12. Silas

12

SILAS

I watch Clara's car disappear around the corner, sitting alone. My fingers find the key in the ignition as I plan to follow her, but then a flash of movement catches my eye—an older woman struggling with grocery bags in the snow.

The old bat reminds me of Mrs. Peterson, the librarian who used to sneak me cookies when Father locked me out of the house. She'd pat my head and tell me everything would be okay. It never was, but those moments stuck.

I get out of my car. "Need help with those, ma'am?"

Her weathered face brightens. "Oh, aren't you sweet? These old bones aren't what they used to be."

The bags are heavy with canned goods and frozen meals. Single-serving portions. Living alone. Vulnerable. Perfect prey.

But something in her grateful smile stops the darker thoughts. "Let me carry these inside for you."

"Such a gentleman. My Harold, God rest his soul, would've loved to meet a nice young man like you."

Her house is small and tidy. Photos everywhere—grandkids, probably. I arrange her groceries exactly how she directs, ensuring the expiration dates face forward.

"Would you like some hot cocoa? Fresh-baked cookies, too."

Just like Mrs. Peterson. My throat tightens. "Thank you, but I should go."

She presses a warm cookie into my palm anyway. "Stay safe out there. The news says there's a killer about."

If she only knew. But tonight, she's safe from me.

The cookie tastes like childhood memories—of the only kindness I knew growing up. I save half, carefully wrapping it in a napkin. Some things deserve to be preserved.

I return to my car and drive to the small apartment I've rented for the short term.

The lock clicks behind me as I enter my temporary sanctuary. This apartment—sterile, generic, forgettable—serves its purpose.

My fingers drum against the kitchen counter. Tap-tap-tap. I switch hands. Tap-tap-tap. The rhythm doesn't satisfy me. I need movement, action, and release.

I pace the living room. Three steps forward, pivot, three steps back. The cookie from earlier sits on the counter, half-wrapped in its napkin. It is a reminder. A weakness?

My laptop screen glows, and Clara's social media pages reflect back at me. I've memorized every photo and post. The walls around me disappear under printouts and sticky notes—a shrine to her existence. The red string connects key events, dates, locations, and people.

"You're close now," I whisper, touching her image. "So close."

The pacing resumes. Faster. My hands won't stay still. I arrange the kitchen knives by size, then by color of handle, then alphabetically by brand. None of it feels right, so I do it again.

A car door slams outside. I'm at the window instantly, peering through blinds I've cut to precise one-inch strips. Just the neighbor. Disappointing.

Back to the laptop. I need to check Clara's location, police scanners, and traffic cameras. My leg bounces as I scroll, and my fingers tap keys in an erratic rhythm. Everything must be monitored, controlled, and perfect.

I scroll through social media profiles, searching for my next mark. Everyone's so boring—perfect little lives wrapped in Instagram filters and Facebook likes. But I know better. Beneath those smiles lie rotting souls.

A profile catches my eye: Sarah Matthews, president of the local PTA. Her photos show her hugging children and organizing charity drives. "#blessed" appears in every caption. But there's something in her eyes that speaks to me—a coldness.

I dug deeper, looking at old news articles and court records. She'd testified against her former business partner, claiming innocence in an embezzlement scheme. The partner went to prison, but Sarah walked free, her reputation intact.

My fingers trace her image on the screen. "You think you're so clever, don't you?"

She reminds me of Mother. The same type who'd step over bodies to maintain their pristine image.

But something holds me back. Six geese a-laying - that's the next verse. Sarah's death needs to mean something more. Needs to fit the pattern, the story I'm creating for Clara.

I close her profile. Not yet. The perfect victim will present themself.

My hands twitch. The urge to kill burns through my veins, demanding release, but control separates the artist from the amateur. Each death must be a masterpiece.

I scroll through the files on my laptop, each folder meticulously organized with evidence of my victims' sins. Michael Parker's computer revealed his disgusting predilections—hundreds of photos of children at playgrounds and chat logs with minors. The way he lurked near schools made my skin crawl. His death was a gift to society, arranged with a partridge that symbolized his prey.

The traveling couple, Alice and James Wright, abandoned their two beautiful children in the system. Their Instagram showed exotic locations while their kids bounced between foster homes. Their matching white sweaters—a mockery of the family photos they should have taken with their children. They died holding hands, just as self-absorbed in death as they were in life.

The French teacher hid behind her cultured accent and designer clothes. But I found the texts, the secret meetings with young Thomas in empty classrooms. Her death was poetry—three French hens indeed. The boy will heal now that she can't abuse him anymore.

The four choir women, pillars of the church community, ran a pyramid scheme bankrupting elderly parishioners. They sang hymns on Sunday while stealing retirement funds on Monday. Their bodies formed a perfect circle—like their endless cycle of greed.

David Lovell, at the jewelry store, laundered money for drug dealers. Five golden rings surrounded his corpse, a reminder of the dirty cash he cleaned. He helped poison our streets, destroying families.

Each death serves a purpose. I'm not just killing—I'm cleansing. Clara will understand when she sees the truth. We're alike, seeing through society's facade to the rot beneath. I'm doing what she wishes she could do: delivering justice where the law fails.

I close my laptop and lean back, savoring the memory of each execution. They called themselves good people, but I knew better. I always know better.