This can’t be right. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the hacker lied. But he’s seen the legwork. Seen the proof. This is, to the best of the hacker’s extensive knowledge, her address. But why would a woman with her level of income live in a tenement building? He rolls down the window, puts the car in park, and looks out again, without the obstruction of tinted window glass. Notes what appears to be a drug deal going on one car over. Glances at the building again. Dingy and dark, it squats on the piece of land like a fat hamster someone forgot to put back in the cage. Some windows are covered in newspaper, one in cardboard, and there isn’t a car on the street that has matching hubcaps. Tries to imagine her parking on this street and walking in. She has to make enough to live somewhere else. Hell, he alone had dropped an easy grand on her. Maybe it’s drugs, she snorts her income away. Or has some version of a virtual pimp who takes all of her profits. He stares at the building, doesn’t like it one bit. His visions of tying her down, spending his time fucking her every way but normal… those fantasies had been orchestrated on clean sheets, a place with running water. Not this Dumpster of existence. He sighs, rolling up the window. Adjusts the settings of his seat until he is fully reclined, grateful for the tinted windows, his eyes on the front of the building, flicking once to the locks, to ensure their safety position. If the boy’s neighborhood was rough, this one was Compton. He leaves the engine running, ready to make a quick departure should a street punk decide to try for his car. He’ll wait. Wait till the sun finishes setting. Wait a few more hours, till she is sure to be tucked away inside, getting ready for bed. Then. Then he’ll strike. He rubs his jaw and allows himself to smile.

It is almost here.

CHAPTER 85

THEY SAY IDLE hands are the devil’s workshop. For me, it is not my hands, it is my mind. Without distraction, it dives into dark places it shouldn’t go. Places that make little boys scream and psychopaths celebrate. I’ve spent years avoiding those places. But now, as I sit in the dark and wait for this man? I open the cage and let my idle mind wander free.

Butt on the ground, my back against a box of Jenny Craig cardboard entrees, I run my mind over the plan and hope that I am not wrong. Hope that he is on his way, and that I can act out this stockpile of fantasies. The law says that if my home is entered, that I have the right to defend myself. Self-defense. A beautiful word that opens a world of possibilities. Yeah, let’s call this self-defense. Not that a defense will be needed. I don’t plan on getting cops involved.

I sit and wait. Work through the worst-case scenarios in my mind. He may be a hulk of a man. Might walk in covered in tactical gear. Might open an automatic weapon in the middle of my loft and destroy my well-crafted plan in the course of seconds. I frown, my palms sweating despite the cold room. Whoa. I came up with three disastrous scenarios without even thinking hard. Give me another hour and I’ll have a hundred more possibilities. My confidence plummets, my brilliant plan suddenly full of holes. I bite at my nails and wonder how long before he arrives. Try, for the third or fourth time, Mike’s number. I haven’t talked to MysteryBarbie again, my calls ringing through to voice mail. According to her story, he didn’t answer my calls before because he was tied up. That should no longer be an issue. I don’t like that he is not answering. Maybe she took my advice and chopped his fucking hands off in an attempt to remove the handcuffs. Homegirl didn’t seem real bright.

Now that my anger has subsided, I really need to talk to him. He could tell me if this brilliant plan of mine is for naught—my killer instincts celebrating an event that will never occur. I did kinda jump the gun a bit. Embraced MysteryBarbie’s words and created the perfect scenario in my head. Someone coming for me. Someone I can kill without guilt. I let out a sigh and continue the waiting game. Hope that my badass self doesn’t fall asleep against two weeks’ worth of herb-roasted turkey breasts.

Maybe I should walk away. Now that I’ve gone through the motions, made the plan, outfitted my apartment to the hilt. I could still walk away. Call the police and have them come here, sit in the dark with me. Let them arrest the man should he break through the door. It is the right thing to do.

I should be stronger, I should be able to fight off the blood rush that holds my veins hostage and takes over my body. Maybe I should try to handle this the normal way. Curl into a ball, hold my body tight, shut my eyes and let my mind play out a sick, twisted fantasy. As sick as I want it, as blood-filled as I want to take it. I can be and do anything I want to do in the confines of my mind, with my eyes closed and body controlled. Because I am being good. I am doing the right thing.