Page 149 of Under the Bed

Aman’s name—Brian Perry. His description. Address. When he should be home. Whether he’ll be alone or not. The best times to pay him a visit.

That was the information Jerome sent me.

What I need to complete this job for him.

So here I fucking am. Here, on the other side of the city. Away from Shiloh, sometime before noon. After I snuck behind the bushes,Wren reportedto her father that, in fact, there was nothing to report.

The air smells of the rain that just ended a second ago. But its scent is mild and hardly traceable. The real scent I pick up on doesn’t come from outside.

It’s from somewhere deep within me.

Remorse. I’m drowning in it, and it smells putrid and nauseating. Fucking corrosive.

Leaving Shiloh alone after being ambushed by Dr. Reynolds is eating me alive.

I would’ve stayed. Stalked them. I would’ve killed him against her wishes if he so much as looked at her for too long.

Instead, I have to be here and pay what’s due to Jerome.

Life hardly ever goes my way.

What comforts me is that I’ll be back to stalking her by the time she heads out to the police station.

What comforts me is the echo of her voice.

They’d be better off having your genes. Being a carbon copy of you. Don’t give me that look. Of course I want them to be like you, Kaleb.

Those words. Spoken through plump, abused lips. In the sincerest tone.

The things they did to my heart.

The way she keeps changing me.

Our revenge will be finalized soon. Then, I won’t let her out of my sight. Sunrise to sundown. That’s how long I’ll stare at her. Hold her. Look at her while she showers. While she has no idea I’m there—just outside, watching her.

Stalking her.

I’ll roll out from under the bed while she sleeps. Wait for her to wake up, grab her delicate ankle, and drag her down there with me. Do filthy, inconceivable things to her.

After I’m done here.

Getting to Brian Perry, the poor janitor who works the graveyard shift, has my undivided attention.

His doorstep is nothing special.

One welcome mat on the floor. Patches of green and dark mold on the ceiling.

A cheap lock.

Killing him won’t cost me a damn thing. My conscience won’t suffer. I won’t shed a tear over him.

I don’t know what he did to deserve it.

Couldn’t give a fuck less.

This is the price of doing business.

Of having Shiloh’s pictures with me at Berkshire.

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