The girl would stir soon, and he’d be there to watch and listen. He wouldn’t touch her, of course—not for days or even weeks—but the intimate moments mattered as much: the dressing and the self-care, the small rituals enshrined in the days and nights of women across the world.

At the next intersection, Reece turned left, squeezing down another corridor.

Kitchen, living room, closet …

He stopped behind the wall of the master bedroom, where he could watch through the two-way glass or any of the small holes, so perfectly concealed. But this was the beginning, so Reece took a ladder up, and crept along the ceiling joists until he was above the bed, and could see down through the light fixture. Sara had not moved since he’d arranged her with such care: the blond hair on one shoulder, the sheet that covered her just so. He could have dressed her differently, of course, or undressed her. But Reece was a watcher first, and patient; so he closed his eyes, and in the dimness smiled.

Her name was Sara.

She was his.

When Sara woke, it was like rising through a black cloud, everything soft and supported, a slow drift upward. For a moment, she was at peace. But there’d been that splinter of a dream: gray light from the street and noise in the room, a man’s face as he’d pressed her into the bed and clamped his hand across her face. She’d tried to scream, but choked, instead, on something sickly sweet and wet, his voice horribly gentle, as he’d leaned even closer.

Breathe it in …

In her mouth and lungs, the taste, like a sickness.

That’s my good girl …

That part had been the worst: the lifted jaw and eager eyes, the small teeth in an expectant mouth. She’d tried to fight, but had no strength. A fading room. A fading self. At the end, she’d tried to beg, but the lips had gone, and the eyes had gone.

Just a dream, she thought.

But the taste was in her mouth.

Sara bolted up in a room she’d never seen.

It was real.

His sweat had dripped onto her face.

Bile filled Sara’s throat, and she puked it out onto a bedspread as pale and pink as the walls around her. She saw a metal headboard painted white, curtains the color of turned cream. She closed her eyes, but couldn’t unsee the room.

It was a bedroom.

She had no clothes.

She buried her face in a strange pillow; afraid to scream, afraid he would come.

Him.

He.

All she knew were the strong hands and the moon of his face, the open mouth and the teeth, like a child’s teeth.

That’s my girl, he’d said.

My good, good girl.