The eleventh grade. A chilly October evening close to dinnertime. The sun was low in the sky. He was walking home along a fairly populated bike path when a girl whizzed by on a pink ten-speed, then took a tumble on a tree branch that was stretched across the asphalt. He remembered it like it was yesterday . . . how she flew over the handlebars, landed with a thud, and skidded to a stop. When he walked over to her, he realized who she was. Kimberly Ribby. Pretty . . . popular. As he studied her features up close, his hands became fists. A year earlier she had helped a friend humiliate him.
He offered to walk her home. He walked with her bike as she hobbled beside him for several feet before they cut through the woods to get to her house.
He remembered how he’d began to sweat once they entered the woods. How alone they suddenly were. Without much conscious thought at all, he threw the bike down and grabbed her by the throat. Then he dragged her deeper into the woods and strangled her with his bare hands.
For seven years after that evening he felt a little more certain of himself. A little less impotent. He even became a fairly productive adult, one who most people seemed to like well enough. For once it wasn’t so difficult to fit in.
During those seven years, the anger still came and went, but it was finally manageable. And for the most part, he felt normal. He thought for sure he’d been healed. That the rest of his life would be a piece of cake. But around the seven-year mark, the itch started. The itch to do it again . . .
Snapping back to the present, he realized that the memory no longer soothed him like it once had. In fact it only made him angrier.
He had to do something.
Suddenly a light went on in his head. He’d pay the teenage girl a visit.
He weighed the idea, knowing it would be risky. Last time he’d almost gotten caught. The girl had awoken and, in the darkness, had called out to him, thinking he was the old lady. It had been a very close call. But he was willing to do it again.
For the first time in his life he was getting sloppy. It was almost as though a part of him, one he didn’t have access to, wanted to get caught.
And that seriously disturbed him.
It was two o’clock in the morning when he eased the young girl’s door open.
He was sweating profusely and he itched all over.
He was desperate for relief.
He had tried to stay away from the teenager but had failed. She was much different than Hope. Different than the brunette. Terribly different than any of them. She didn’t just remind him of the type of girl who’d scorned him when he was a boy, she was the spitting image of her. The spitting image of the type who had humiliated him. While other boys were busy fantasizing about luring this type of girl into bed, he only fantasized about hurting her.
But there was something more about this girl. Something that made it equally as tempting to be close to her. To discover exactly how she affected him.
Sweat beading on his upper lip, he let his eyes adjust before stepping closer to the bed. Then, staring down at her, he studied her features.
Her long, dark hair was splayed neatly across her pillow. Her face was relaxed. She looked even younger while she was sleeping, and so vulnerable with her mouth slightly parted, covers drawn up to her chin. Absolutely gorgeous.
As he watched, a slender, sun-browned leg slipped out from beneath the covers to rest on the fitted sheet.
He was surprised that being so close to her didn’t make him angry.
At least, not yet.
Straightening his spine, he vowed not to hurt her—not intentionally anyway, although sometimes he certainly didn’t seem to be the one in control.
No. This one, he had special plans for. His pulse raced just thinking about them. He watched the girl for a little while longer, until she grunted and rolled over.
By the time she settled again, he was gone, more frustrated than when he’d arrived.
CHAPTER 18
DESPERATE, HE RETURNED to Sherwood Foods. He scanned women for hours, but no one came close to interesting him.
Until the beautiful brunette with the Pathfinder returned.
The one with the young son.
He was standing in his usual place, nauseous and itching all over, when she hurried her son into the store. But when she rushed past, completely ignoring him, he realized he needed to take matters into his own hands.
He entered the supermarket and watched her and the boy at a distance as they shopped. She only threw a few items in her basket before dashing to a checkout line, so he knew his window of opportunity was going to be small. He wasn’t certain what to do. He just knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to make something happen.
So he left the supermarket and walked to her vehicle. Once he reached it, he whirled around and headed slowly back toward the supermarket doors.
Perfect timing. The woman and kid were just exiting the automatic doors. He walked toward them, trying to keep his breathing in check. To look normal.
When they were just a few feet away, his eyes met hers. He grinned and stopped. “Cheryl? Cheryl Robicheaux?”
He purposely stood in the woman’s path. Annoyed, she stopped and frowned. “No. Wrong person.”
Through his nausea, he smiled as widely as he could. “No? C’mon! But you’re the spitting image of her.”
The woman stared at him.
“C’mon, Mom,” the boy said.
“Excuse me. We’re in a hurry,” the woman said. She grabbed her son’s hand.
So much for smiles being infectious. His own slipped off his face. “Oh, well, sorry to have bothered you,” he said, stepping out of the woman’s way.
She and the boy continued to the vehicle.
Wiping his damp brow, he tried to think quickly. He needed somehow to make the woman smile.
Desperate, he spun around. “Miss?”
The woman turned, her eyes flashing. “Yes?”
“It’s a beautiful day. Surely you have something to smile about, right?” he asked, trying to sound light amid the rage bubbling in his belly. “Something, right? Anything?”
The woman scowled at him. Right before she turned to get into her vehicle, though, she threw him a strained smile. A sarcastic one.
Charity.
But it was enough. He was desperate.
Hurrying to his vehicle, he caught up with her as she left the shopping center and sped south. He was still following her, not five minutes later, as she pulled the Pathfinder into her driveway.
CHAPTER 19