There was simply a moment when you realized that the person you were talking with or looking at needed to die. It wasn’t helpful to question that feeling. It was simply a matter of a decision you made and then carried out.

Yes. Blake deserved the same fate as his brother.

There.

Done.

That’s all there was to it.

Movement to her left caught her attention: two men approaching, hand in hand.

Was the gentleman she was tracking gay? She didn’t know, but based on the physical description in the dossier that Blake had provided for her, it didn’t look like either of these two men was the one she was here to meet.

She nodded cordially to them as they walked past.

She was still sorting out how she was going to ask him what she needed to—it’s not a subject that a person would typically use to start a conversation with a stranger: “Listen, I’ve been following you. I think you might be a serial killer, and I’d like to help you with your next project. I’m good with photography. We could start an album.”

Not a line they would teach you in a course on how to win friends and influence people.

A taxi rolled to a stop across the street from the house she was surveilling, and the man she was waiting for emerged.

A prototypical young artist—scruff that looked more like the result of just forgetting to shave for a week or two than an actual attempt at a beard. He was a slim man, wore glasses, dressed bohemian.

Was he really the kind of person who could kill another human being?

He looked remarkably harmless.

But then again, so did she.

From experience, she knew that killers could be unpredictable, so she’d brought a Beretta 92FS with her. Dylan had favored a blade, but since this man was likely a killer himself, she wasn’t sure she wanted to get up close and personal like that.

Even the city that never sleeps does doze, and at this time of night in this part of town, there weren’t many people out.

She snuffed out her cigarette and crossed the street.

The man did not head directly to the address she’d been given but instead crossed the sidewalk to a place where it passed beneath a leafless tree. A streetlight had burned out, leaving a gap of blackness in the neighborhood.

She eased her hand into her purse and slipped her fingers around the grip of her Beretta.

The shadows swallowed him, and she quickened her pace to try to catch him, but she’d only made it a few paces into the darkness when he reappeared, as if from nowhere, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, facing her, blocking her path.