Chapter 15

October 30th

I’m being followed.

I haven’t actually seen the person yet, but I’ve stalked enough girls to know when it’s happening to me. The only difference between them and me, is that I know it’s happening.

I can also make it more difficult for my shadow to do his—or her—job.

I’ve been laying low for a while now, an annoying side effect of losing Tina. She still hasn’t shown up anywhere, dead or alive, which means that my stress is just being prolonged. But as the days pass, and the cops still aren’t beating down my door, I’m starting to feel like I may have gotten away with it.

That I’ve been lucky after all, and the problem has taken care of itself.

Yet, it hasn’t stopped the nagging feeling that I’m being watched.

Maybe it’s Tina, come back to enact her revenge. Or the cops, just waiting for me to screw up and build their case for them. Or someone else altogether? A fellow predator following his prey?

Whoever it is, I know they’re there. I can feel their eyes on me, studying me, trailing right behind me, but then slipping into the shadows just as I turn to catch them.

It’s infuriating.

I’ve started to switch up my commute, stopping off at random stores to poke around in the hopes of catching my tracker in the act. I speed up to lose any cars that stick behind me for more than a few blocks. I refuse to visit any of the places that could tie me to the murders. I even stopped going over to Emmy’s. This hurts the most. But the last thing I want is for someone to go after her, too.

Emmy is all mine and I intend to keep it that way.

But doing all of this, looking over my shoulder, worrying about someone coming after me…it’s not in my nature. I’m not the hunted. I’m the hunter. I don’t like being fenced in. Being forced to deviate from my routine. In a way, it’s like being in jail.

Screw it.

I’ve decided I don’t care. If someone’s watching me, then let them.

And if they want to catch me doing something, I’ll give them a show they’ll never forget. And then I’ll kill them, too.

I’ve already found my next victim.

I’ve seen her walking her dog in the canyon the few times I’ve gone hiking the trails. She’s tall, with shoulder-length brown hair that’s always meticulously in place. Her outfits are color-coordinated with her sneakers and her pants have things written across the butt. Words like, “juicy” and “cheeky” and “hot.”

If I had to guess, I’d say she’s in her early 30s, recently divorced or maybe even some old guy’s trophy wife. Definitely a trophy wife. The yappy dog she always has with her seems more like an accessory than a companion. And she was always talking on her cell phone.

 wore my headphones in my ears to make it seem like I was listening to music, even though nothing was coming out of the speakers. This way I could listen to the conversations around me without people feeling like they had to censor themselves.

Not that the Trophy Wife seemed to be concerned with whether others could hear her or not. I got the sense that she liked being the center of attention. In fact, she was the exact type of person that a reality show might choose to follow around: loud, fake (and not just her tits by the looks of her), and completely self-absorbed.

We actually had a lot in common. Well, except that I’d rather die than have cameras following me around. It’s much harder to kill someone that way.

“Dawn invited me to that premier party they’re having at The Mac on Saturday night, but I don’t know,” Trophy wife had said, chomping on her gum as she walked. “Harry’s out of town and it’s the only time I ever have to myself. You know, without someone totally on me all the time. Maybe I’ll just stay home and read a book.”

She was talking about the bar in the Hotel Mac. I’d been to the place a few times. Great food, cold beer, nice old feel to it. And rooms were always available upstairs if you didn’t feel like risking a DUI driving home. It wasn’t at all on the level of the clubs in Los Angeles, but it was usually a good time. The Mac was as upscale as you could get out here in Point Richmond, that’s for sure.

Trophy Wife had snorted and then started laughing like a hyena. “Totes kidding! Me? Reading? Yeah, right. What am I, a sad, little housewife? The only thing I read is the Tiffany’s catalog. And maybe US Weekly, cuz you know I love me some dirt,” she’d said, examining her nails.

Trophy Wife had let her little rat dog run off by itself and—surprise, surprise—it found its way over to me. I’d resisted the urge to punt it off the side of the cliff. Instead, I’d smiled at it and then over at its owner.

She’d seemed to notice me for the first time then and smiled back. I could tell she liked what she saw. And why wouldn’t she? I was wearing my favorite blue tank top that showed off my biceps and complimented my eyes. I’d shaven the night before, so I knew I looked clean-cut and approachable. And from the way Trophy Wife talked about Harry, it sure seemed like her needs weren’t being fulfilled at home.

“I could totally use a fun night out,” she’d continued, her eyes trained on me. She’d already looked me up and down, and was biting her lip like she was hungry. “Maybe get into some trouble, if you know what I mean.”

I’d known what she meant.

I’d kept walking, making it seem like I’d gone back to my workout. If I was being followed, there was no reason to clue my tracker in on my next piece of meat.

That would ruin the surprise.

When Trophy Wife thought I was no longer paying attention to her, she’d turned back to her friend on the phone, but raised her voice just a little bit.

She’d wanted me to hear what she said next.

“We’ll pre-game at my place, then head over to The Mac at around, say, nine-ish?” She’d gotten quiet as her friend responded—at length, it seemed. What is it with chicks and their need to blather on and on—then she’d adjusted her perky yet enormous breasts inside her sports bra. They were dangerously close to making a surprise appearance.

“Okay, but remember, underwear’s optional, bitch.” Then she’d brought her voice down a few octaves and added, “You think Jerome could get a hold of something fun?” Pause. “I don’t know, like X or naughty nose dust? I am going all-out, girl! I don’t even care what happens. I need this, Sash. Like, bad.”

I’d almost laughed out loud. Here was a girl looking to have a night she wouldn’t remember, and she was announcing it to a guy who didn’t want her to. It was almost too perfect.

Fortunately for me, girls are always doing stupid shit like this. Leaving themselves open to be taken advantage of. Welcoming it even. Then they act shocked when something bad actually happened.

If girls didn’t want to be attacked, they shouldn’t make it so damn easy for us to do it. It was really that simple.

“Okay, girl,” Trophy Wife had continued. “I gotta jet. Talk later, bi-atch.”

If  Trophy Wife’s friends were anything like her, maybe we could make it a party…I’ve never had a threesome before. It could be fun. The sex could be good, too.

It would also help me accomplish another goal: sussing out what the cops really knew.

I have a feeling they’ve got Tina—whether she’s dead or alive I’m still not sure—but they purposely aren’t divulging anything to the media. They probably think they’re being sneaky. That the less I know about what they know, the better off they are.

And I hate to admit it, but they’re right. Not knowing where I stand with law enforcement makes my job much more difficult.

I have no choice but to force them to show me their cards.

And to do that, I’m going to dump the next body somewhere public. Where there’s no chance for the cops to cover it up or hide any of the grizzly details. My next victim will become infamous. The first of the Ice-Pick Killer’s victims to be laid out for all to witness. Displayed like a work of art, and lauded by the masses.

They’ll have to cover it on the news then. They’ll have no choice. It’ll already be out there. Very little can be hidden in today’s world, what with social media leading the way.

Besides the fake boobs, Trophy Wife would come across as the girl next door to the public, which will freak them out even more. News stories will paint her as a saint, a devoted wife or girlfriend who loved animals and had a ton of friends. The fact that she was a gold digger who often got blitzed out of her mind and fucked the first guy who came along—they’ll conveniently leave those parts out of the story.

And the idea that even an innocent housewife can be on the Ice-Pick Killer’s hit list will cause county-wide panic.

It will be glorious.

Saturday it was.