And again. And again. The drunk didn’t fight back. Couldn’t. Weak, pathetic.

He’d stolen everything Glen loved. Now Glen had stolen his life.

And it felt good.

It felt so damn right.

When he was done, he didn’t feel the cold. Not at first, then it seeped back in and logic returned.

He needed to hide the body where it wouldn’t be found for a long time.

He needed to clean up, get rid of the knife, his clothes. Clean his car. Go back home, to his aunt’s house. Wait. Make sure no one saw him. No one found the body. No one could trace this murder to him.

He was so damn cold...

Glen shook his head and came out of his memory. How long had he been sitting back here, among the trees, watching Brian Maddox’s house, but not seeing anything but his past? He couldn’t be this irresponsible!

He was about to leave when the female cop came out of the house. She walked around the backyard.

She had her gun drawn.

No way she could have heard him out here. He wasn’t even on Maddox’s property and he knew Maddox didn’t have a security system. He knew this spot where he hid couldn’t be seen from the house at night. He wore dark clothes and a dark hat.

Why was this girl cop with him tonight? What were they doing? Paranoid? Did someone suspect his plan?

Nothing connected him to any of the murders. Nothing! He was sure. He’d been so careful.

The female cop walked behind the pool and looked out into the field. She might as well have been looking right through him. He was hidden well.

Now he knew where he recognized her. She was the blonde who had drinks with Maddox at the hotel where the feds were staying. She was that fed. She had to be. Why was she here? Why would the feds be guarding Maddox? Because he was the deputy chief? Because he was oh-so-fucking-important?

“Fucking fishbowl,” she said, her voice faint, carrying over to him on the cold breeze. Then she walked around the rest of the yard and back to the house.

He breathed easier, then left.

He didn’t like to deviate from his plan, but he had to. What was more important, killing Maddox or killing him the right way?

Glen scratched his palm. He needed to do everything the right way. His mother had always told him there was a right way and a wrong way. A right way to fold the towels. A right way to bake a cake. A right way to make a bed.

The knife, his knife, was the right way to kill.

But he also needed to kill the cop. Which was more important? Doing it right or just getting it done?

As he walked back to his car, his head began to ache. He left Maddox’s neighborhood and drove the twenty minutes back to his rental house in Spokane. Once he was outside of the Liberty Lake town limits, he breathed easier.