8. Crave

More "investigating"for a fake podcast. More bullshit. More nights. More days. More time spent waiting for the perfect moment to fuck with her.

Rae's red hair flashes between the white slats in her window. My mind ticks, itching to see more. I keep settled in my truck, stationed in the far corner of her apartment parking lot. She never goes over here. Her car is near the building.

You're obsessed, my mother's voice hisses. You're letting her control you.

My facial muscles twitch. I force myself to relax, to not let that fake maternal voice get to me.

Rae exits her apartment, then patters down the stairs. Her sedan zooms off, and once her tires hit the main road, I head to the dumpster. I pop over, then grab a grease-stained pizza box. It's too early for pizza, but if someone sees me, they won't think twice about it. And once I get a key to her place, I won't need the cover.

A black rubber doormat, marked with dirt, sits in front of Rae's front door, the same one they give to all of the new residents. Rae hasn't put her own flair on the place; she blends in with the rest. It's not a bad thing in this situation.

I lift the rubber mat and grab the extra key. I put it in my pocket, then head back down the stairs and drop the empty pizza box in front of a random apartment.

Stupid little boy,that matronly voice screams inside of me. Thinking you can do anything to her when you've been putting off killing her for years. She's smarter than you think.

"Just like you thought you were smarter than me," I mutter.

That inner voice gets loud again, so I whistle, drowning out those thoughts. If it were just about killing Rae, we'd be done by now.

I'm not simply interested in Rae's blood; I'm interested in fucking with her mind.

At a chain one-stop shop, I use the automated key copy machine in the front entryway. Once that's done, I head to the electronics section and grab every home surveillance system they have. Because now that my mission is to properly get inside of her head, I need to have the ability to see her at all times.

Is that what you're telling yourself now?my mother's voice says. You're pathetic.

An edgy, restless sensation cycles through me. Years of rage coming to the surface of my skin.

A different voice enters: Come on, Rae whispers. I deserve more than a camera.

I spin around, different aisles melting together, chunks of metal and plastic swirling into nothingness.

A spark simmers inside of me.

The gardening section.

I stop right before the sliding doors to the outdoor patio, my vision scanning over the shelves.

Pesticides. Ant killer. Rodent traps. And poison.

The exterior is simple. A black bottle with a white skull on the front. Keep out of reach of children, the label reads. I snicker; the thought amuses me. They even use a cartoon caricature to illustrate the potential carnage. May cause death.

Death. Not murder.

Poison is too easy. I like knowing that I inflicted the damage, and poison doesn't do that. The chemicals do the work for you.

Would someone—a new killer, a woman—enjoy something subtle like poison?

"Is that what you need?" I ask out loud.

I wait for a moment, the squeaks of cart wheels and shuffling products filling my ears. I even close my eyes, waiting to hear Rae's voice.

Nothing happens.

Fuck it.

I stuff the poison bottle in my cart, then head to the cashier stands. Each camera box is a brick in my hands, a wall I'm building around her. A fortress meant to bury her in her own secrets. My ears pound with blood.

You want to save her,my mother says. Don't you?

"Rat problem?" the cashier asks, stirring me out of those thoughts. She continues to babble; I don't hear a word.

I remember holding a dead rat in the basement.

What is wrong with you?my mother had said. What are you doing with that? Put it?—

I snapped it in half, its bones crunching in the darkness. She gasped.

Just waiting for you,I had said.

I pay in cash, then stop at a drive-thru for breakfast. I eat the egg sandwich in two bites, then gulp the coffee. It scalds my throat.

"Shit!" I yell. I shove the cardboard cup into the holder in my console and toss the top out the window. "Goddamn it."

Rae will have something in her fridge to fix it. I head back to her apartment.

Since she's at work, her bedroom window is dark, the blinds closed.

With my coffee, cameras, poison, and new key in hand, I head up the stairs and tuck her spare key back under her doormat. My new key glides into the lock easily.

Inside her apartment, garlic and butter linger in the air from last night's dinner. Her floral perfume faintly sifts through the food smells.

I set my bags on the counter, then open her fridge. A peppermint mocha creamer is in the back. I don't care for peppermint, but it's better than boiling hot coffee. I pour some into my cup, then take a sip.

A surge of adrenaline runs through me. Rae will never know that I was here, drinking her coffee creamer. Maybe I'll even eat her food.

My eyes are drawn to the corners of the room.

A camera is set up in each corner. In the kitchen. The living room. The bedroom. Even outside of the bathroom. She's been recording herself like she's sure someone is going to break in and hurt her, and she wants evidence to put them in jail. Funny.

It makes it a hell of a lot easier for me.

I open up her laptop. It doesn't take long to find the surveillance programs linked to the cameras. I erase the footage of me, then schedule the cameras to turn on again in an hour. I'll be out of her apartment by then.

After that, I copy her surveillance program login information so that I can have access from anywhere I want.

My dick bulges, and for a split second, I picture myself fucking her from behind, my piercings tearing through that sweet little hole, digging out a new cavern for me. I squeeze the head of my cock through my pants.

"Dirty little girl," I murmur, pulling myself out to stroke.

You are obsessed,my mother's voice chimes.

Irritation and numbness flow into my palm. My dick is in my hand, red from the friction, my fingers throbbing around the metal jewelry. I'm not obsessed—not like my inner voice seems to think—but I need to calm down. Rae is just a woman, and I've raped and killed more than my fair share of people. Even if she reminds me of myself, she's not that special. I'd get hard doing this to anyone.

It's not about her.

I click my tongue, then zip my pants and head to the kitchen to grab my coffee and the extra cameras. Jasmine dances in the air, and my mind wanders back to her.

Fake red hair. Tan skin. Plain brown eyes.

I hold the bottle of poison. I could leave it on the counter for her, a gift to let her know that I was here. I have no doubt that she'll know it's from me.

I open the creamer, and for a split second, I entertain the idea of pouring the poison into it. Flavored creamer is such a small indulgence, and the idea of killing her when she least expects it would be amusing. With these cameras, I'd get to see her die. It would almost be worth it to see her expression—fear, betrayal, then anger—as she realizes I poisoned her. Someone who was there even before she moved to Pahrump.

Instead, I close my eyes, thinking of her pussy's sour tang as she watched me kill those people, and I work the zipper of my jeans with one hand. An image of her tanned skin riddled with purple bruises fills my mind, and my hand grips my fleshy cock and the metal jewelry. I'm practically foaming at the mouth. When it comes to our sex, she'll never have the ability to fake it like she does with her conquests. Every scream will be pure agony, and every scream will belong to me.

My cock bursts, and I moan, the head of my cock resting on that open bottle. My cum drips into her creamer.

I sigh, then close the bottle and shove it back into the fridge. I put the sealed poison back into the plastic grocery bag with the unopened cameras. I head toward the door.

Rae doesn't need to know that I've got a key to her apartment yet. If I told her now, that would be too easy for her…and for me.

I need more than that.