted email from Shawn that reads:
Who’s Ava Moore?
I’ve been asking myself the same question—who is she? There’s something different about Ava, something special. There’s something deep inside of me, gnawing at my insides, demanding that I make her mine.
There’s a large file attachment entitled Ava Marie Moore.
The wind whips at my back while I make my way back to the car.
As I walk, I flip through the files of the carefully compiled dossier.
The moment I get into my car, I plug her address into my GPS.
A smile creeps across my face as the navigation system informs me that I can be there by midnight.
The country roads are dark and empty, winding and curving around dark bends and deep forests.
Stars sparkle through my windshield in a way they can’t in the city.
It’s picturesque, if you like that kind of thing.
The longer you drive, the further apart the houses become.
I know based on the land survey and deed in her file that there isn’t another house within a mile of hers, and that her property sits in the middle of several acres of woodland.
The setting couldn’t be more ideal for my purposes.
The car slows to a crawl as I pass by the entrance to a hidden driveway.
The only indicator of its presence is a black, metal mailbox on a slanted, wooden post. With my foot pressing steadily on the brake, I cut the headlights and roll to a stop in a clearing at the edge of the woods.
Stepping out of the car, I grab a few fallen spruce branches and lay them over the hood.
It’s unlikely that a car will pass by, but I’d rather be sure no one will see me, including her. She’s not ready yet.
Gravel crunches lightly and shifts under my boots as I walk the long, winding driveway that leads to her home.
It’s a small split-level perched on a hill.
A steep sloping metal roof tells its age with thin lines of rust. Nestled low beneath the center of its apex, is a wooden porch with jagged edges and a mismatch of new and rotted floorboards.
The dark brown wood siding is a similarly ill-matched mixture of newness and decay.
If she’s doing the updates herself, I’m impressed. If not, she needs to fire her handyman.
The first floor is dark. The only light in the house is a soft, yellow glow spilling from the second story windows.
My blood is pounding in my ears, threatening to burst my eardrums. My mouth is so dry, it feels like it’s full of flour.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t get unnerved like this.
Why am I so affected by this mousey little woman?
I round the corner, going up the hill behind the house.
There’s a clearing between the house and what looks to be another couple of acres of woodland.
The ground is blanketed with fallen leaves.
They crunch under my boots, upheaving the musty scent of the death of summer.
I’ve always liked autumn for that; it kills slowly, just like me.
From the edge of the clearing, every aspect of the second floor is clearly visible.
A pale green bathroom sits empty at the far end of a short hallway.
There’s only one toothbrush on the edge of the green, porcelain sink.
Her name was the only one on the deed, but there’s always some chance of a live-in boyfriend.
It’d be a messy start to our relationship if I had to kill her lover.
I ball my fists as the thought of her having a lover threatens to send me into a rage. I shake my head, willing it away.
The second window is only dimly lit by the light in the hallway.
It’s a small bedroom with light blue walls.
A twin-sized bed with a white comforter and way too many pillows sits in the corner.
A plain white dresser takes up most of the opposite wall.
It doesn’t look lived in, probably a guest bedroom.
I don’t like the idea of her having overnight guests; I’ll have to put a stop to that.
In the third window, I catch sight of her earthy, brown hair.
There’s a small alcove with a cushioned bench directly in front of the window where she sits.
Her back is pressed against the wall, propped up with a small pillow.
An oversized, pink t-shirt hangs loosely over her body, ending at the tops of her bare thighs.
Her pale legs are pressed together, a book resting on her bent knees.
Her fingers twirl absentmindedly around the strands of hair that fall beside her face as she pours over the pages.
I lean against a wide-trunked oak tree and watch her.
Every few pages, she reaches over to the windowsill to pick up a large mug.
The steam cascades over her face, momentarily fogging her thick-rimmed reading glasses as she sips the hot liquid.
When she pushes them back higher onto her nose with her middle finger, she looks like a librarian straight out of my best wet dream. She’s fucking gorgeous.
At least half an hour passes as I study her, barely stirring, entirely engrossed in the book before she looks up.
Her chest rises steeply and her mouth parts as she sighs deeply.
She presses the book closed against her knees before dropping it onto the cushion beside her.
My pulse quickens as she turns her head toward the window, right in my direction.
For a second, I think she’s spotted me, but it’s too dark.
She can’t see me here, hidden under thick tree branches.
Her eyebrows lower and pull closer together, and her rosy lips lower at the outer corners.
Her arms snake around her knees, pulling them close to her chest as she stares out into the night.
Those bright eyes are filled with longing.
What’s she looking for? Fuck, I’ll give it to her, whatever it is.
That searching look in her eyes is too much; it’s too heavy, too thick with need.
My chest pinches with an unfamiliar feeling, a need developing inside me.
I have to get away from it before I do something stupid like break into her house in some misguided attempt to comfort her.
I push myself away from the old oak tree, feeling the ripples it’s left on the skin of my back before making a full circle around the house to scope out her security.
There are two entrances—the porch door at the front of the house and the door off of the kitchen, each with a single lock.
There are no deadbolts or chain locks on either.
She feels safe here, in her seclusion. The monstrous thing inside me perks up.
It whispers in my mind, she won’t for much longer.