MARA VANCE's Arc

Chapter 7 of 6

The killer looked straight at Mara's window and smiled. Then he turned and walked back the way he came. Mara's hand froze on the door. She knew what that look meant. He had marked her face. If she chased him now and grabbed him, he would deny everything. A calm man on a public street. No blood, no weapon, no proof. He would name her the madwoman and walk free. Ten years of work, gone in one arrest. So she did not chase him. She sat back down. She let him think he had won. Mara knew the townhouse well now. Two nights of waiting had taught her its bones. Tall narrow windows. Old brick. A back stair the killer had not seen. She climbed to the top floor and eased open the small attic window. From there she could watch the whole street without a lamp near her face. She took out the monocle Elara had left with her notes. A dark lens, small enough to hide in a palm. Mara fit it to her eye. The black street turned green and sharp. She could see the wet stones, the doorways, the edge of every shadow. The killer had not gone far. He waited at the corner, watching her old window. He wanted to see if she would come out. If she panicked. Mara stayed still. She let the window stay empty. Let him believe she had lost him. An hour passed. He grew bored. He believed he had scared her off. Then he did the one thing she needed. He walked to a low wall and knelt. He lifted a loose stone and slid something beneath it. A folded paper. His next schedule, hidden for later. Through the green lens Mara saw it all. She marked the stone, the third from the drainpipe. The killer rose, checked the street, and walked off slow. Empty hands. Blue coat. He never looked up at the attic. Mara waited until he was gone. Then she went down and crossed to the wall. She pried up the stone. The paper was there, damp at one corner. She read it under the monocle. Three more names. Three more dates. And at the bottom, one word she had chased for ten years. A place he called home. Not an alias. A room, an address, written in his own hand. She copied every line, then set the paper back and lowered the stone. He must not know she had seen it. She left it as bait, live and waiting. Mara walked home in the dark. She had lost her ambush. The killer knew her face, and she could not take him in the open. But she no longer needed the open. She had his handwriting, his plan, and the place he slept. Tomorrow she would find that room. And this time, he would not see her coming.