Now, more than ever, I can’t afford a slipup. One wrong move and everything will be for naught: all the planning, all the waiting, all the salivating at the thought of Bentz’s unraveling. Caution is the word for the day. I must look normal, as if my routine hasn’t been altered.

Just in case anyone is watching.

After staring at the clock all night long, I get up only half an hour early. I make a quick power shake for me and a sandwich for her. I would like to kill her and be done with it, but I can’t, not yet. So I have to go through the motions of keeping her alive.

I even manage to drive to the club for a quick workout, including time on the weight machines and swimming a mile in the pool. The people I swim with recognize me, nod, and chat. It reminds me how important it is to stick to the schedule. Routine is everything.

So far, nothing I’ve done appears suspicious.

I wave and talk to the few type-A early risers I know, then get on the scale and make a loud disgusted sound as I read the results. Of course, my weight is perfect, my body fat lower than most female athletes.

Afterward, though I’m anxious and eager to see how Bentz’s pathetic wife is doing, I shower and change as if I’m not in a hurry, not rushed. But I can barely restrain myself from running to the car. I drive five miles over the limit to the storage unit, where I grab a few essentials. Checking my watch, I return to the car and race as fast as traffic will allow to the dock where the boat is moored.

People are out and about, dockworkers and fishermen predominantly, but no one is really watching me or giving me the least bit of attention. Why would they? It’s not as if I don’t belong on the boat; I’ve boarded a thousand times before.

I am pushing it time-wise, but can’t wait to see how little “Livvie” is doing. I have my taser with me, just in case she somehow gets violent. But really, she doesn’t have a prayer.

Which is perfect.

I love having that power over Bentz’s wife.

With my athletic bag slung over my shoulder, I head inside and check to make certain I’m alone. Then I climb down the staircase, my shoes ringing on the metal stairs.

She, of course, is waiting for me, sitting on the floor, and from the looks of her, I’d say had a worse night’s sleep than I did. Dark smudges underline her eyes. Her hair is a matted mess. The area around her mouth where she’s torn off the tape is still raw and red in one patch. Her clothes are wrinkled and dirty. In a nutshell: she looks like crap.