Page 11 of Stalker's Toy

Every iteration of her name returns another morsel to savor.

I imagine her burnt-red hair fanning out against my pillow, her green eyes finding fear in the face of my urges.

My mind itches like a fresh wound until every unknown is catalogued, catalogued until it's my own.

I watch the search engine spin until finally finding records on her.

Damaged findings—I lean back in my chair.

Mia Cohen, aged fifteen when her parents died.

Cause of death: house fire.

Fascinating.

Fire is a destroyer, but it's also a creator.

I picture Mia's face, pale and silvery-scarred, her life altered by trauma that I have every intention of capitalizing on.

I imagine her covered by a fireman's blanket, those emerald eyes dull with smoke.

I imagine so many things, each image more exquisite than the last.

So fragile… mine to mold.

My focus sharpens.

The records say the State of New York took custody after her parents' death.

A lifetime of trauma.

The system has never cared about fragile things.

I picture it swallowing her whole, reducing her to a kid in and out of foster homes, her beauty forever changed.

But that's not what happened.

Mia Cohen is too stubborn for that.

She turned tragedy into a burning ember, and I've found the trail.

The screen shows more details now, a winding path that brought her to me.

The next webpage is as informative as the first: she's spent her teenage years working in art galleries.

Seeing as I own a gallery and enjoy painting my muses… she's the perfect fit for my obsessions.

I almost smile, imagining her dusting frames and scrubbing floors to avoid becoming another lost cause.

Non-profit submissions, scholarship applications, each one a desperate shot into the universe for something to stick.

I see the moment she stepped off the plane, a young woman so far from home she might as well have been on another planet.

But she's exactly where she's meant to be.

Where I want her to be.

I sit in the quiet, satisfied but not sated.

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