I picked up my newspaper and flipped to page three, where there was a write-up about the Chameleon Killer. Catchy title—I thought it was fitting. Above the article was a photograph of a crime scene. It showed a sheet laid over a body while officers and Feds stood around.

This was perfect. It was what I’d been aspiring to accomplish. One day a book would be written about me. I’d make sure of it.

I’d dreamed of the moment when the world would see the quality of my work while they scrambled to figure out who would be next and who I was. This was the ultimate game of chess, where I was the king and had the queen by the throat. I’d played the game for years with those at school and my parents, but they were pathetic players. Nothing more than little pawns for me to pick off one by one. My eyes roamed over the image again. The cops and the Feds were much better opponents.

The idling tow truck and the thought of my parents took me back in time to when my father had underestimated me for the last time.

I wiped my brow with the back of my gloved hand. It was hot, like ‘fry an egg on the metal of the tractor hood’ hot, with scorching temperatures and a drought that I’d never experienced in my seventeen years. Everything was dry, and fires were starting all over the state, but here I was out slugging bales of hay. Sweat dripped from every inch of my body, and my muscles were already sore from doing the same thing for the last three days. Lugging square bales from early morning until dusk was the chore I hated the most. I liked the privacy of the farm, but being a man of the land was not for me.

“Hurry up, Cain, the bales are piling up,” my father yelled from the comfort of the tractor seat.

I turned my glare on my father.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” I yelled over the churning noise of the baler and rumble of the old tractor. The sound was bugging my ears.

A small breeze changed direction, causing hay dust to billow in my face and stick to any possible piece of skin on my body. It made me itchy and was irritating as fuck. I had trouble controlling my anger when I was overstimulated and irritated. It was one of the few emotions that didn’t elude me.

I grabbed another bale from the small pile created as they were pushed out of the shoot onto the wagon. Turning, I walked to the wall I was creating to toss the next one up and over my head. The tractor lurched as it came to a sudden halt. With a hard crash, I landed on the floor of the wooden wagon.