He takes a breath in and slowly shuffles to the door, pressing his hands against the wooden frame. He listens to the soft, rhythmic breathing that is barely audible over the fan and turns his back on the door to slide down to a seated position on the floor. He leans his back against the door and tilts his head to one side, so his right ear is flush against it as well. He sits. He listens.
Another hour goes by while he sits outside of their bedroom. He feels powerful. He imagines Emily and her husband waking briefly to roll over or look at the clock, oblivious to the fact that someone is right outside of their bedroom door. He likes the feeling of violating their sense of security. He likes knowing that they feel false safety in their vulnerable state. That he could kill them both with one slice of his blade. Of course, he doesn’t intend to kill them tonight, though he wants to. That is not how he’s operating this time around. No more unplanned releases.
Tonight, he is here for something other than blood. He slowly rises to his feet and pauses to steady his breathing. He isn’t nervous. It is the genuine feeling of excitement quickening his breath. He places his hand on the doorknob and turns it slowly. The door opens without a sound. Emily and her husband lie motionless in the bed across from the entrance and don’t stir even slightly as he enters the room. He walks softly, allowing his eyes to readjust to the different shades of darkness in this space. Making his way to the left side of the bed, he crouches next to his Emily and looks over at the contents of her bedside table.
Sitting next to a dog-eared paperback is a ring. It is big, expensive-looking, and covered in diamonds. She never wears it in public. He has never seen something that ostentatious on her delicate fingers. Anyone would have been able to surmise that it’s special to her. He is sure this is the one she mentioned to him before in passing conversation between lectures all those years ago. It belonged to her grandmother. He picks up the ring and can see a light film of dust that surrounds the clean circle where it once rested. It sits on this table as a permanent fixture. A comfort item, and exactly what he is looking for. He slips it onto his pinkie. But before he rises from his crouched position, he takes a final look at Emily. She’s facing away from him with one arm on top of the blanket, her auburn hair spilling onto the pillow from an untidy bun piled on the top of her head. She’s clutching a handful of the same blanket in her right fist. He can smell her. The smell is clean. Not flowery or specific, but distinctly clean.
He could end it now. He could reach out and snap her neck before she ever realized there was someone next to her. He could plunge the screwdriver into her temple or slit her throat with his blade. He could snuff out her life in an instant. The feeling is overwhelming for a moment, and it almost overrides his plans completely.
But just as quickly as it came, the feeling leaves. Jeremy knows that isn’t the way their story ends. Emily won’t gasp her last breath without knowing who took it from her. He stands again and lightly crosses to the doorway on the other side of the room. Facing the bedroom, he turns the knob and holds it in position while he silently closes the door. Once safely out of the room, he slowly releases the knob back into its original position and makes his way to the top of the stairs for a slow descent to the main floor.
He exits the house the same way he entered, and as he creaks the basement window closed, he takes a sharp breath of night air into his lungs. Touching his thumb to the ring on his pinkie finger, he walks the tree line once again and disappears into black.
CHAPTER 32
WREN LOOKS AT HER PHONE. The message notifications and news alerts pile up mockingly on her home screen. There’s a missed call from Leroux, and a follow-up text at the top of the barrage urging her to call him back. Richard squeezes her shoulder in a small show of comfort. He sits down across from her at the table in their kitchen. His face is kind. She feels empathy for him and his position in this. It’s an impossible situation to react to, and somehow he is doing it perfectly.
“You don’t have to be part of this, Wren,” he says after a moment or two of shared silence.
She looks up, eyes tired and mind blurry. The hits haven’t stopped coming over the last few weeks. After Leroux dropped her off, she tried desperately to take her mind off the case, but more details kept bubbling to the surface. She couldn’t get the image of the other victims out of her head, especially poor Emma on the cold, sterile table. And then it hit her. The hemlock. Such a strange and unique murder weapon. In fact, it’s so rare that she’s only ever seen it once before in her career.