OFF THE PATH
It was early, but not dark. That in-between hour when the world hadn't quite decided if it was awake or searching for another hour of sleep. The sun was in no rush, its light still at a lazy slant. The air was soft with golden-spun mist, the kind that sat low along the creek behind the house and made the sloped backyard look like it emptied into nothing. From the kitchen, he had a clear view of the fence and the path just beyond it. That's why he'd left the window open, just a crack--to let the sound of her in.
He stood barefoot on the cold linoleum, coffee in hand, though he hadn't taken a sip in twenty minutes. The mug was just a prop now, a tether to the human ritual of morning. In the lounge behind him, the stereo was playing one of his old favourites.
In touch with the ground
I'm on the hunt, I'm after you
He kept the volume low, barely above a hum, but the lyrics curled through the old house like smoke. He'd played the song at every scene, for years now. It had become part of the rhythm. A private joke. A pattern to spot, if the right detective ever looked close enough.
But no one had, not yet. No one was looking for him here. The woman who'd owned the house wasn't looking either - not anymore. She'd known something was wrong, sure. Women like her always did, somewhere in their bones. But she had offered the young stranger with dark eyes and long fingers a bed anyway. She was decent like that. Polite smile, housecoat, cup of tea. He didn't even have to raise his voice, and she didn't even scream.
It had been days now, and no one had come knocking. The street was quiet, the kind of street where nothing ever happened, and the neighbors minded their business and forgot your name.
He should have gone already. He usually left after two nights. Three at the most. That was the rule - always moving on before the rot set in. Before curiosity turned to suspicion. But then he'd seen her.
The girl in red.
She ran the creek path every morning like clockwork - red hoodie, ginger curls in a bouncing tail, the bright flush of exertion lighting up her face. He'd first spotted her on his second morning in the house, a blur of motion just beyond the back fence. The morning light had lit her hair like a flame. Like a match being struck in slow motion. She hadn't looked toward the house. Just kept running. Unaware.
She was younger than the others. Nineteen, twenty at most. Lean but soft, the kind of body shaped by youth and sport and not yet worn down by years of carrying the world. She stopped at the incline near the gate--always the same spot--and checked her pulse. A small gesture. Two fingers to the throat. Measured. Unthinking. It made him shiver.
She wasn't like the others. That's what he told himself, anyway. She made something stir in him--not the usual sharp, swift thing that bloomed before a kill. Something slower. Thicker. Fascination. He didn't know her name, didn't know her schedule beyond this brief minute she gave the creek path each dawn. But already he'd begun imagining how she might taste, how she might sound, what she might say if she caught him watching with his hungry eyes.
He should have left. Should have done what he always did - moved on, changed cities, wiped the prints. But he stayed. And each morning since, he'd been at the window when she arrived.
He could hear her now. The rubber slap of her shoes on the ground, the crunch of the gravel beneath her. The rush of breath, clipped and even. She crested the far hill, hoodie zipped, cheeks pink, forehead glistening with sweat. She stopped at the gate again. Checked her pulse. And for a moment, she stood completely still.
From the kitchen, he held his breath. Watched the rise and fall of her chest. The curl of her fingers in the hoodie pocket. She exhaled. Shifted her weight. And then, just like that, she was gone again - vanishing around the bend in a flicker of red.
The music swelled softly in the other room.
A scent and a sound, I'm lost and I'm found
And I'm hungry like the wolf
He smiled, the edge of the mug brushing his lips.
"Tomorrow," he murmured. "Tomorrow I'll say hello."
He drank the coffee. It was cold and bitter and perfect.
***
The next morning, the sun was up earlier than she was. It cracked through the low line of trees and touched the path behind the house in long gold fingers. The creek gurgled softly to itself, fat from the night's rain. The leaves were wet. The earth smelled alive.
He was already there, standing by the gate like he belonged to the view.
Joggers to warm his feet. A hoodie to hide the blood stains. Coffee in hand. On every surface that mattered, he looked clean, casual, like he was just stepping out for air. His posture said he wasn't waiting for anyone. But he was.
He'd chosen the spot carefully -- half in the light, half in the shade of the pepper tree. Just enough sun to warm his shoulders. Just enough shadow to keep his smile unreadable.
Lacey came into view like clockwork, hair tied tight, hoodie loose and red again. The zipper was down further this time, the band of her sports bra catching the morning light when she slowed.
Red, like the rest of her. He smiled appreciatively.
Sweat clung to the hollow of her throat. She reached the top of the incline, exhaled sharply, and stopped. Then she saw him.
"Morning," he said, lifting his cup like he was offering it to her.
Her brow lifted slightly, breath still heavy from the hill. "Hey."
"You always pause here," he noted. "Checking your pulse?"
She gave him a suspicious smile. "Have you been watching me?"
"I'm one of those early morning types." He gestured back up the hill to the kitchen window. "I see you every now and then whilst I'm making my coffee."
"Huh. I, uh... I guess it's a force of habit," she said in answer to his question.
"Smart move," he replied. "Good to stay on top of these things. Some people just drop dead, you know. Right in their tracks...
No warning
."
She smirked faintly. "Comforting."
"Not really," he admitted, lifting his free hand in mock surrender. "Just something I read once. Happened to a man I knew once. Some of the healthiest people just tend to...
go.
You just never know."
Her smile faltered - not quite gone, just hesitant. "Yeah?"
"Mhm. But you're young." He sipped his coffee.
The girl looked past him, back up at the residence, and the empty kitchen windows. "You're not from around here. You house-sitting?"
He paused, savouring a joke he shared with no one else. "Something like that."
Lacey's gaze flicked to the vegetable beds behind him. "It's a beautiful garden."
He turned. He'd never regarded the garden before. "It is, isn't it?" His voice was soft. "Shame about the rosemary. It dies fast when no one's there to tend to it."
She didn't answer at first, but the corners of her mouth curled slightly. "Sounds like you're doing a terrible job. Someone won't be happy."
He gave a particularly mirthless laugh. "You caught me."
She stepped a little closer to the fence -- not close enough to touch, but near enough he could see the rising steam from her shoulders, the flush in her cheeks. She was trying not to look like she was interested. That only made her more interesting.
"You a runner too?" she asked, shifting her weight.
"I try to be. But it's easier to stand at the sink and daydream," he said. "But you? You've got a beautiful stride. Controlled. Confident."
Her eyes narrowed, but not unkindly. "That sounds like a line."
He shrugged. "Maybe. But it's still true."
There was a beat of silence; both of them standing there with their morning chill and their breath fogging just slightly. She smiled, finally - beautifully. His words had worked.
