Page 33 of Just Now

If an alarm system was too complicated, or security was too tight, or else if he found that his victim didn’t live alone, then he abandoned that person.

He had done that a couple of times, because he wasn’t stupid, he didn’t take risks.

But because time was tight, he’d only been in here once, and he had not been able to purchase any items that were similar to those in her bedroom.

Luckily he’d had a stroke of genius.

This time, he didn’t have to duplicate the setup, but could just take what was here! She wouldn’t get as far as the bedroom. He would meet her in the hallway when she got home, and it was there that he would pounce. So he could simply use a few of her very own items to decorate her new temporary home in his place.

He went into her bedroom, careful not to disturb anything. He pulled open her dresser drawers, taking out a few of her clothes. He knew he’d have to be extra careful not to damage them, but he felt that seeing them on the bed would create that atmosphere of home that he was seeking.

He tucked them into his bag.

Furnishings?

“I don’t think one bedside lamp will be missed, seeing you live alone?” he murmured, bending down and unplugging the lamp that was on the side where she clearly didn’t sleep. The other side had a lived-in appearance. The pillow was dented, the bed hadn’t been carefully made, the coverlets had just been tugged into place messily.

There was a book lying open on the bedside table and also an asthma inhaler and a water glass.

He picked up the inhaler and examined it, thinking about what he could do with it. Maybe he could place it on the bedside table in the room he’d prepared for her. That would be a nice touch.

He smiled to himself, tucking the inhaler into his pocket. He grabbed the water glass and headed to the kitchen. He filled it up with water and took a sip, feeling refreshed. He felt like he was living a dream—and a very nice one, at that.

“Your home is very comfortable, just like your life. I’m enjoying it,” he said aloud. “I’m living your life better than you did. I’m enjoying knowing what it’s like to be you. I’m going to make you become me now, and then I’ll remove you. Erase you.” Oh, why was he mincing his words this way? He might as well blurt out the truth.

“I’ll kill you,” he said. “But it’s nothing personal. Just a process. Stepping into your life will help me to heal from my own. I hope you understand?”

Then he wiped the glass carefully with a dish towel to remove the imprint of his lips and fingers, and set it in the sink.

As he walked back, he caught sight of himself in the hallway mirror and frowned.

He was displeased that scars still remained from the earlier victim’s attack. He didn’t want to show scars. It was worrying that he had identifying characteristics now which showed he’d been in a fight.

It might be wisest to keep this woman and for him to lie low for a few days, to allow these scars to heal. That would be the safest thing to do.

“It’s what I need to do,” he decided, slipping his feet into the shiny shoes he’d bought. They were restrictive, and the soles were slippery. They were definitely designed for boardroom warriors, and not for people who might need to get caught up in a struggle. He practiced walking up and down in them. Because, after all, he needed to be able to move in them. When he came face to face with her, if she turned and ran, he had to be able to keep pace and to overpower her. Fast, before she got out of her house. He would have to drag her inside and only then could he change back into his old rubber-soled boots.

“It’s what I must do. Be sensible and cautious. Be methodical, and plan every single step of the way,” he reminded himself.

But, as he adjusted his tie, he felt a frisson of worry.

The adrenaline was pumping harder now, and he could feel his heart racing in his chest. He was ready for this, and nothing was going to stop him.

What he wanted, what he knew was right, was one thing. But when he lost control, all those good resolutions flew out the window.

He wondered if he would lose it now.

He hoped he wouldn’t—with most of his mind, at least.

A tiny, gleeful part of him was begging to let rip, and to unleash his killing rage.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

How long would Connor take? How much time did she have?

Cami felt cold with dread as she waited to hear his footsteps, knowing that he’d still be a few minutes if he had to brief the police.

That gave her time to do something. To call Kieran. Perhaps he’d have some ideas on how to handle this. She needed to tell him that Connor was asking questions she’d have to answer. It might put him in danger, too, and if so, she’d feel that she had at least warned him.

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