Page 47 of Silent Stalker

Idrum my fingers against my desk, staring at the phone. Three hours. Three fucking hours since Clara read my message, and nothing. The read receipt mocks me, a digital slap across my face.

My carefully crafted control splinters. I am her savior, her path to enlightenment. How dare she ignore my messages!

“Fuck!” I hurl my coffee mug across the room. It shatters, dark liquid staining the pristine white wall. The mess bothers me, but I can’t bring myself to clean it. Not now.

I pull up the surveillance feed from her apartment. Empty. The precinct cameras show her hunched over paperwork with that pathetic excuse for a detective, James. My fingers curl into fists at the sight of him leaning over her shoulder.

Their confusion over the eighth day amuses me. While they search for a nonexistent victim, Clara bears the mark of that night in the barn—my perfect eight maids-a-milking. Today's kill will only deepen their bewilderment, adding another layer to my masterpiece.

Nine ladies dancing. The song echoes in my head, a twisted melody that won’t let go. Nine is too many bodies, too messy.But I need to make a statement. Show Clara what happens when she tests my patience.

Sarah Matthews crosses my mind again. That sanctimonious PTA president with her fake smile and judging eyes. I’ve watched her berate young mothers at school meetings, crushing their spirits with her cruel words. And yet, all the while, she’s skimming money from the association. She takes dance classes at the community center.

Perfect.

My hand steadies as I reach for my knife. The blade catches the light, and I smile. I’ll position her body in an eternal pirouette, suspended from the ceiling of her precious dance studio. One woman, frozen in a dance of death, surrounded by eight mirrors reflecting her final performance.

“You’ll see, Clara,” I whisper to the empty room. “You’ll understand when you find her. This is what happens when you try to resist our destiny.”

I check my phone again. Still nothing.

The rage builds, hot and dangerous. I need to move now before this fury makes me sloppy. Sarah Matthews will be leaving her evening class soon. Time to give her the spotlight she so desperately craves.

I park my Audi in the shadowy corner of the community center lot, engine off but ready. The snow falls thick, muffling all sound. It’s perfect. Through the glass doors, I watch Sarah Matthews lead her advanced ballet class through their final positions.

My leather gloves creak as I flex my fingers against the steering wheel. The bottle of chloroform, along with the zip ties and piano wire, sits heavy in my coat pocket. Everything is measured, and meticulously prepared.

The studio lights dim one by one. Students file out in their winter coats, chattering and laughing. Sarah remains behind,gathering her things with that superior tilt to her chin. Even now, she radiates contempt for everyone around her.

I step out into the snow, pulling up my hood. The cold bites at my exposed skin, but I barely notice. My focus narrows to Sarah’s silhouette through the frosted glass as she heads for the exit.

The key scrapes in the lock. I move swiftly and silently across the lot, timing my approach perfectly. I’ve already switched the CCTV live footage with a loop. They won’t see me coming or my car parked nearby. Sarah’s shoulders tense as if she senses something, but it’s too late. I clamp the chloroform-soaked cloth over her mouth and nose, my other arm locked around her waist like a steel band.

She thrashes, trying to scream through the cloth. Her dance bag drops, spilling contents across the snow. I drag her back through the door she just unlocked, kicking it shut behind us. Her struggles grow weaker as the chloroform takes hold.

“Shhh,” I whisper against her ear. “Time for your final performance.”

Her body goes limp in my arms. I hoist her over my shoulder and carry her deeper into the dark studio.

I lay Sarah’s unconscious body on the hardwood floor, the mirrors around us reflecting our forms infinitely. The studio’s emergency lights cast an eerie blue glow across her face. Perfect atmosphere for what’s to come.

My tools click against each other as I remove them from my pocket—piano wire, hooks, pulleys. Everything must be precise. First, I need to adjust the mirrors. I position each one at exactly forty-five degrees, creating an octagon of reflection around the center point where Sarah will hang.

She stirs, eyelids fluttering. I can’t have her waking yet. Another dose of chloroform keeps her under while I drillanchors into the ceiling. The sound echoes in the empty studio, but I’m not worried. No one comes here this late.

“Time to wake up, Sarah.” I slap her cheeks lightly. She needs to be conscious for this. Her eyes snap open, terror replacing confusion as she realizes she’s bound. The zip ties bite into her wrists and ankles.

“Please...” she whimpers.

I grab her chin, forcing her to look at her reflection. “You always wanted to be the center of attention. Now you’ll have your moment.”

The piano wire slides around her throat. I position her body into an arabesque, her leg extended behind her, arms raised gracefully. The wire lifts her slowly as she chokes, feet leaving the ground. Tears stream down her face as she struggles to maintain the pose.

“Perfect form,” I whisper, watching her reflection multiply in the mirrors. “Clara will appreciate the artistry.”

Sarah’s movements become frantic, then weak, then still. I adjust her final position, ensuring she’s perfectly centered. Eight mirrors capture her suspended form from every angle, creating the illusion of nine dancers frozen in their final performance.

I step back to admire my work. Sarah Matthews hangs in eternal grace, her reflection repeated in perfect symmetry. The morning light will catch the mirrors just right, creating a macabre ballet for whoever finds her.

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