The bookstore in Ballard was exactly as he'd imagined: exposed brick walls, mismatched furniture, the smell of old paper and fresh coffee. Indie folk music played softly from hidden speakers, and a handful of customers browsed the shelves with the reverent quiet of people who still believed in the magic of physical books.
The barista was even more beautiful up close.
Her name tag read "Sophie," and she had the kind of effortless style that suggested she didn't try too hard but somehow always looked perfect. Vintage Fleetwood Mac t-shirt, high-waisted jeans, dark curly hair pulled back with a silk scarf. She was reading between customers, her book propped against the espresso machine—something literary, he noted with approval. Donna Tartt's The Secret History.
"Good choice," he said when he reached the counter, nodding at the book.
She looked up, and her smile was genuine, reaching her eyes. "Thanks. I'm on my third read-through. Some books just get better every time."
"I know what you mean. I'm the same way with The Talented Mr. Ripley."
"Oh, I love that one! The way Highsmith gets into his head, makes you almost sympathize with him even though he's—" She stopped, laughing. "Sorry, I get carried away talking about books. What can I get you?"
"Americano, please. And maybe a recommendation? I'm looking for something new."
They talked for ten minutes, the conversation flowing easily from books to movies to the best coffee shops in Seattle. Her name was Sophie Brennan, she was twenty-eight, she'd moved to Seattle from San Francisco two years ago for a fresh start after a bad breakup. She loved hiking and vintage vinyl and had a rescue dog named Bowie.
She was perfect.
When he left with his coffee and a copy of the book she'd recommended—Mexican Gothic, which he'd already read but would read again to have something to discuss with her—he had her Instagram handle and a promise that she'd be working again on Thursday.
Three days. He could wait three days.
Back in his car, he sat for a moment, letting the anticipation build. This was his favorite part, the beginning. The moment when possibility stretched out before him like an open road, when he could imagine all the ways it might unfold. Sophie didn't know it yet, but she'd already become part of his story.
His phone buzzed. A text from his mother: Lunch tomorrow still good? I'm making your favorite.
He smiled, typing back: Wouldn't miss it. Love you, Mom.
Family lunch tomorrow, work meeting in the afternoon, then he'd spend the evening planning. He had a storage unit in Renton where he kept his supplies—rope, plastic sheeting, the ketamine he'd been stockpiling from a veterinary clinic contact who didn't ask questions. He'd need to check his inventory, make sure everything was ready.
But not yet. Not for Sophie. She deserved more time, more attention. He wanted to know her better first, to understand what made her laugh and what made her afraid. The anticipation was half the pleasure.
He drove home through the rain, NPR playing softly on the radio. They were talking about him again, the Seattle Strangler. A criminologist was being interviewed, offering her expert opinion on his psychology.
"This is someone who craves control," the criminologist said. "Someone who likely feels powerless in other areas of his life and compensates through these acts of violence. He's probably socially awkward, possibly unemployed or underemployed, living alone—"
He laughed out loud. They always got it so wrong. He wasn't powerless or awkward. He had a good job, friends, a family who loved him. He was charming, successful, the kind of person people trusted instinctively.
That was the whole point.
At home, he poured himself a scotch and opened his laptop. He had a ritual for after each one, a way of preserving the memory. He'd created a private folder, encrypted and hidden, where he kept photos and notes. Not of the acts themselves—he wasn't stupid enough to create that kind of evidence—but of the women before. Candid shots from his surveillance, screenshots from their social media, little details about their lives.
Emma's folder was still open from the night before. He scrolled through the images: Emma laughing with friends at a bar, Emma at a farmer's market buying flowers, Emma curled up on her couch with her cat. She'd been so alive in these photos, so vibrant.
He'd given her peace. That's how he thought of it. The world was chaos and pain and disappointment, but in those final moments, when he held them and felt their life slip away, there was perfect stillness. Perfect control.
He was doing them a favor, really.
His phone buzzed again. This time, a news alert: FBI Intensifies Search for Seattle Strangler as Fifth Victim Identified.
He clicked through to the article, scanning for new information. They'd identified Emma, released her photo to the media, were asking anyone with information to come forward. There was a quote from the lead investigator, SSA Marcus Chen, promising that they were "pursuing all leads and making significant progress."
Lies, of course. They had nothing.
But then he saw another name in the article: Agent Maya Reyes, described as a "promising new addition to the task force" who had "extensive knowledge of historical serial killer cases."
He clicked on her name, pulling up what little information was publicly available. Twenty-three, recent graduate of the FBI training program, previously studied criminology at Berkeley. There was a photo from some FBI recruitment event—a young woman with dark hair and intense eyes, standing stiffly in a suit that looked too formal for her.
Something about her face nagged at him. A familiarity he couldn't quite place.
He opened a new search window, typing in her name with various combinations: Maya Reyes FBI, Maya Reyes Berkeley, Maya Reyes Oregon.
And there it was. A news article from fifteen years ago: Local Girl Survives Abduction; Sister Credits Her Bravery.
The article was about Lucia Reyes, eleven years old, who'd escaped from an attempted kidnapping in Eugene, Oregon. The sister who'd spoken to reporters, who'd called Lucia brave, was Maya. Sixteen at the time, fierce even then.
He leaned back in his chair, his mind racing.
The girl from the woods. He'd thought about her over the years, the one who got away. She'd been so small, so fragile, and yet she'd run. He'd been distracted for just a moment—a hiker in the distance, someone he'd needed to make sure hadn't seen them—and she'd bolted like a rabbit.
He'd never made that mistake again.
And now her sister was hunting him.
The irony was delicious. The symmetry of it, the narrative perfection. This was better than anything he could have planned.
He created a new folder on his laptop, labeled it simply "M.R.," and began his research.