He watched the woman from the opposite end of the block, watching as she slipped out of a thin flow of pedestrians and made her way into the bookstore. He waited as she passed through the doors, and then he followed behind her, far enough away not to seem obvious.
The bookstore was the largest of several buildings in a strip mall with other shops, and there were a decent number of people inside, though not enough to scare him away. As the brass bell above the bookstore’s front door chimed melodically over his head, his focus narrowed on the woman he'd been following for the better part of an hour. He spotted her as she slipped past the Fiction section and headed toward Biographies.
Her name was Natalie King, noted in the art world for her diligence in transporting precious pieces, unaware that she had been followed from a recent delivery. Her jet-black pixie cut and the pastel colors of her scarf made her an easy mark to track.
After ensuring no suspicious glances were cast his way, he started down the same aisle Natalie had taken. He maintained a safe distance as he shadowed her through rows of high shelves, his footsteps silent amid the soft murmurs of browsing patrons.
Natalie stopped occasionally, her sharp features softening as she would look closer at the spine of a book or pull one out to read the information on the back. He catalogued these movements—the sway of her attention when a title caught her eye, the casual way she leaned slightly against the shelves as she read the blurb of a 19th-century French poetry collection.
He watched her every move, calculating. She was alone, absorbed in the books, her guard down as was always the case with all those who felt safe in their elitist bubbles. He knew these people, understood their patterns and pretenses; they were his former peers, after all. With each step Natalie King took, he mirrored her path with a predator's patience, biding his time. His fingers twitched inside his coat pocket, eager to act. Soon, he thought. Soon, the world would see the stain these so-called experts have spread upon the canvas of artistry.
Returning the book of poetry to the shelf, Natalie drifted further into the center of the bookstore. She was moving in a way that made him think she wasn’t looking for anything in particular, that she was perhaps simply enjoying some time alone in a bookstore.
The next book she selected was a thin, coffee table style book pertaining to Monet, a close-up of his water lilies adorned the cover. He stood back, concealed by a nearby stack, his gaze unyielding. He watched as she thumbed through the glossy prints, her lips parting slightly. Oblivious. That was the word that summed up Natalie King in this moment—oblivious to the presence that shadowed her, to the thread of danger weaving through the air around her like a noose being tied.
Her life was just so ordered and perfect. Why would she ever have cause to think she might be in danger?
He began to feel a surge within him, a pressure building as if he were a champagne bottle, cork straining against the fizz of anticipation. To pounce now would be easy, so very easy, with her attention so divided.
But he had to be careful. How stupid would it be to give himself away now, with so much work left to do? He did, however, allow himself a bit of risk; he meandered down the aisle she was currently standing in. He walked right by her as she returned the Monet book to the shelf, passing as if he were just any other customer. And she barely even registered him at all.
He came to the end of the aisle and pretended to show interest in something on the last shelf—a biography on some old king. Natalie eventually left the aisle and ventured elsewhere. He followed, every sense attuned to her movements. His gaze never wavered from Natalie as she drifted from one aisle to another, now more certain than ever that she was just wasting time.
His heartbeat thrummed in his ears as he considered what was to come; a meticulous blueprint etched into his mind. Cassandra Holt, Elena Rivera—they had been the first, their names now crossed out in the ledger that existed only in the dark corners of his memory. And there were others, oh yes, a list of those who had turned sanctity into scandal. With each name, the art market's facade cracked further, revealing the rot within. Art collectors and appraisers, swollen with pride and wealth, had driven up the markets, making art itself a mockery—an investment to be hoarded rather than beauty to be honored and revered.
Another ten minutes or so passed before Natalie decided on a book. Her transaction was brisk, impersonal. The clerk offered a fleeting smile; Natalie returned it without warmth. Money exchanged, the book nestled into a bag, soon to be nothing more than the forgotten memorabilia of a life cut short.
After she passed through the exit and to the street outside, he counted five seconds before slowly following after her. He even paused for a moment right at the door, feigning interest in a new fiction release before walking on. Outside, he did the same and continued to follow her. The afternoon sunlight struck him harshly as he emerged, an unwelcome spotlight on a stage he was setting for tragedy.
Now back in the thrum of pedestrians, Natalie moved a bit faster, making her way to her car. He continued to keep his distance, focusing on the need to be patient, to strike when the time was right.
His eyes remained on her until she got into her car. He thought about following her then, too, but decided against it. It was okay; it would all still play out the way he wanted. He knew everything about her: where she lived, where she worked, the hours she was at work. And very soon, he would know her much more intimately.