But he made himself slow down and think. He liked to plan. To know exactly what he’d do at every phase of a hunt. At the moment he was too rattled—and anyone would be, seeing her at the cemetery like that. He’d been so sure he’d killed her. But she was obviously quite alive.

That would soon be remedied.

He drew a deep breath. He was calming down now. More in control. This was better. A rattled man made mistakes. Mistakes drew attention, requiring even more drastic cleanup. This he had learned the hard way.

He’d find her easily enough. He’d followed her long enough to know her preference in hotels—and Faith was even more of a creature of habit than he was. Although she’d surprised him with the Jeep. A red one, even. That didn’t seem to be her style, but perhaps she’d been forced to be less choosy when her old car had become a pile of twisted metal.

How she’d walked away from the wreck was a detail that she would divulge before he killed her. Because he would kill her. He’d find her and lure her someplace else and end her, once and for all. Nobody could come looking for her here, to this place. My place. Nobody could know. They’d spoil everything. Everything he’d built. Everything he treasured.

They’ll take my things. My things. That would not happen. Think carefully. Plan.

Flinching at a sudden pain in his hand, he looked down to realize he was holding his keys in a white-knuckled fist. He was more rattled than he’d thought.

Which was . . . normal, he supposed. But ultimately unnecessary. She’s just a woman, just like all the others. Easily overpowered. When he found her, she’d be sorry she’d threatened him.

Except . . . Faith wasn’t easily overpowered. He’d tried to kill her too many times. She’d become careful, aloof. Now she never allowed herself to be unprotected. So he’d just have to work a little harder to lure her to a place of his choosing. And if you don’t manage to lure her far enough away? If she comes back here? If she tries to come in?

Then he’d have to kill her here, which might bring the cops. They’ll take my things.

He drew a deep breath, let it out. Refused to allow the panic to overwhelm him. He would not lose his things. If he had to, he’d move them. All of them.

Nobody will ever take my things again. Not now. Not ever.

Mt. Carmel, Ohio
Sunday, November 2, 6:20 p.m.