I’d found him. I’d found him by myself, without any help from the police. Every fibre in my being told me he was the man who raped me. My body reacted before I was even sure, the memory of him on my skin still fresh. I knew where he lived, where he hunted, and it wouldn’t be long before I knew his name. The feeling of empowerment was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I felt more alive than ever, my achievement was tangible. All my senses were heightened, like a lion stalking its prey. A tingling sensation ran over my flesh. I knew I was right about him. I knew he’d attack again.

I boiled with fury. What gave him the right, the audacity, to take what he wanted? Terrorising women in our town, how had this not been stopped? He was a predator; stalking women, cornering and overpowering them. A menace to society. Why were we not warned? Emmerson knew he was a possible suspect for past cases. I could see it written all over her face. Was he too clever for them?

If I contacted the police and passed over the information, they might not have enough evidence to arrest him. Perhaps not even enough to be granted a search warrant? I bet his apartment concealed plenty of dirty secrets. Would they follow him like I had? If they messed it up and he got wind he was being tailed, he could bolt. I’d lose him forever. No, he was mine. He was going to pay. There would be justice. He had to be stopped.

I needed to think of a plan, something that couldn’t be traced back to me. I got up and paced the kitchen, unable to sit still. I wanted him to know who I was. I flicked the switch to boil the kettle, catching my reflection magnified in the chrome. I looked so different; thinner and pale, forever changed. Hair a different colour. What if I could change my eyes too? Would he even recognise me now? How much of me had he seen, not much of my face? We were strangers.

Forgetting the tea, I grabbed the pen again and scrawled an idea until the page resembled a spider’s web. My spider’s web and I was going to catch a fly. Taking the letter to the sink, I set it alight, watching shards of the page float to the floor before disintegrating to black dust. There had to be no trace. I didn’t need it to be written down. The plan was cemented in my mind. It was crazy, but perhaps I was a little crazy now.

For the first time, I was glad Ben wasn’t here to witness the manic high. After weeks of feeling low, I’d finally had a breakthrough.