Page 5 of Mutual Prey

Stick to the plan.

The plan was to go shopping, because I needed this material and I wanted a dress. I hadn’t planned on wearing it to a ball—I hadn’t known about the ball—but I was just aching for some pretty clothes.

Then, it’s on to the kill of the day.

It’s a good thing my plan for today doesn’t allow for much downtime, because it keeps me from spiraling. Who cares about Finn? I can take him. Haven’t I killed two guys in the two days I’ve been back? I know what Daddy would say about that.Take your time.But some rules are just meant to be broken.

I’ve been away for years, and I’m just itching to cross every single one of those names off my list.

There are sixteen left, and I’ve decided that after I’ve crossed six off, I’ll take more time going through the rest of them.

Not because I’m worried they’ll catch me. But because I want to draw out the pleasure.

What happens at the end of those sixteen? I’ll have run out of victims. And I’m not sure what comes next.

_

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon by the time I return home, and I take a few minutes to sharpen my tools before sticking them into my backpack along with a textbook, in case I have some downtime to study.

Don’t go out alone after dark, Mr. Campbell said.

Don’t make me laugh.

I’ve never killed at night. People don’t expect a killer to show up at their door in broad daylight, and it’s a lot easier to get to someone who doesn’t expect it.

Rolling my eyes, I drive out to a small shack deep in the forest that surrounds the college. When that warehouse was torn down, it was very inconvenient. I had to spend time scouting for another place, but this tumble-down cabin is, after all, ideal. I’ve baptized it the kill shack.

I spend the next hour wrapping every last inch of the small room in plastic wrap. Another of Daddy’s rules, one which I suspect he got fromDexter. Well, whatever. It works for me.

That’s another positive of killing in broad daylight. I don’t cross a single drunk teenager on my way to the shack. People don’t usually hang out in the forest in the middle of the day; it’s too depressing.

I drive back into the heart of Astley, pick up a matcha latte at the cafe on College Road, and park my car two blocks away from the house. And then I wait.

Jud Hart used to work on the grant team at Devil, awarding fellowships and allocating research funds to promising scientists. These days, he’s an administrator at the college, which means heshouldbe pretty damn busy, given how classes start tomorrow. But he’s a lazy bastard. I’ve never met him, but I know that. He has power, and powerful people can’t be bothered to put in a day of work. If he were less lazy, my mom would probably still be alive.

Sure enough, it’s not even 3 p.m. when I see his car pull up into the driveway. The secretaries and badly-paid staff will probably be working until 6 or later, but he’s put in a few hours of work and called it a day. I bet he didn’t go in that early, either. It’s easy to draw conclusions based on his appearance: his balding head, beer belly, and the stubble on his chin. But I have a feeling they’re the right ones.

I crush my empty cup and leave my air-conditioned car. It’s hot out for September, but I can’t get into the habit of drinking frozen beverages. The caffeine just doesn’t hit as hard. Plus, the ice cubes mean I get less matcha for my buck.

Closing the door behind me, I head leisurely for the house. I knock on the door and wait.

“Hello?” Jud Hart opens the door and blinks at me in confusion.

“Hi, there.” I give him a wide grin. “I’m Cass Henley. I think you knew my mom. Dora Miller. I don’t use her last name, because I was adopted later, but she was my mom, alright.”

“Ah.” He hesitates for a whole minute before settling on a welcoming, albeit confused, smile. “Come… in?”

It’s just a little too easy for him to overcome whatever emotions the name of my mother elicited in him. I know it wasmore than twenty years ago, but hedidcontribute to killing a woman. Doesn’t he feel any guilt at all?

I mean, I guess I won’t feel guilty about stabbing him. Still, he’s not like me. I can tell that. He’s normal—relatively. He offers me a chair to sit in after a minute or so of us standing staring at each other, while he comes to terms with the fact that I have no plans to leave soon.

“Can I… get you something to drink?”

“Sure. I’ll have a shot of vodka.”

“Uh, okay. Let me see if I, uhm… have some.”

He looks more confused than ever as he goes to hunt in his liquor cabinet. I know he has a half-full bottle. I know pretty much everything there is to know.