Page 26 of Just Right

But the voice in his head wouldn't stop tormenting him. "At this rate, you're going to do what you've done before. You're going to see everything destroyed again. Do you want to see that once more? Are you ready for it? And once you've done that, what are you going to do? What is the point of all this?"

“Don’t torment me that way.”

“It’s true, though? Now that you know what you did, you remember?”

He couldn't answer that. He didn't know how to answer that.

And then as the voice in his head started to laugh, he slammed his hands against the steering wheel in frustration.

"Shut up!" he shouted aloud.

He'd never felt so bad in his entire life. His muscles were trembling, his body was on high alert, and his mind was so dark, he was sure that he could never come back from this place of despair.

But there was always hope. There must be. He just needed to be strong enough to see it through.

"Why do you want to destroy things all over again?" the voice insisted, but the lost man was already past the point of listening.

He didn't care whether he survived this anymore. He didn't care if he lost himself. Right now, there was no hope of finding the happy ending that he needed. That was the point of all this, after all.If he didn't keep searching, he would never, ever find it.

There, ahead. That was where the stars were leading him. He was close. He might even be close enough to see them again.

He felt a surge of excitement.

He was going to save them. He was going to save them this time. He was going to make his life worth something. He was going to repair the mistakes that had happened, that had sent his life spinning off into chaos, that had caused the memories to be obliterated for long, empty years.

He was utterly sure it could be done.

This farmhouse ahead. That was the place he needed. That lone building, with its twinkling lights, aligned perfectly with the signal he'd been following, and it was in the right direction too. This was it, and he knew that she was here, waiting.

Aunt Barbie. That was who was here. He’d seen her online and hoped it was her.

He killed the lights. He wasn't sure why he did that and put it down to sheer instinct, nothing more. But he knew that it was essential to approach in the dark, although he couldn't remember why. It was something to do with not being found. That was it. He needed not to be found, because if he was, his mission would be destroyed.

He eased off on the accelerator, coasting in, trying his best to keep his fractured mind on the job, because it felt as if it was veering in a thousand different directions.

This was the only thing he had left in his life, the only hope that remained.

He eased the car to a stop, making sure to do it so carefully that not a sound could be heard. There were other sounds in the night. The calling of birds from somewhere. The sleepy clucking of chickens. The faraway rush of a car along the road he'd recently left. He saw its headlights pass by, like a distant meteor, and watched it until it had gone. If it turned this way, it would mean trouble, and his heart thudded hard in his chest.

But the car continued along the main road and then things grew quiet again.

He turned back to the house and stared at it, looking at the stars wheeling overhead. They had brought him to the right place, they must surely have done.

Here, he knew he would find what he needed. He felt confident. The stars had shown him the way, and it had to be. It had to be. In this small cottage, he would find his goal, his wish, his dream. At last.

Before he walked to the house, he reached into the car and took out his stick. Just as a precaution. He was sure he wouldn't need it. But it felt good in his hand. That was all.

On the way to the front door, something caught his eye.

A reservoir of water located near the house.

Its darkly gleaming surface seemed to reflect the stars, and the lost man paused for a moment, watching the hypnotic ripples, and touching the bracelet in his pocket, before striding up to the door.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Surely we can do something. There must be something we could do now?" Cami said, standing in the lobby of the motel where she and Connor had just arrived and were staying overnight.

Connor nodded. "The kills do form a geographical pattern," he said in a low voice, so that the receptionist behind the counter didn't hear him speak. "You’re absolutely right about that. But we can't get anywhere with it. It's too vague. It heads in a southerly direction, correct. It seems like this killer is heading toward Chicago. But the gaps in between the murder sites vary. We can't look at that map and say: in fifteen miles exactly, he's going to kill again."

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