The Serial Killer's Girl by L. H. Stacey

Author:L. H. Stacey [Stacey, L. H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books
Published: 2022-04-26T16:00:00+00:00

22

After tossing and turning for most of the night, I creep as slowly as I can down the stairs and through the front door and, with a shudder, I realise how cold it’s become, how the frost crunches below my feet on the pavement and how the air bites cruelly at the back of my throat. Even so, I have an overwhelming need to watch you, to see what you’re doing, to know whether you too are awake, tossing, turning, thinking about your life. About what has already happened, and what is yet to come.

Climbing into my car, I use it as a shield against the elements and while waiting for the heater to warm the car, for the ice to clear itself from the windscreen, I pull my coat tightly around me. And, ironically, I wrap my warm woollen scarf around my neck, smile as I do so. Leaning back, I close my eyes, take pleasure in the warmth that now blows directly on my feet, but still feel the cold in my fingertips and flick open the glovebox to look for a pair of gloves that are no longer there. Slamming the box closed, I sit forward in my seat, shuffle back and forth, put my foot on the accelerator and literally move the car just a few feet until I’m parked behind a wall, with the cottage firmly in my sights.

Staring at the window of the cottage, I see you. You’re sitting pathetically in the window seat, wistfully staring at the street, with just a dim light behind you to show that you’re there. And for a while I watch the way you skittishly glance from spot to spot, checking every shadow, every noise. And even though you think you’re alert, you’re actually oblivious to the real world, to what’s happening outside, or to the fact that I’m here, watching you, watching me.

With a need to get closer, I climb out of the car, step quickly from foot to foot, and duck from one gate to the next, using the overgrown bushes and trees to hide behind. Then curse loudly as I bump into the trunk of a tree, feel a shower of rainwater fall from its branches and, angrily, I glare at the sky. The weather seems to have cleared, the clouds have dispersed, and the early morning sun is just about to rise in the distance, making me hopeful of a good and productive day.

As a discarded can rattles past my foot in the breeze, I lean forward and, without thought, I pick it up and throw it in a wheelie bin that’s standing by someone’s gate. Then catch my breath as the lid slams down and, while ducking behind the wall, I look up to see you turn; you study the road, look in my direction, and I chastise myself for having made a noise, for alerting you to the fact that I’m out here. Annoyed, I wait until you turn away; I see

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