“Not only that, of course. I’m also going to shop, and I’m going to treat myself.”
“You haven’t done that in a while, good for you. Do you want some of our friends to go with you?” I smile at him and shakemy head. Emin and I have been friends for a very long time, and we have our own little friend group: his brother Daris and their cousins Ema and Omer.
“Not necessary, but they can always crash and say hello.”
“I think that Ema is also out on a shopping spree.”
“I bet she is. I’m going to do some squats and hit the treadmill, good?”
“Good. I’m off to get my hen and to finish up the papers. Bye, Lana!”
“Bye, Emin!"
For the rest of the day, I stayed at the gym.
Sweat slicked my skin as I pushed through another set of squats, the burn in my legs grounding me to the present. Every rep was a reminder that control started here—if I could master my body, the rest would follow.
I make my way out of the gym, and I hear footsteps behind me. My dad taught me not to turn around if someone might be following me, so I don’t. I would have come with my car to the gym, but I barely have any money left for gas, so I made the foolish decision to take public transportation. My own legs are moving toward the bus station, but the sound of the footsteps behind me is not slowing down.
Somebody is following me.
I don’t dare turn around because I can’t look at the person following me. My footsteps are suddenly loud against the cold pavement of the streets of Sarajevo. What’s usually a busy city feels like a quiet hostage town now. My heart is pounding against my chest, and my decision is made, and I can’t take it back.
And I don’t want to.
“Lana.”
Fuck.
The person behind me is probably only a couple of meters away, but I don’t care. I need to keep going. My hands are in the pockets of my coat, and I keep my head up.
I am at the bus station, and luckily, it’s crowded, and the bus arrives. I go into it at high speed and get off at my station to shop. With my ears perked up, I don’t hear any footsteps anymore. I go into the department store and do what I need to do.
1."Dad" in the Bosnian language.
28
MI check Lana’s location, and she is at a downtown shopping mall. I hope she is treating herself to some nice things.
I am now at my primary residence and talking to my team. Oliver and Josh are sitting at my kitchen table, Sara is going over some papers with me, and Adam is watching CCTV footage of Marco. I’ve ordered Hana to stay away from us for the next couple of weeks because her exams are coming up, and I want her to study.
To which she begrudgingly agreed.
My team and I are talking about Marco, the Sweet Snatcher, and we have almost narrowed down his routine. I have a couple of my guys following him, and he truly knows how to evade any suspicion. His working hours have shifted a bit; typically, he worked from 8 a.m. until 4 p.m., but now it’s from 7 a.m. until 3 p.m., and there is a reason for that. A fucking dubious reason.
Kids leave school and go to the park afterward, where he snatches them. He is particularly fond of young teenagers and lures them with candied apples and sweet talk. In my community, there's been talk about this guy, but it was hard to track him down because he was a master at evading. There are fucked up people in the world, but they still count as regular people. And regular people get caught eventually.
Not this guy.
Marco is brilliant and patient.
Once a month, the park near his work has a “sweet day”. Usually, it’s on the last day of the month or the first day of the new month, but this year it was organized earlier because of New Year’s. Sweet Day is a day when the biggest park in Sarajevo is crawling with parents, kids, and teenagers, all trying to buy candy for a reduced price. Vendors offer candy, chocolate, and baklava, among other treats, to satisfy your sweet tooth. But there is also savory stuff.
And Marco takes advantage of that, and he knows his audience.
It’s also one of the times that a lot of homeless teens and less fortunate teens from broken homes come to the park to get food at discounted prices. Almost thirty-one percent of kids, ages five to fifteen, live in poverty in Bosnia, and a small chunk of that is in Sarajevo. Maybe that’s a small chunk percentage-wise, but it’s still a lot of kids.
My blood is absolutely boiling at the thought of what he does.
