CHAPTER SEVEN

Steam curled from his mug, a tendril of warmth in the cool, detached atmosphere of the coffee shop. He sat by the large picture window that looked out onto the street, an inconspicuous figure lost in a small crowd of patrons. The streets outside were a generic snapshot of mundane city life—pedestrians bustling, cars honking in the distance, an urban heartbeat.

Every now and then, he pretended to be on his phone. He would scroll a bit, but his eyes were always looking slightly up—always looking, always watching. He sipped slowly from his drink, something chai. He had no idea what. He'd simply ordered the first thing his eyes had landed on when he reached the cashier.

He sipped and scrolled, blending in with everyone else. Completely unremarkable. He waited patiently, watching the people outside pass by. Some were downcast, some were overjoyed; some walked alone, others walked in small groups. And no one paid any attention to him.

Then, as if entering from off-stage, there she was: Rebecca Clarke, emerging from the throng, walking at a pace that wasn't quite a spring but was certainly more than a simple walk. Another woman was with her as they crossed the street. They were chatting innocently about something, having no idea they were being watched.

This friend, he knew, was also an actress just like Rebecca. He'd seen her here and there during his surveillance and studying. He watched idly as they stood before the nondescript facade of the small studio across the street. There were no real markings or indications of what the building was. He only knew because he'd looked it up online. And, of course, because he'd been studying Rebecca for a while now. Rebecca and all the others.

He observed the subtle slump of their shoulders, the way their heads tilted toward one another in shared sorrow. They were the embodiment of grief, two women united by loss. It was clear to him that news of Emily's death had reached them, a fresh wound atop the barely healed scar left by Sarah Jennings's untimely demise just days ago.

He wondered what they must be thinking. Were they scared yet? Did they understand that someone was targeting actresses? Or did they think it was just a fluke that two of their peers had been killed recently?

A pang of something akin to sympathy fluttered in his chest, an unwelcome guest in the otherwise orderly chamber of his intentions. He sipped his coffee as he considered it. Yes, he felt bad for them, but it was a fleeting sentiment, a momentary lapse in the grand scheme of his mission.

His mind began to churn once more with purpose and clarity. There were wrongs to be righted. Surely, Rebecca and her friend must know that.

He watched as the two actresses disappeared into the studio, the door closing behind them. He set his mug down, the ceramic making a soft clink against the wooden table.

They didn't know it yet, but the stage had been set, and he was essentially the director. With each actress that fell, he believed he was inching closer to a finale where the world might finally come to appreciate what he was doing…to better understand.

Slowly, he rose from his seat, leaving a few crumpled bills beneath the empty mug. It was time to exit the wings and step onto the street stage once more.

Before leaving the coffee shop, his gaze lingered on the front of the studio for a moment, as if trying to pierce through the walls and witness their grief-stricken faces one last time. But the faint hum of conversation and clinking cups from within the coffee shop began to push at him. He stepped out onto the streets as if he didn't have a care in the world—as if he were just another pedestrian off to perform some task or chore.

Outside, he slipped into the flow of people. And because he lived in an age where everyone was far too self-absorbed and obsessed with their phones, his presence as inconspicuous as a shadow at dusk. No one noticed him. No one saw him. People brushed past him, wrapped up in their own lives, unaware of his purpose.

He crossed the street and didn't hesitate at all as he turned down the thin alley between the studio and the neighboring building. He simply walked along as if he belonged there, like it was a route he walked every single day. Between the buildings, the clamor of the city dulled to a murmur. Here, the walls seemed to lean in close, as if protecting him. It was actually a pleasant scene, with the creeping ivy on the walls and the crumbling brickwork, with the faint smell of freshly baked bread from the bakery half a block away.

Finding his hidden space beside a rust-stained dumpster, he settled onto the piece of cardboard that had become his makeshift perch. It was damp and softened by the elements, bearing the creases and imprints of his form from sessions past. This would be his fourth visit, listening to Rebecca rehearse, preparing himself for what was to come.

Muffled voices from within the studio seeped through the walls. The stage, he knew, was at the back of the building. There was a rear door to the right where people often used to come outside and smoke. But he'd only ever encountered that a single time and when the eyes of the smoking man had fallen on him, he had simply lay down and pretended to be a vagrant. The smoking man, just as self-obsessed as everyone else, seemed to think nothing of it.

He leaned against the brick wall as Rebecca Clarke's voice unfurled into the alleyway. He knew what she was practicing for, and it made his heart turn to ice.

He tensed, as if the world itself were venomous. The rehearsal unfolded like a confession, the dialogue a macabre echo of his own twisted narrative. She spoke of murder and death as if it were nothing to her, as if these were things she had dreamed about and yearned to enact in the real world.

To him, these were not lines recited; they were truths confessed. He could almost smell the bitter tang of the blood she would spill on stage, could hear the weeping and gnashing of teeth that would come from others because of her act.

And the applause of the sick, sick sheep in the audience.

She was just twenty or so feet away from him, detailing a murder, spilling her secrets to an audience unseen. But he saw. He always saw.

He sat there a while longer until his backside began to tingle with a pins and needles sensation. He stepped out from his hiding spot. This time, he did not hide the slip of cardboard he'd used as a seat behind the dumpster. No, he wouldn't be needing it anymore. After tonight, Rebecca would be off his list.

With anger churning in his chest, he strode away from the alley, his path certain, his purpose clear. The city swallowed him whole, just another face among many, but underneath the anonymity, hatred brewed. He knew what he must do next. Rebecca Clarke would be his next act of cleansing—the next step toward the purity he sought to restore.

It was odd and a bit of a paradox, he supposed, that it took so much murder to make something clean again, but he knew what he was doing was just. It was necessary. And Rebecca, like Emily and Sarah before her, would be just one of many in his own performance.