His first was gasoline and a match…but sometimes that just wasn’t enough.
He tested the blade against his palm and sure enough, though he barely touched his skin, a thin trail of blood emerged, drops of red that formed the shallowest of slits that ran parallel to his lifeline.
He saw an irony in that and ignored the other tiny scars on his palm, evidence of his fascination with the blade. He watched the red trail widen and ooze and when there was enough blood to form a thick drop, he held his palm over the fire. Feeling its heat, nearly burning his skin, he stared as the red droplet plunged downward to sizzle and burn as it met the eager flames.
“Tonight it starts,” he vowed, having completed the first phase of his plan, the hint warning her that he was afoot. Within the hour he’d start the next phase by traveling steadily north. And by evening the next step would be accomplished. He’d start with the old woman—what did she call herself? Blanche Johnson? Yeah, right. He snorted at her ridiculous attempt at anonymity. He knew who she really was, disguised as that silly old piano teacher in her knit scarves. And she would pay, just as Shannon Flannery would. Just as the rest of them would.
He fingered the knife. He’d start with Blanche; and then, once he’d lured the girl away, it would be Shannon’s turn. Shannon and the others. He let his gaze wander over the pictures until they came to the slightly larger, framed shot of Shannon. Jaw tight, he stared at her gorgeous face.
Innocent and sexy, sweet yet seductive.
And guilty as hell.
He traced a finger along her hairline, his guts churning as he noticed her green eyes, slightly freckled nose, thick waves of unruly auburn curls. Her skin was pale, her eyes lively, her smile tenuous, as if she’d sensed him hiding in the shadowy trees, his lens poised at her heart-shaped face.
The dog, some kind of scraggly mutt, had appeared from the other side of the woods, lifted his nose in the air as he’d reached her, trembled, growled, and nearly given him away. Shannon had given the cur a short command and peered into the woods.
By that time he’d been slipping away. Silently moving through the dark trees and brush, putting distance between them, heading upwind. He’d gotten his snapshots. He’d needed nothing more.
Then.
Because the timing hadn’t been right.
But now…
The fire glowed bright, seemed to pulse with life as it grew, giving the bare room a warm, rosy glow. He stared again at his image. So perfect in the mirror.
He turned, facing away from the reflection.
Looking over his shoulder, he gritted those perfect white teeth, gnashing them together as he saw the mirror’s cruel image of his back, the skin scarred and shiny, looking as if it had melted from his body.
He remembered the fire.
The agony of his flesh being burned from his bones.
He’d never forget.
Not for as long as he drew a breath on this godforsaken planet.
And those who had done this to him would pay.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the picture of Shannon again. Beautiful and wary, as if she knew her life was about to change forever.
But first, he needed bait.
To get the woman to do his bidding.
He smiled to himself. How fortunate the daughter was living in Falls Crossing, a small town in Oregon on the banks of the Columbia River. He knew it well. Had visited. Had waited. Had watched.
It was fate that the girl and the old woman calling herself Blanche knew each other, that they were in the same place, that he could kill two birds with one stone…or maybe with two matches.
The flames in the grate crackled and spit.
How foolish they all were.
The girl.
The old lady.