The only light in Jack's room came from his laptop, casting a pale, ghostly glow on his
face. He sat motionless in his chair, his eyes tracing the digital life of a woman he had
met only once. The screen was a mosaic of Rose's existence: her Facebook profile, a
collection of smiling photos with friends; her Instagram, a carefully curated gallery of
artistic shots and cityscapes; even her Wattpad profile, filled with stories she'd written
and read.
She is beautiful, his inner voice whispered, a cold, possessive admiration in the
thought. She was beautiful.
FLASHBACK
The scene was the same—Jack in his room, bathed in the light of his laptop—but the
man was different. His posture was coiled with energy, his eyes sharp with a hunter's
focus. The screen wasn't filled with a woman's life, but with death. Crime scene
photos, news articles, and police reports about the "Widow" killings.
Intrigued by the Widow kills, I started researching her crimes, the voiceover of his
memory narrated. He clicked through images of her work: Carlos Rossi, propped up
like a broken statue; the abusive father, tied to his car, his body a canvas of
punishment.
I gotta admit, he thought, a flicker of professional respect in his mind, she's got that
artistic flair. He zoomed in on the details, the precise slice across Carlos's throat, the
symbolic gouging of the father's eyes. My hunch, based on the killings, is that she is a
mid-twenties, Wattpad-obsessed fangirl.
He pushed himself away from the desk and walked to his front door. He knocked on
his neighbor's house. A moment later, Tommy opened it, his face lighting up when he
saw Jack.
"Hey, Tommy! Your father's not home?" Jack asked, his voice warm and friendly.
Tommy scratched his head. "Not yet. He's always late."
The words were like music to Jack's ears. A delighted, predatory smile touched his lips
for a fraction of a second before he replaced it with a look of casual generosity. He
held up a package of warm chicken rolls. "Let's eat together, Tommy!"
"Yes! Let's eat!" the boy cheered, eagerly leading Jack inside.
As Tommy tore into the food at the kitchen table, his mouth already full, Jack feigned
a casual need. "Where's your washroom?"
"Beside the yellow wardrobe," Tommy mumbled through a mouthful of chicken.
Jack walked towards the bathroom but slipped silently into Mark's home office
instead. The room was a mess of case files and documents—the chaotic den of a
hardworking cop. From the corner of the wall, he kept a careful eye on Tommy, who
was still happily engrossed in his meal. Jack pulled a small USB drive from his pocket
and plugged it into Mark's police-issued computer. A small window popped up, and a
progress bar began to fill.
A few tense moments later, the screen flashed the word: COMPLETE.
Jack snatched the drive, slipped it back into his pocket, and returned to the kitchen.
"Thanks for the food, Jack!" Tommy said, beaming.
Jack smiled, ruffling the boy's hair. He waved goodbye and let himself out, the stolen
data feeling like a warm, heavy secret in his pocket.
Back in his own room, he plugged the drive into his laptop. The killings started a few
days back, and she follows a pattern, he reasoned, his fingers flying across the
keyboard. So, she must be a new resident. Just like me.
A file opened, displaying a list of every new resident in Newfoundland for the past
month. RESIDENTS LIST.
"Mid-twenties… mid-twenties…" he muttered, scrolling through the data, his eyes
scanning for a match to his profile.
The list narrowed. Three women. One of them was Rose.
One of them must be the Widow, he thought. He opened another set of files from the
drive—CCTV footage from the areas surrounding his own crime scenes. He began to
review the footage, his eyes scanning the crowds of onlookers and first responders.
My biggest hunch, his voice echoed in his mind, is that she is obsessed with me the
same way I'm obsessed with her.
He focused on the footage from his second kill, the corrupt police officer. He watched
the faces in the crowd, one by one. And then he saw her. Standing just behind the
police tape, a notebook in her hand, her expression one of intense focus. Rose, posing
as a journalist.
Jack's lips curled into a triumphant smile. "Found you."
The screen was now a shrine to her. All of her details, pulled from the police database
and cross-referenced with her public profiles.
"Rose," he said to the empty room, his voice a low murmur. "A babysitter, posing as a
journalist. I expected you to be smart." He paused, reconsidering. "No, no, you are
smart. It's just… I'm smarter."
The next morning, Jack was in his car, a block away from Rose's house. He watched as
she came out, talking on her phone.
I stalked her relentlessly, his thoughts narrated over the scene. I wanted to study her
patterns.
He followed her to the library, watching from his car as she went in and later emerged
with a book.
Her habits, her artistic touch…
He watched her outside Ellen's shop, saw her laughing with the gossipy shopkeeper, a
genuine smile on her face.
I wanted to study her life itself. So, I staged the library meeting.
The memory replayed—him approaching her, the feigned awkwardness, their
conversation about Akira Mado. It wasn't chance. It was a trap, baited with a book he
knew she couldn't resist. And she had walked right into it.