With every one of her labored breaths, my temperature rises. When she whimpers in her sleep, my vision takes on a scarlet hue. Finding her beaten and battered with tears creating a steady stream down her face did something to me. I can’t explain it, I can’t reason it. All I know is that for a brief second, eleven-year-old Tanner was back and as bloodthirsty as ever.
For the last two hours, I’ve battled with myself, forcing my body to stay here, seated and controlled so I don’t turn into eleven year old me who had no fucking clue what he was doing.
Instead of letting my anger dictate my next move, I go through the steps of my new mission, repeating the different stages in my head like a mantra.
First, I need intel.
I have cameras in place, filming every inch of my house but only in the general direction of Berkleigh’s. I get an alert on my phone if anyone breaches my property but I didn’t think to put that in place for her.
That’s going to change.
With the equipment I have in place, I should be able to get a quick ID of the target, maybe tap into the police database and see what I can find…if anything.
Then, I need recon.
Once I find him, I stalk him. A good kill goes hand and hand with thorough preparation. Who’s going to be the first person to report him missing? What are his daily activities? How can I disrupt it all without it getting anywhere near Berkleigh?
Next, I prep.
Where I kill is just as important as how, but this one is personal so I’ll need to change up my routine.
The thrill of the hunt has my skin buzzing with anticipation, knowing I won’t be numb to it. I’ll fucking enjoy every second of his pain.
Finally, I dispose.
All traces of my involvement and Berkleigh’s existence within his sphere must disappear. I’ll try to get as much intel as possible without interrogating her, but if my pickings are slim, I may not have much of a choice.
Keeping my mind busy with concrete shit that needs to be done helps to hold the rage at bay. My fingers relax, no longer biting into the leather of the chair. My shoulders drop just enough to relieve the tension in my back and my jaw loosens, allowing a small reprieve to my aching teeth. Any more grinding and I’m afraid I’ll shave them down to nothing.
Under my steady scrutiny, Berkleigh hasn’t stirred for at least fifteen minutes, telling me she’s sound asleep. With one last look at her battered face and neck—the only places visible and not covered by the blanket—I stand from my chair and step out of my bedroom.
Twisting the knob all the way to the left, I pull the door closed and accompany the latch so it doesn’t make any noise. For afew seconds, I’m frozen in place, my mind warring with itself on whether to keep watch or get those tapes and memorize them.
Logic and pragmatism win. I leave my unwanted feelings at the door, turning on my heel and heading straight for my office. If I were alone, I would leave my door open, but I can’t take the risk of Berkleigh waking up and seeing what I’m doing. She’d freak out and I don’t have the skill set to calm her down.
Hell, I’d probably say something to make it worse.
The house is quiet and the majority of the floorboards squeak, so if she moves, I’ll hear it.
Pushing the door so that only a sliver remains open, I settle behind my desk. First, I turn on my computer, followed by the three screens set up like a vanity mirror. Picking up my remote, I press the on button and watch as the wall separates into a collage of television screens—one for every camera in my perimeter. It’s a cool fucking office, all high tech and shit.
As soon as everything is ready to go, I click on my video files and pull up today’s—technically yesterday’s—recordings. The view aimed at Berkleigh’s driveway is the one I’m most interested in, at first. With any luck, the perp parked in my line of sight and I can get a plate.
Fast forwarding through the day, I pause the video when a black sedan with tinted windows crawls up the drive and stops just inches from Berkleigh’s garage door. The angle of the lens isn’t ideal. I can’t see the back plates and only the first two letters of the front plate. BG.
I’m not going to waste my energy running a partial through the DMV. The list will be too long to be useful. Maybe I won’t even need them. Who knows? The guy could be flagged by intelligence and I can get my hands on him without breaking a fucking sweat.
Pressing play, I get ready to pause the second his face comes into view.
“What the fuck?” The words spill from my mouth as I narrow my eyes at the screen. If I thought I was close to losing control earlier, the scene unraveling on the screen is testing the limits of my self control.
Expecting a douchebag to come out of the car, I’m taken aback by the fact that he’s not alone. There are three of them stepping out of the sedan and all of them look like they need to find Jesus with the barrel end of a gun.
My anger spikes when only one of them turns slightly in the right direction.
Why the fuck did I take out the camera I’d placed in her room a couple of months ago? I’d wanted a video of her to jack off to and once I’d secured the precious twenty minutes of her fucking herself with a dildo, I’d done the right thing and taken it down. In my defense, she’d dared me, laughing at the idea that I’d be able to do something like that without her knowledge.
Clearly, she forgot who I was in my absence.
