Page 33 of Caution Tape

Maybe shipping containers can wait. Maybe the treasure trove of homicidal toys I want can be pushed off until tomorrow.

I turn the car around in someone’s driveway and speed off in the direction of Cora’s job, hoping she’ll be there.

I pass flowers on the way into the store—a rack of them—and resist the urge to grab a bouquet. I am swirling in a mixture of elation and confusion, second guessing every fleeting emotion that decides to rear its head, trying to fend them off with ruthless rationalization.

I’m only interested because she’s a challenge.

Once she’s dealt with, it’ll be over, and my sense of balance will return. This is nothing more than a fun new game for my gnashing mind to grapple with. Nothing more.

I’m fuming in these thoughts as I carefully walk through the store, approaching the checkout counters on multiple passes, getting closer each time. I finally see her, sitting with her arms folded, glaring at a man dressed like a social worker who sits across from her.

I imagine breaking one of the fluorescent overhead lights, ripping out one of the long bulbs, breaking in two over my knee, and digging the serrated glass edge into this guy’s neck. I would pull it firmly through the gristle of his throat, shredding the flesh and sending a torrent of dark, oxygen-starved blood all over the table.

The urge disappears as I approach them; Cora sees me over the man’s shoulder and tenses. The man turns around and surveys me.

“Ah… hello. Would this be—ahem—Target Guy?“ he asks Cora.

She nods, her eyes flicking between us as I reach out to shake his hand.

“Nolan. I’m a friend of Cora’s.”

He shakes my hand and sighs in a pedantic, lecture sort of way.

“Nolan, you seem well intentioned. I wonder if you understand that you’re doing something... off-putting?” He glances at Cora, who tightens her lips but doesn’t respond. “Anyway, as someone who’s interested in her well-being, I—“

“Cora, who’s the substitute teacher you’re talking to?” I nod my head at him, and he sighs again.

“Michael. My therapist,” she mutters. Michael reaches over the table and squeezes her arm in a reassuring manner.

Behind my eyes there is something wicked, dark, and drooling. It’s desperate to claw its way out and sever every limb Michael has.

“A core part of her therapy is going to be teaching her to set boundaries with people in her life. Especially people who are bothering her.”

I’m standing awkwardly over them, attracting glances as people walk by with their shopping bags. The conversation needs to end before I am “seen with the victim before his disappearance”.

“This doesn’t seem very professional. Do therapists normally talk to people for their patients?” I look at Cora. Here was a girl ready to stab me in the woods, and now she’s acting like a scolded child because of... this guy?

“Well,” Michael says, “Cora and I are approaching her treatment in an unorthodox way.”

The knowing smile he gives Cora makes me want to cut off his ears and stuff them in his eye sockets.

“We have decided it would be best if you kept your distance,” he continues. “I think you have some work to do on yourself and your relationship with Cora is just not healthy.”

I am Nolan. I am in control. I have always been in control. I will not lose it here in thisfuckingTarget.

Ignoring him, I address Cora. “If you ever want to benot healthy…text me.“ Her phone is sitting on the table in front of her, unlocked and inviting. I lean in and pluck it away, swiping to contacts and adding my number. I hand it back to her, my eyes catching hers. “I don’t see anything wrong with you.”

“That’s enough.” Michael is standing now, glaring at me. Cora quickly takes her phone back, and I saunter away, offering a few stray glances back at Michael as I go.

Chapter Fourteen

Nolan

They emerge from the store after quite some time. I maintain my watch from the camouflage of my own vehicle as they walk across the parking lot. They appear to be arguing; Cora is gesturing wildly with her hands. They get into a car—his car—and drive away. I start my own car up and begin following them, keeping at a distance, a few cars between us.

Cora has an idea of what I am, but Michael does not. I have that advantage.

I drum my hands on the steering wheel and lean around in my seat, craning my neck to keep track of Michael’s silver sedan. I have a very loose, general sort of plan, and that bothers me. This is impulsive and I know it. All of this increases the likelihood of getting caught. More people and more variables. I am on the verge of my second kill, a seminal moment in my ascension.

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