Because he was so good—so damn smart—he could do his work in a fraction of the time his employer believed it could be done. He was paid for a full-time job, but could work an hour or two a day and get the job finished on time—and better than anyone else.

The small, nondescript house he had rented in Spokane had been perfect for the past month. He could work here, hide here, plan here... It was centrally located, making it easy to track his prey. Best, it was near the college, so no one thought twice about someone they didn’t know in the neighborhood.

But when he was done with his work, the walls felt closer, the lights darker, the carpet dingier. He remembered why he was here. To finish what he started. He was so very close...

So close.

But he’d planned it methodically to minimize the risk of being caught. If he rushed, he’d make a mistake. He would not go to prison like his father. He would not be in a cage like an animal. Feral, miserable, trapped.

You haven’t made a mistake yet; you won’t make a mistake now.

His fists clenched and unclenched. He stared at his hands, willed them to stop. They did. Of course they did—he was in control.

Complete control.

He knew why he was upset—the nurse’s body had been found faster than he’d expected. He thought it would take a day or two, which is why he picked the edge of the lake where it might be harder to see because of the density of the trees. But some jogger had found the body only hours after he had struck, according to news reports—news that he devoured like the butterscotch candies he and his aunt loved.

He missed the sweet, tingling anticipation he felt waiting for the police to find the body. He savored the information, gloated at his brilliance. He watched the police from afar—via the internet, through the news, through press conferences—to learn whether there was a witness, if they found evidence, if he had made a mistake. And now that was gone. They’d found the body and he had to be extra careful before his next kill.

So far he’d been perfect. No mistakes. No flaws. The police never even made the connection between his victims in Portland. Then it took them too long in Missoula before suggesting there might be a “serial murderer.” Only one television newscast and two newspaper articles reported on it, then nothing. He waited. Searched archives. They found nothing because he’d left nothing. The case turned cold, and he breathed easier.

Then he picked up his plan. To track his target and know when and where to come in for the kill.

He was smart. Careful. Masterful.

His precision calmed him down. Reassured him enough that he stayed put. He wouldn’t leave early; he didn’t need to kill early. He could wait. He had taught himself patience.

Still, he went to his toolbox. Slipped on gloves and retrieved one of his many knives.