I’m careful to make my targets seem random. I don't want to establish a clear pattern. My work as a contractor takes me all over Central California, where I grew up. I know the neighborhoods well. I know every shortcut and how all the streets connect. I know where all the freeway exits and ramps are for a quick getaway. Real estate agents call me to fix up houses. I'll look up their listings and pick a home they haven't had me work on. If I like the neighbors, I'll use those empty homes as a base to watch the area. Vacant houses at night are perfect places to hide. Other times, I just spot someone and the craving hits. So I watch them and see if they are a good fit. On paper it all looks random. But nothing is random.
I comb through Vesper's jewelry boxes on a chest of drawers. She still lives with her parents, but we aren't too far apart in age. Even though she is in her early 20s, the trinkets are a mix of adult pieces and tokens of her childhood, as are many things in the room. On a chair in the corner is a silk robe, the kind that would rest beautifully against the curves of her tits and ass, and on that same chair is a little teddy bear, weathered from years of being hugged. The chair looks old. The white, painted woodwork is chipped and grayed, the pale floral cushion is worn in the spot where she has sat countless times. I run my fingers along the faded flowers that have touched her skin. Then along the satiny robe. I pick up the teddy bear and examine it before placing it back in its spot, tilting it 45 degrees from its original position.
There's a picture board on one of her walls. The kind where you can pin stuff up or tuck the picture behind cross sections of ribbon. Many of the pictures are of her and her boyfriend. Mr. Soon-To-Be-Doctor. Mr. Perfect Smile and Charmed Existence. The board is stuffed with photos so they overlap many times over. Every one of them is of people smiling. All they fucking do is smile and it makes me sick.
You're not like other people.
These people don't know pain. They don't know loneliness. They might know fleeting discomfort, but they don't know the persistent agony of being an outsider. People like them have made me who I am.
I remember when I first spotted Vesper Rivers. It's an odd name, I know. Her mom is—was—a hippie. I wasn't hunting for anyone when it happened, though I always keep my options open. I was at the grocery store after a long day of work. Covered in sweat and muck, my clothes stained with paint and tar, I just wanted to grab something fast, and I was too tired from a week of prowling nights and working days to think about much else. That's when I saw her, walking through the cereal aisle. She had on a tiny top: a rust-colored halter with strings that wrapped around her neck. It was short, the waist of her shorts going just above her belly button so that when she moved, I'd see hints of her tight stomach. Her cutoff shorts barely covered her ass and made way for long, shapely legs. Her brown hair with hints of gold was long and feathered—a lot like that Farrah poster everyone has pinned up these days. But this girl, she was far more beautiful. Like an undiscovered gem just sitting in a pile of rocks and dirt. A long, elegant arm sloped down to a small hand. A boy. He must have been around eight. He couldn't be her son. She's too young.
“You like that one, Johnny?” she asked, bent at the waist to be at his level. Her voice, it was extra sweet for the little boy.
He nodded. His arm was crooked, one of his legs bent in awkwardly, and his mouth was contorted. He was different. Handicapped. And she was so kind to him. Maybe she wasn't like the others. Maybe she was something in between people like them and people like me.
That's when she felt me staring. I'm usually discreet. I've mastered watching people, hiding in plain sight, but she stunned me. She looked over, catching my eyes for a millionth of a second before I turned away. I couldn't let her see my face, and I was grateful it was covered in dirt and tar, hiding its subtleties.
I hastily went to the register with whatever was in my hands so I could get to my car before she got to hers. I waited for another fifteen minutes until she emerged from the store, a bag in one hand and the little boy dragging his feet holding the other. He was smiling. I don't understand how he could have been happy. I know how cruel this world can be to those of us who wear our imperfections on the outside.
She got into a white Grand Prix, looked like a '73. I later learned my hunch was off by a year. I took note of the plates. I watched her leave. Then I followed far enough behind for her not to notice me.
And here I am in her house a couple of weeks later. It's not my first time, either.
I snatch a picture I don't think she'll miss much as it was mostly tucked behind another. In it, she's sitting on a log, a lake as a backdrop. She's laughing, of course, her head thrown back to show her white grin. A necklace glints at her throat.
They'll smile at you then laugh behind your back.
I glance at the clock on her nightstand. It's embedded in this porcelain unicorn statue, and I hope for her sake that it's another remnant from her younger days. I need to get out of here. I don't want to cut it close and blow this one. Besides, I have a date I need to prepare for tonight.
I open up a small jewelry box, covered in multicolored rhinestones. There's a few pieces intertwined inside, but I notice the gold crescent moon attached to a necklace. It's the same one as the picture. It's mine now.
Like my last visit to her home, I have something for her. I pull out a roll of twine and place it under the seat cushion of the chair that holds her teddy bear. Patience.