—
I head northinto the hills as soon as the girls are off to school. Leaving the minivan behind, I lace up my trail running shoes, start my Garmin GPS watch, and take off at a near sprint into the forest.
Usually, I hit the gym on Tuesdays. I lift weights and do pull-ups and box jumps, all training for the event that is life—and, in my case, death. Short of killing someone, this is the only fix—albeit a temporary one.
A small part of me worries this is the new normal. That knowing I’m supposed to kill Brian, that he is not who he seems to be, that I am the recipient of a decade of lies, has pushed me to the edge. And what do I do when I’m pushed to the edge?
You already know the answer to that.
So I’m dealing with it the same way I did in high school. I’m pounding my feet for miles on this rugged trail, leaping over boulders and trying to not go splat when I trip on a tree root. Up here, in these thick, granite-and-tree-filled hills, you might not know you’re in Texas. It feels far more like the Sierra Nevada of California. But like anywhere in this country, Texas is complicated, multifaceted.
A lot like Brian, apparently.
I’m six miles in. Oak trees spiral upward, like claws reaching toward the sky. Sunshine streams through their branches, hot and sticky. The bugs are out, eager for blood.
Rounding a bend, I’m suddenly no longer alone with my thoughts. A man appears on the trail in front of me, headed in mydirection. He’s in his early twenties, wearing a black running vest, the sort ultra-runners strap on to carry food and water for longer runs. Once, I was him—running as far as I could to get this monster to chill the fuck out, to go back in its hole and stay there.
I stumble to a stop in the middle of the trail and watch his progress. This could be an opportunity. I could settle myself, get the monster to go back to sleep for a little longer. It would beeasy. No one else is out here. No one to hear him scream for help. No one to stop me. I could simply pull out my Glock and end his life—but no. That’s not what the monster wants. She wants pain. The thrill of watching the lights go out. The juicy elation of his fear.
I step off the trail and tuck myself behind the thick, gnarled trunk of an oak. He passes, the scent of his deodorant lingering in the air, sweet and spicy. Thetap-tap-tapof his footsteps, the heavy exhalation of his breath.
I can stop him, can stop it all. And in doing so, ease this need inside me.
I wait until he’s fifty yards ahead, then follow. Eventually, this path winds up to the top of the hill, giving a view of San Antonio on a clear day. I’ll need to do it before that spot, and thankfully, there are plenty of dense patches of woods between here and there.
I speed up, closing the space between us. He’s six foot. A lean build with dark running shorts, a white top with a Nike swoosh on the hemline.
We’re almost at a turnoff, a side trail, and my insides quiver with eagerness. When he makes that right turn, further isolates himself, it’s go time. Even though I’ve now run eight miles, I’m not tired. A new type of energy floods me, gives me the stamina topursue, to consider all the different ways I could do this.
He ducks beneath a low branch, coughs. Keeps running. At one point he takes a long look around, glances over his shoulder.Spots me. The prey noticing the predator, but it’s too late now. We lock eyes. He gives me a smile, then continues on seemingly unbothered to have someone on his heels.
Must be nice to have that kind of privilege. I’m only a woman, after all.
I reach out to yank his arm, pull him off the trail, when voices float through the trees. Lots of them, from just ahead.
The thrall of adrenaline is suddenly doused in ice-cold water. A group of three women comes around the next corner.
Witnesses. People who will see my face and be able to identify me and call the police and—
I stop in my tracks. Glance down at my running watch, like I’ve hit my target mileage and now it’s time to turn back.
I do exactly that.
My heart slows. The blood pulsing in my veins settles down to a normal flow.
The letdown of not killing him—of being thwarted right before I pulled a knife from the same sheath that holds my gun—leaves me breathless, empty, numb, like being caught having sex right before that final moment, being denied relief, orgasm.
I jog another mile before the realization hits.
I could have killed someone innocent who did not deserve to die.
His life flashes before my eyes—a son, perhaps a brother, or a father, ahusband—to someone, he is like Brian is to me. The weight of that grief slams into me, and I gasp—I nearly took that away, and for no reason other than my own compulsion to kill.
You’re a monster.The words echo through my head, and yet, even understanding what almost happened, I still ache to turn around, find a deer path through the forest, catch him by surprise, and then I would—
“Damn.” My hand rakes through my hair. I tighten my ponytail, huff out a breath.
This is too much. I have to sort out what brand of bad Brian is and decide if I’m going to kill him—and if I am, get it over with, so I don’t lose control and become this creature I’m capable of being.
