Every Breath You Take

by Bianca Sloane

  The only thing left to do now was execute.

  Around one o’clock, he watched her emerge from her office building and head in the direction of Water Tower, no doubt to collect a salad from its crowded food court. As he expected, ten minutes later, she came strolling back toward her office, a plastic shopping bag swinging from her wrist, the handles knotted to keep the bulky plastic container in place. He smiled, warmed as always by his intimate knowledge of her every thought and action—like a little angel sitting on her shoulder, watching over her, keeping her safe.

  He grew antsy as the afternoon crawled by, ready to get on with it. As his watch chimed five o’clock, he smiled and closed the cover of his iPad, his heart beating like a metronome pushed to high. Tick-tock-tick-tock.

  He slurped down the final watery swallow of his iced coffee. He closed his eyes for a few moments, his hands steepled under his chin, relishing the calm before the storm he was about to unleash. He opened his eyes and smiled.

  It was time.

  Chapter 28

  HE

  “Hello?”

  “Ah, yes ma’am, I’m with the power company, and we’ve got reports of some problems with the breakers. We just need to come in and take a look, make sure everything is okay.”

  “Oh, no,” the old woman’s voice quivered. “Is my electric bill going to go up?”

  “Oh, no, no, ma’am, nothing like that. We just need to get in and regulate everything. Could you buzz me in?”

  “Oh, of course, of course.”

  The bell sounded and the door clicked open.

  Just tell them what they want to hear.

  He glanced at the building directory enclosed in glass, tapping “J. Hudson” with his finger before boarding the elevator to the third floor, whistling to himself as he waited to be let out.

  “Three ten, three ten, three—ah ha—three ten,” he whispered as he examined the lock, confirming it was a deadbolt. He reached into his wallet for the tiny flat head screwdriver and pick tool he’d been practicing with at home. The door opened with a soft click, and he stood staring at this bastard’s house for a few moments, his fury rising with each sweep of his eyes.

  The soft, mint green walls were adorned with a few large, abstract paintings. He couldn’t help but admire the sleek Victorian Cherry side tables—you didn’t grow up on a tree farm and not know your wood. There was a framed picture of them in front of the Eiffel Tower. Magazines—Vanity Fair, Sports Illustrated, Forbes, Fortune, and a couple of gossip rags—were scattered across the glass coffee table parked in front of a huge, black leather couch. The air bloomed with the scent of fresh-cut flowers in a round, squat vase on one of the end tables. He crept into the bathroom, dismayed to see a hair dryer looped around the towel bar and pink, blue, and green bottles of body wash, shampoo, and conditioner nestled in the shower. A purple mesh body puff hung around the shower faucets. All hers. All hers. He clenched his fists.

  All hers.

  A few of her clothes were crammed into the closets. He lifted a lacy leopard thong from the top drawer, burying his face into it before pocketing it.

  He wiped his tears back, comforted only by the fact that this would all be over soon. He would take her away from this bastard, who didn’t love her like he did. No one could love her like he did. He’d remind her of how much he loved her.

  Of how much she loved him.

  He headed into the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich. He did have to give it to this dude; there was real food to be had. Not like that nasty stuff she ate. He stuck his nose into boxes of beef and broccoli, sweet and sour chicken, and clumpy white rice. He shoved them back in the refrigerator; he didn’t like Chinese all that much. Instead, he piled lacy ribbons of ham—something called “prosciutto,” (he wasn’t even going to try and pronounce it) according to the package—onto slices of fluffy country white bread that he smeared with grainy mustard. He plopped a round of tomato and a square of white cheese on top—Vermont cheddar, according to that package (Cheese from Vermont. That made him laugh. All he knew was that cheese came from the store)—before he turned on the TV and sank into the soft, black leather couch. He plunked his feet onto the coffee table, scrolling through what must have been two thousand or so satellite channels, gnawing on what he found to be a damn good sandwich.

  He looked at his watch. Friday night. Would they go out to dinner after work? Come home with the intention of ordering a pizza and watching a movie?

  Whatever their plans were . . . he’d be ready for them when they got home.

  Chapter 29

  HIM

  Jason rubbed his eyes and slammed the lid of his laptop down with a definitive whack! It was seven o’clock in the evening, and he’d been at it since his six-thirty breakfast meeting—and he would probably still beat Natalie home. He smiled as he picked up the tiny Eiffel Tower from his desk that he’d found tucked into one of the pen loops of his briefcase this morning during his breakfast meeting. She must have stuck it in there while he was in the shower or last night while he was sleeping. She was always doing that, leaving silly little gifts for him in the craziest places: a popcorn keychain in the silverware drawer, a Rocky bobblehead nestled between the Acqua di Gio and the packs of razor blades in the medicine cabinet, and bull and bear wine stoppers clinking against each other inside the breast pocket of a suit jacket as he slid his arms into the sleeves.

  He chuckled to himself as he placed the tchotchke back on his desk and dialed her on his office phone.

  “Still at the office, huh?” she answered.

  “I’m heading home now. How much longer you gonna be?”

  “Probably another half hour or so. Just finishing up this report. And before you ask, yes, I went out around six and picked up some dinner.”

  “Just making sure.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Hey,” he said. “I missed you reading to me last night.”

  “Baby, I was so tired, I could barely even make it into bed, much less hold up a book. I’ll read you double tonight.”

  “Good, because I’ve been waiting all day to find out what Madame Bovary is going to do next.”

  “Nothing good, I can tell you that,” she said, giggling.

  “All right. Call me when you’re leaving.”

  “I will. Love you.”

  “You better,” he said, laughing.

  “Ha ha. Bye.”

  They hung up and Jason slid one last file into his briefcase for the weekend. He turned off the light, shut his office door, and headed to the elevator. Once on the ground floor, he waved goodnight to the security guard manning the front desk in the massive marble and glass lobby. Had it been early evening instead of late at night or if the balmy noontime high of seventy-four had stuck around, he might have just walked the seven short blocks home. However, the temperature had dipped to forty and his legs were barely holding him up, so he stuck out his hand for a cab instead.

  He often thought about how funny life was, how things happened for a reason and every act was connected to every act that came after, even if you couldn’t see it at the time—how fate snuck its slender finger into the picture and tilted you in the right direction. He didn’t even want to go to that reception the night he met Natalie. It had been a long and stressful week, and all he wanted to do was lounge on his couch with a pizza, a cold beer, and the remote. The minute she walked into the room, he knew. She was it. He watched her all evening, charmed by the plaintive way she sipped her wine, how she kept smoothing down her hair and tugging at the bottom of her suit jacket. Then came the moment when he saw her wander over to that highboy table, and it was clear by the larger gulps of wine she was taking that she was getting ready to bounce. He broke away from the motley crew he’d found himself talking to and tried as nonchalantly as possible to work his way over to the table next to hers. He tried to be composed, but made such a mess of it, his chance almost slipped through his fingers. He was usually such a cool customer, but she had knotted him up
in ways no woman had ever done before. When he didn’t hear from her for a week, he was ready to scour the registration lists from the party in what was likely to be a vain attempt to find her, to try again, to hopefully make a better impression. . .

  And then out of the blue, she called and it was done. He knew he had it in the bag.

  And now, here they were, about to get married and start their life together. . .

  Fate.

  He sighed, tired, the couch and the Chinese from the other night chanting his name. He quickly paid the driver before darting into his building to escape the cold. He grabbed his mail then headed up to his apartment and opened the door.

  He never even had a chance to flip the light switch before he felt the swarm of bees explode across his back.

  Chapter 30

  HIM

  The first thing Jason thought when he felt the knife sink into his back was, “What the hell?”

  The first thing he did was panic because Natalie would be home soon.

  Jason let out a grunt and reached around to his back, whimpering at the wet, soggy mess he felt enclose around his fingers. He stumbled into the living room, turned around, and saw the glint of the knife swishing across the darkness. He groaned, confused. He could barely make out someone in a ski mask creeping toward him. Before he could react, The Mask raised up the knife and plunged it into his arm.

  Jason cried out as he staggered backward toward the bedroom, his mind racing as he tried to shield himself from the intruder’s approach while helplessly trying to dig into his pocket for his cell phone. The Mask didn’t say a word—not a grunt, not a gasp. Nothing. Utter silence as he ripped the skin and tendons of Jason’s other arm. Jason managed to make it into the bedroom and fumble toward the nightstand. He picked up a lamp from the bedside table, and as The Mask got closer, he brought it down across his attacker’s face, the light bulb shattering and clinking on the wood floor.

  Momentarily stunned, The Mask dropped the knife. Jason rapidly swung his head back and forth, willing himself not to pass out, never even hearing the urgent ringing of his phone from his pocket. His back was on fire. Panting, he reached for the knife on the floor, but The Mask got there first. The two men struggled, the mask managing to thrust the knife into Jason’s thigh. Jason found himself pinned against the wall next to the bed, trying to avoid being stabbed again.

  Except it was no use.

  The mask thrust the knife into Jason’s stomach. Once. Twice. Three times. Eventually more times than Jason could count. He screamed as he felt his insides split open and blood pour out of him like warm water. He slid down, smearing a trail of crimson behind him on the white wall.

  “Natalie,” he whispered.

  Chapter 31

  SHE

  Natalie hailed a cab, her mind and body burning with fatigue. The week had been a string of meetings and conference calls, leaving the evenings as the only time she could get her actual work done, resulting in far more late nights than she’d had in quite some time.

  But now it was Friday, and the most taxing thing she planned to do all weekend was curl up on the couch and leaf through the stack of bridal magazines she had bought during the one true lunch break she’d had all week.

  She looked at her phone. She’d called Jason before she left the office, but he hadn’t answered. She thought for sure he would have called her back by now. She shrugged to herself and sighed as she looked out the window of the cab. He was probably in the shower and hadn’t heard the phone.

  She paid the driver and rolled her head around a few times, already seeing herself sinking into the pillows of the couch, a steaming mug of tea snug in her hand. Maybe she could convince Jason to rub her feet. Or take a bubble bath with her.

  She leaned against the wall of the elevator, her eyes closed. The doors slid open and she half walked, half stumbled toward the front door.

  “Jason? Baby, I’m home,” she called out, tucking her keys into her purse and kicking off her stilettos. She dropped her purse and work bag on the bar as she turned to flip the light switch next to the door. She stopped short, frowning at Jason’s briefcase, lying on the floor amidst a pile of scattered mail.

  “Jason?” she said again. Maybe he had to go to the bathroom really bad and had dropped everything in his rush to relieve himself.

  No. That was the kind of thing she would do. Not like Jason at all.

  She slunk toward the bedroom, her breath slow, her heart racing. The door was closed. She took a deep inhale and turned the knob.

  That sound. A horrible sucking sound. Was that . . . ?

  “Jason, honey, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  Natalie turned on the light and gasped.

  Chapter 32

  SHE

  Blood.

  Everywhere.

  Coating the floors, claw-like smears against the walls, drenching the pewter-colored duvet.

  Jason was choking on it. Marinating in it. Shiny, thick, red was spurting from orifices both natural and man-made.

  She could only drop to the floor and reach out to Jason, who gasped and flailed his arms at her touch, as though he was still under attack. Natalie ran her hands over the carnage in search of a pulse, relieved at the weak thread tingling beneath her fingers, her breath suspended in her chest, her voice caught in her throat. Everything but saving him was lost to her in those frantic, blurry moments.

  Not again, not again, not again. Don’t die. Just don’t die.

  She could only hope, even in the face of all the evidence to the contrary. . .

  She could only hope.

  “Jason, I’m going to get my phone, okay? I’ll be right back, just . . . please hold on.”

  He tried clasping a wet, red hand onto hers. Moaning. Agitated.

  “Baby, I’m going to call the paramedics, okay,” she said, trying to reassure him. “Calm down, baby, calm down.” He tried to hold her to him, tried to say something, but was felled by the blood-soaked phlegm clogging his throat. She tried to pretend she didn’t hear the gurgling, the wheezing for more air, the desperate clutch for life.

  For more time.

  She ran out into the living room for her purse and yelped when an arm gripped her waist and a hand clamped over her mouth. She screamed into the soft leather of the glove and tried to wriggle away, but he held firm. Her legs flailed against her assailant as she tried to unscrew his arm from around her waist.

  He spread his fingers across her lips, letting in a slip of air as he tried to squirt something from a plastic bottle into her mouth. She tried to scream, but he shoved the plastic tip into her mouth and shot a salty arc of liquid down her throat.

  She kept crying and screaming through his gloved hand, terrified about what he’d given her and feeling herself begin to hyperventilate. She kept kicking and straining against him, but his grip remained tight.

  “Shh,” he whispered as he struggled to hold onto her. “Shh, shh. Don’t fight it. Just sleep.” He held her forehead, pressing her against his heaving chest in an effort to quell her writhing. She felt her head droop like a bowling ball swinging on a string.

  She kept screaming until she felt the darkness slip around her from all sides, like someone had thrown her into a pool, the warm water sloshing against her skin and lulling her down into its calm, blue depths.

  Part II:

  The Boy Most Likely To. . .

  Chapter 33

  SHE

  The first thing she felt was a vein throbbing on the right side of her head.

  She grunted and tried to turn over, but couldn’t. She couldn’t seem to find her hands or arms. Her legs were numb and her eyes wobbled inside the sockets. Her eyes. Her eyes were glued shut with gritty crust. Her mind clutched at the blackness, trying to remember.

  It was blank.

  She wanted to wake up, tried to hoist herself up and out of the darkness, but kept skidding down into it, unable to make her mind function.

  Her stomach churned and growled. Her nose s
tarted to run as tears soaked her face. Her throat crinkled like wadded-up paper every time she swallowed. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog and remember what had happened. What had happened? She had a crick in her neck, and the vein in her head was beating as fast as her heart.

  She heard a beeping and she flicked her head in the direction of the noise, her underarms blistering with sweat at the sound. She heard a grunt and the dip of the mattress as someone—who?—sidled up next to her and trailed a finger down her face. She tried to scoot away, but didn’t get far before she felt the same rough hand roam across her breasts. Her whimpers gave way to useless, muffled screams as he pulled her down and ripped open her blouse and jerked the cups of her bra down. She kicked at him as he threw his weight on top of her, grinding against her, his fingers shoving into her. Panic surged through her at the peal of his loosening belt buckle. She kept screaming as his thick, insistent breath streamed into her ear before she finally felt him push into her. She could feel him fumble to stay inside of her, could hear his breathy frustration as he thrust into her again. Tears dripped from her eyes and bile rumbled in her stomach. She continued to try to squirm away from him.

  “Damn,” he muttered as he immediately thrust a plastic tip into her mouth. She kept screaming as he continued to slam into her.

  She was grateful to slip back into darkness.

  • • •

  She felt the ridges of a water bottle part her lips and she bit down, desperate for the liquid. She moaned as the cool stream of water sloshed and dribbled down her chin and onto her chest. Why couldn’t she find her hands? He kept letting the water trickle into her mouth. She lapped at it, licking the corners of her mouth so as to keep any of the precious drops from sliding away from her. She heard him screw the cap back onto the bottle.