"He started twelve minutes ago," Cain says, checking his phone where he's been tracking Morrison's fitness app.
Technology makes murder so much more convenient. "He'll reach the isolated stretch in eight minutes."
We stretch by our truck, playing the part of morning joggers.
Anyone driving by would see a couple preparing for exercise, nothing more.
I bend to touch my toes, and Cain runs his hand down my spine, possessive even now.
"Ready?"
"Always."
We jog onto the trail, pacing ourselves to intercept perfectly.
My breath clouds in the frigid air, December asserting itself with below-freezing temperatures.
The ground is frozen solid, our footprints leaving no impression. Nature conspiring to hide our crime.
The woods are silent except for our footfalls.
No birds yet, too early and too cold.
The trees are skeletons against the lightening sky, their branches reaching like the hands of the dead.
Appropriate, considering what we're about to do.
"You're smiling," Cain observes.
"I'm about to murder a human trafficker with my fiancé. It's better than coffee."
"You're perfect."
"I'm becoming perfect. You're sculpting me into something sharper than I was."
"You were always sharp. I'm just removing the safety guards."
We pass the one-mile marker, then the two.
My body warms with the exercise, muscles remembering years of morning runs when I couldn't sleep, when the stories in my head demanded movement.
Now I'm living one of those stories, running toward violence instead of from insomnia.
The trail curves ahead, entering the densest part of the woods.
Pine and spruce press close, their branches heavy with last night's snow.
No houses, no roads, no witnesses for a mile in any direction.
We slow our pace, listening.
There—footfalls ahead, heavy and labored.
Morrison pushing himself despite the cold, despite his weight, despite his age.
Proving something to no one.
"Remember," Cain says quietly, "once the paralytic hits, we have limited time. The digitalis needs to go in within two minutes for the timing to look natural."