Prologue

Wednesday, March 10

11:45 p.m.

Was killing someone supposed to be this easy?

The Mascoma River churns and bubbles beneath the wood-slatted bridge, drowning out the sound of my own breathing as I drag dear Michelle out of the car by the tarp I laid under her. Her shoes catch against the asphalt but fail to slow me down. I've studied enough homicide investigation scenes to know the longer I stay, the more evidence I'll leave behind, but I've trained for this. I'm good at this, as Michelle can attest. And when I'm done, everyone in this town will know exactly how far I'm willing to go.

For only my second time, I'm equally pleased with and surprised by myself. I've been watching Michelle for weeks. I know what she eats for breakfast, when she'll head out for a jog along the river, and her work schedule. I know who her friends are, where her sister lives, and how many times she's flirted with her next-door neighbor. Over the course of the days leading up to tonight, her routine has become mine. All in preparation for this.

The tarp crinkles in my gloved hands as I haul the body under the covered portion of the bridge. It's humid here despite the crisp temperatures once the sun goes down. Moisture builds at the back of my neck and down my aching sides, but as stunned as I am by how easily my plan has been put in motion, I'm a little disappointed Michelle didn't fight back. It's almost as though she knew I've been planning to kill her all this time. As though she knew her death was just one of many to drive out the evil residing here.

Crickets chirp from the surrounding wall of trees as asphalt turns to wood beneath my feet. I've been out here too many times to count. I know every inch. In the light of day, dark, distressed wood stands out among the impenetrable wall of pines around it, highlighting the maroon square sign that reads covered bridge no. 67 posted at the entrance to each side. Large braces form Xs down the length of the bridge to take the weight of passing vehicles. Lighter slats track along the sides and make up a pedestrian walkway, but I'm not going to let Michelle sit over there for days on end. No. By morning, the cyclists will be out in force, and they'll see exactly what I've done.

Anticipation burns through me as I pull the tarp out from beneath Michelle. Her head hits the deck harder than I mean for her to, but whatever postmortem wound is left behind won't detract from my work. I've made sure of it. I set the tarp off to the side and crouch in direct line with those lifeless blue eyes. Fisting the collar of Michelle's running jacket in both hands, I sit her up. Her head slouches forward, but I need those perfect, white teeth of hers front and center. Not especially hard when I've already taken the time to remove her lips. I angle her chin back with the tips of my fingers then slip a small parting gift into Michelle's front pocket. "Perfect."

I step back, and a thrill of pleasure ignites down my spine. Collecting the tarp, I fold it carefully into squares to keep whatever Michelle left behind contained. I head back to the car and strip out of my borrowed clothes. Pulling my jacket free of my shoulders, I drop it on top of the tarp. Next goes my shirt, boots, socks, jeans, and underwear. My gloves are last. I tuck everything inside a duffle bag I've brought for the occasion and dress in a fresh set of clothes from the front passenger seat. The bag goes in the trunk for now. I have other plans for it.

The sounds of wilderness quiet around me.

No more crickets.

No more gurgling from the river.

As tempting as it would be to stick around to watch the early results of my handiwork, that's not part of the plan. I slide behind the wheel of the car, shift it into Drive, and maneuver the vehicle over the covered bridge as the first flakes of tonight's predicted snow drift across the windshield. "Right on time."