His bones were so very cold. No matter how many times he wrapped himself in layers, jackets, even coats, he never could get warm. He stood on his porch, an oversized winter jacket hugging his thin frame. His legs looked so small compared to his upper torso, wrapped in two sweaters, two shirts, and his coat.
But he didn't care how he looked. He didn't much leave his home anyway. Not unless it was for a special occasion.
He glanced towards his phone, studying the video feed there.
Notification bubbles popped at the top of the screen and he frowned towards these, tilting his head. Anything in the news about Ilse Beck, Tom Sawyer, or Gerald Mueller would ding on his phone. A constant stream of data and information.
“Will she sleep?” he murmured to himself.
He nodded at his own question. In a faint, feminine voice, he replied. “She will sleep, my sweet.”
He gave himself a faint pat on the chest, rubbing his fingers in circles against his coat in an affectionate motion. He ran fingers through his shoulder length hair, brushing it past his ears. He had dark hair, just like Dr. Beck did. It was one of the points they'd connected on all those years ago.
Of course, all good things came to an end.
There had been other... differences they hadn't connected on.
“She was my patient, though, wasn't she?” he hissed to himself.
Just as quickly he bobbed his head, snapping his fingers. “Yes. Yes she was. What a shitty thing to do. She deserves it.”
He winced, shaking his head, and leaning back against the glass of his patio. “Does she?” he whispered. “It is somewhat cruel. Isn't it?”
But he snorted in derision, slapping himself across the cheek. “Don't be a fool,” he snapped. “She has done worse, hasn't she? She ruined our patient. How dare she?”
He sighed, nodding slowly. He hated when he got like this. It was difficult to break the mood. He'd managed to keep himself in check, only sending the postcards. Not just that, though...
He turned back, wincing and stepping into the house.
The far wall was plastered with photos, articles, case reports. All of them on Dr. Ilse Beck. A headshot, blown up to the size of his TV, centered it all.
He glared at Ilse's face, gritting his teeth as he stared.
She thought she knew better than everyone. Hadn't seen fitting to leave well enough alone. And so she'd meddled where she wasn't wanted. She'd taken something very dear from him.
And so he would take something back.
Well... more accurately, she would.
He smiled at the thought now, tracing his fingers over one of the smaller, candid phots he had of the woman. This photo had been taken through the blinds at her apartment when she'd been getting dressed. She hadn't noticed a thing.
His fingers lingered against the smooth surface of the picture.
He licked his lips faintly and murmured. “No... no we won't take anything, will we?”
He smirked. In that softer voice he said, “She will. She'll do it. We both know she will. We know Ilse Beck.”
Indeed, they did. They'd spent years researching every single thing about her. Where she'd gone to school, who her favorite teachers had been, who her first clients had been. Her favorite food. He knew she practiced jujitsu, knew she'd been a runner in school. Knew her favorite color was black, like the sweaters she wore.
He knew everything there was to know.
All of it, of course, had an end in sight.
He removed his finger slowly from the glossy photo, scowling at it. She was smiling in the photo, or, at least, seemed to be. Perhaps she was on a phone call with that FBI agent she fancied. Tom Sawyer. What a silly name. He stared at the candid photo of his target. She didn't deserve to be happy. He was going to great lengths to make sure she wasn't happy. That was only the start, though. He would take her happiness, and then she would do the rest.
With another long look at the smiling face in the photo, he pulled the picture from the wall and tore it in two.
He wouldn't kill her. That would defeat the point. She was the taker after all. She'd been the one to steal from him.
And so now, he would push her to the edge. He would make her take her own life.
He nodded to himself in satisfaction and then let go of the shredded postcard, watching as the two halves tumbled to the ground.