The day after Owen bottled death, he wore a pressed shirt to work.
The collar hugged his neck like a noose, and he liked that. It made him feel clean. Restrained. In control. As if neat lines and carefully knotted fabric could disguise the slow, humming corruption that had taken root under his skin.
He watched Beth the way a scientist watches a lab rat.
She was dressed in a navy skirt and a cream blouse, her posture upright, expression tight. Not a single glance in his direction. Not even a twitch. But Owen saw everything—the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she crossed her legs. The small betrayals of nervousness.
She was trying to disappear. That made it more thrilling.
Predators don’t hunt the loud ones.
He caught her alone by the copier.
The hallway was narrow. Di
