And that was when it had come back to him: He had wanted to be free from prying eyes, to be able to do as he chose without worrying about being caught. No more hiding weapons, covering tracks, disguising himself, sneaking around.

And so it was done.

Getting in on the driver’s side, he’d felt both a weight and an elation, and that was when he’d realized the engine had been on since the woman had left him. So why wasn’t he dead from carbon monoxide? It was cold and the heater had been on the entire time.

Go home, he’d heard in his head.

As his hands had grasped the steering wheel, he’d instantly had his direction set by a powerful draw in the center of his chest: He needed to go home.

Hurry.

That was all he’d known and that was precisely what he did. He’d driven from downtown out toward the suburbs, going as fast as he could—whereas after his other killings he’d been as law-abiding as a preacher’s wife.

Yet now, though, in spite of this odd power coursing through him, he felt stuck, an engine not in gear: All he could do was stare straight ahead.

On a dim back shelf of his mind, he was concerned that he wasn’t worried about what he’d done for a third time in that alley. He should have left the cab off at dispatch and disappeared. Dreams were all well and good but they were fantasy, not reality. And everyone who murdered people could get caught—

Not you. Not anymore.

Go inside.

The thought struck him with the clarity of a bell rung on a clear dawn. Unlocking the doors, he got out and looked around, still having difficulty understanding the transformation he’d gone through. He was different in his own skin, and as good as it was, he felt like a lottery winner whose ticket had yet to be authenticated. What if this was taken away? What if something came up behind him and…

You don’t worry about that. Go inside.

As he got out his house keys, he noticed that there was a truck parked in front of the house next door, and a fancy car in the driveway, but he paid them no attention. He had to go inside.

When he was standing in his front hall, he looked past the empty living room and into the kitchen that was littered with McDonald’s bags and pizza boxes and empty Coke bottles. Now what? He was not hungry or thirsty and he was not tired and he couldn’t for the life of him understand why he had to be in the house.

He waited.

Nothing came to him, so as he did every time he got home, he went upstairs.