Time stretches, the tinkling of the stream and brushing of leaves mingle with the thunder in my broken mind. I take in a clearing breath, refocus on the path, and the figure appears. A tall and athletic man. He's wearing shorts over calf length leggings and a black hoodie pulled up, so that his face is just a shadow. His pace is fast but measured, not a sprint, a run. A practiced jog.
He startles when he spots me and stops. His hand comes up and he pulls the hood back, revealing a clean shaven head and whiskey brown eyes. "Hey," he says. "I didn't mean to scare you."
I repress a laugh. "No worries."
"You probably shouldn't be out here," he says, turning to look around, scanning for predators hiding in the brush.
"No?" I ask, all innocence, as if I haven't been tracking this rapist across the state—following his progression as he moved closer to my home. To my territory.
I used to think of the world as mine to protect. A whole planet of injustice carried around on my shoulders. But when I fled from my life I had to let go of that notion. Recognize my own size. And settle for life as a normal person who doesn't devote their existence to weeding out the worst humanity has to offer.
But that doesn't mean I can let men who thirst for control and violence just have it. Not in my neighborhood. Not where I can stop it. I'm just not wired that way.
"Yeah," the stranger says. "I heard some women—" he cuts himself off, looks down at his feet, clears his throat. "It's not safe here. I heard," he tells his sneakers.
"It's not safe anywhere," I say, meaning for it to come out light and jokey but I can tell from how fast his gaze comes back to mine that it came out scary. Like, maybe it's not safe because I'm here.
He cocks his head, his eyes reassessing. I let my gaze slide over him, too. My mouth tightens. He doesn't fit the description of the rapist. Too tall, his head too bald, skin too dark.
The women described a man so pale he seemed almost like a ghost with dirty blond hair and black eyes. They described a monster who held a knife to their neck while he…I cut the thought off. I don't need to know the details to know it's got to stop.
Trauma messes with our memories. But no amount of trauma could turn this man into what those women described. I need him to fuck off so I can look like an easy target.
"Do you want me to walk you back to your car?" he offers. "I'm John, by the way." Of course you are…
"No thanks," I say. "I'm good, John." I don't give him my name.
He looks around the woods again. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'll be okay."
His brow pinches as though he can't just leave me out here. As if he is some kind of knight in shining fucking armor who wouldn't be able to ever forgive himself if something happened to me. Shit. He's about to say please…
"Please," he rubs the back of his neck. "I'd feel better if—"
I cut him off. "You'd feel better, John? We just met, and you want me to start adjusting my life so you can feel better? Get a grip." I turn away from him, and jog over the bridge, my feet landing on the earth, my attention falling to the path. When I glance over my shoulder a few strides later he's gone. Hopefully he turned back…it's not safe out here, after all.
Sweat runs down my spine as the morning ages. I stop to pull off my long sleeve running top, tying it around my waist. I pull the band out of my loosened ponytail and start to gather my shoulder length hair again. It's dyed a dark brown, with some "natural" highlights. I'm supposed to look like a normal woman with average hair who spends time in the sun.
Which I am…except for the whole hunting rapists hobby I've recently picked up.
I also wear brown contacts to cover the unique gray color of my eyes. They are probably my most distinguishing feature—gifted from my mother's side of the family and handed down to my son.
A twig cracks behind me. I keep fixing my hair. My heart beat stays steady. My mind smooth and empty—that's what an hour of running does for me. Clears the crazy, leaving a spacious emptiness…perfect for hunting.
I tie off my hair into a bun and then raise my hands into the air, stretching. Bending to one side and then the other. Come on. With my arms up I'm easy to take, just attack!
Nothing. I huff my disappointment and drop my arms. Maybe it was just a squirrel or something. But then I hear a breath, something a fuck ton bigger than a bushy tailed rodent is in the brush.
The victims said he'd attacked them from behind, burst out of the bushes and tackled them while they ran by. So I start to jog again, letting my left leg drag a little, as though my ankle is hurting. What kind of predator can resist injured prey?
He comes at me fast, but not that fast. His body barrels out of the brush—he's got twigs and branches on his coat and fashioned to his hat. A real master of disguise this one. No one would suspect a bush of being dangerous…it's almost as good a disguise as "female jogger with bouncy ponytail". Almost.
I let out a yelp, not too loud. I don't want to draw the knight in shining armor Jogger John over here. He'd want to call the police. Want to let the wheels of justice grind. I'm not into that. I like swift action. Blood on my hands, sweat on my brow, and a bodied buried in the ground.
My attacker tackles me around the waist, using his bulk to knock me down. I hit the ground, my palms flat and elbows bent. A smile twists my lips at the sudden jolt of pain. He rolls me over and straddles my hips. His blade flashes, then presses to the flesh of my neck. I hide the smile and meet his gaze—bringing false terror into my own.
His eyes glint with feral victory, the pupils almost as dark as the iris. Perspiration sheens his pale, round face, framed by greasy strands of hair. When he smiles a puff of his breath hits my face. It reeks of tuna fish and cigarettes.
Did he plan to be even more disgusting for his victim—or is this his natural state? The rapist's eyes narrow, as if he sees the question on my face. There should be no curiosity in my gaze, only abject terror. Right. I forgot.
"Please," I whimper. "Don't hurt me."
His smile grows—he likes that. "Do what I tell you and everything will be fine." The rapist says it like he's being magnanimous. As though he holds my fate in his pudgy, disgusting, about to be fucking dead hands.
"Okay," I nod, the blade of his knife pressing against the skin of my throat as I do.
He looks up and down the path, the branches on his hat shaking when his head turns. "I saw another jogger," I say. "He will be along any minute, you should just leave me alone."
The rapist's eyes leap back to mine and his lip raises in a growl. I try to look terrified. We need to go somewhere more private. I can't kill him right here. There will be blood all over the path—it is supposed to start raining but best to keep murder off the public trails.
He's got somewhere he can take me, somewhere more private. He's got some hideout. The rapist didn't come here by car, after all. He probably has some lean-to deep in the woods where he eats tuna out of cans and smokes cigarettes. That's where I want him to take me. Maybe I won't even need the shovel. I'll just burn him in his hovel. A good fire does wonders for physical evidence.
The nice thing about a grave in the woods though—especially in a park this wild—is that if I cover it just right, no one will ever find it. When you have fire, you have smoke…that could draw people…burial is probably better. Shit, I forgot to look scared again.
The rapist leans down and presses his lips to mine, trying to force his disgusting tongue into my mouth. It slithers against my lips and then thrusts, almost breaking through. He pulls back and I gag, coughing to the side. He backhands me, his strike stings but doesn't hurt—just fuels my fire. I taste cigarettes and tuna. Closing my eyes, my head hanging to the side, I pretend to whimper.
