It didn’t seem like the police knew anything. So what if they found the knife? That meant shit. It had been sitting in the bottom of the lake for two days. He’d worn gloves. And even if they managed to get prints or DNA or anything else, it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t in the system. He’d never been arrested.

He’d just have to be very, very careful never to put himself in a position where someone might get his prints or DNA.

Back and forth, up and down the hall.

Everything was fine. It was all fine. He was careful, very careful.

What if that principal didn’t show up? What if he listened to the news? What if he ran away? Who would be the coward then?

The idea that he couldn’t finish what he started made him itch. He would finish.

Ogdenburg was next. He was at the top of the list but there were two other backups if Ogdenburg fell through. It wasn’t like tomorrow’s kill was essential It was a placeholder.

Sure, it wouldn’t be as easy to go after his backups, but he was up to the challenge. He had notes on all of them. Ogdenburg was first, but if he ran away, he would go to the next. Then the next.

He had a plan. That’s why he always had a backup plan, because something might happen he couldn’t control.

He stopped pacing and stared at the blank television.

What if you can’t get to any of them? What if they all run and hide?

Why borrow trouble? His aunt used to say that all the time.

Why borrow trouble, honey? Don’t worry about what-might-be; focus on what is.

He breathed deeply. In. Out. Calm. Peaceful. Walked back down the hall. Then back to the television. Two, three, four times.

Better.

If Ogdenburg wasn’t at his house tonight, then he would move on to Plan B. If Plan B wasn’t home, he’d go to Plan C. Plan C was a bit more trouble. Plan C had a family and didn’t live in Liberty Lake. He would have to wait until C was alone, which would be more difficult on a Saturday. He’d have twenty-four hours, though. He would find a way. He always found a way.

He realized he was pacing again, that his agitation had grown as he contemplated everything that could go wrong on March 6. This was no good. If he didn’t get his head in the game, he would make a mistake. And he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes when he was so damn close to finishing what he started.

He had to get out of this house, just run, like he’d done after his old man went to jail. Run to get away from his well-meaning aunt, who had no clue what the real world was like. Run to clear his head. Empty the pain, the defeat, the fear. In the end, all he felt was cold anger. Cold. Deliberate. Purposeful anger.