There is no overkill, his voice reminds me, drifting around my mind like a desert wind. There is only kill, or die. Death need not be your heart stopping. It can be the loss of music. Or memory. Or freedom. Whatever you fear most, that is death. So kill, Bria. Kill every risk that would kill you first. Only then can you enjoy the death that is suffered by your hand.

And I will. I will enjoy it very much.

I’m coming for you, Caron Berger. One little lamb at a time.

I push my memories and desires into the depths of my heart, and then I drive back into the city, heading for the business park on the outskirts of town, closing in on 1294 Tropane Avenue.

The business park is pristine, the well-spaced trees following the curving road past glass and steel buildings and sculpted waterways. A few pedestrians follow the wide sidewalks in their suits and skirts and heels, none of them paying any attention to my unremarkable car as I drift through their domain. The various buildings are host to an array of businesses, from the headquarters for a biotech company to an advertising agency to a law firm, and numerous others, all laid out in clean, sweeping lines of modern architecture.

When I arrive at 1294 Tropane, there’s very little to glean from the company sign at the entrance to the building. “Praetorian.”

Nothing else. Just that single word. Not even anything illuminating in the logo design. Just the letters in forward-leaning silver blocks.

Cave Praetorianos, I hear in my Latin tutor’s deep, resonant voice. Beware the Praetorian Guard.

I keep going past the building and follow the curving road, making a full loop around the business park only to come back again. I turn into the parking lot for the business across the street, an architecture firm, parking close to the road where the front entrance of the Praetorian building is visible through the branches of the trimmed bushes.

I rest my binoculars on my lap. And then I wait.

And wait.

I break out my snacks and wait some more.

Every time the door opens, which is not often, I watch through the binoculars, memorizing faces. A tall, broad-shouldered man with short blond hair and a scar through his brow. A petite woman with a sleek black bob, her dark almond eyes casting a sharp glance over her surroundings as she walks to her car. A few more people here and there, none of them familiar.

And then suddenly, a jackpot.

I sit forward a little in my seat, riveted as Cynthia Nordstrom leaves the building. Caron’s second-in-command, his only public representation. His most devoted little lamb. She’s a tricky little creature at that. She has a tendency to disappear. My mouth salivates at the thought of all the things I could do with her. I can almost feel Caron’s rage at the loss, without ever having seen his face.

Cynthia walks with a middle-aged man with dark ebony skin, his perfectly tailored suit impeccable, the quality obvious even from a distance. Maybe the CEO of whatever Praetorian is. He exudes that kind of air as they carry on an intense discussion on their walk toward the parked cars. Two men follow several steps behind. Their gazes shift and roam, their eyes restless. I keep my binoculars trained on the group as I ask Siri to place a call.

Samuel picks up on the second ring.

“Bria.”

“Uncle.”

“How are you?”

I don’t answer that question. If I do, it’s the clue that something is wrong. It’s part of our phone code. Great? I’m safe but I’m with someone. Headache? Law enforcement trouble. Fine? Leave everything and run. Been better? Someone’s trying to kill me.

Instead, I get straight to the point.

“I think I’ve got something. Praetorian. Possibly a security firm. Cynthia Nordstrom is exiting the premises now with someone important.”

“Leave it with me.”

Samuel hangs up just as Cynthia slides into the back seat of a blacked-out BMW sedan. One of the two men who had been trailing behind her gets into the driver’s side and I lower my binoculars, watching as they drive away down the curving road. The CEO man leaves with the other bodyguard in a similar vehicle, heading in the opposite direction.

Even though I’m itching to follow Cynthia, I know I can’t. If I’m right and this is a professional security firm, there’s a strong chance I would be spotted. They would lead me all over the city before they’d ever bring her to a place where I could get close.

I wait for twelve minutes, and then I drive to my deserted road, switch my plates, and head back to the condo.

When I’m back inside my condo, I get changed and take some time to meditate on the living room floor and place the key details of my observations in safe places within my memory palace. I spend a little time in this world I’ve created, visualizing my trophies, picking up my conch shell to listen to Nick Hutchinson’s voice, his pleas forever answered by the snick of my blade. But a bubbling rage still simmers beneath my skin, tempering my enjoyment of the memory.

What did I miss? Why would Kaplan dismiss my work like he did?

He must have a reason beyond his sabbatical. If my project was as good as I thought, he would have been willing to support me in some capacity, despite his absence. He and I both know a sabbatical doesn’t last forever. I’m sure he’ll be back well before my doctorate is finished.

I open my eyes, frustrated at myself for losing focus.

The only thing I can do now is keep running.

There’s no one in the hallway or the elevator as I exit the condo, heading back in the direction of the campus. But instead of crossing the road to join the pathway that snakes through the quad, I veer left, crisscrossing a few quiet streets until I’m heading down Temperance, running beneath the outstretched arms of the solemn elm trees that line the wide stretch of asphalt. This is where many of the faculty live, in older houses of character that show their prestige with their manicured gardens or semi-circular driveways or gaudy granite lawn ornaments that are supposed to be “art.”

My steps slow until I’m walking. There are no other pedestrians. The moon is no more than a sliver in the blanket of night.

Motion flickers ahead and I slow to a stop. The window of a car door catches the lamplight as it opens. I pull out my AirPods and pocket them, standing in the shadow of a tree.

“…don’t think he’ll be too happy that I didn’t bring treats,” a woman’s voice says. It’s rich and warm with affection.

“Duke? Are you kidding? He’ll be thrilled to see you.” It’s Kaplan. He steps out of the passenger seat of a Volvo C40 and closes the door. He doesn’t notice me down the sidewalk in the dark. I’m standing perfectly still and his attention is focused on the woman I can’t see, her body obscured by a thick elm.

Kaplan digs in the pocket of his tweed jacket as he waits for the woman. Fucking tweed. I wonder if he does it to be ironic, or if he’s really just that sad. A thirty-one-year-old professor in a tweed jacket and Converse. I fold my hand into a fist as I imagine ripping the jacket off his broad shoulders and strangling him with the arms, winding them tight around his throat. But then, inexplicably, the vision changes. I see those tweed sleeves tying him to a bedpost as I ride his cock and he screams my name. An unwelcome warmth spreads through my core and dampens the apex of my thighs. “Besides,” he says, snapping me out of my daydream as the sound of the woman’s footsteps fills the space between us, “I always have extra treats.”

A beautiful woman steps into view, long, golden-blonde hair cascading past her shoulders to the center of her back in scrolling waves. I see her bright red lipstick in profile beneath the lamplight as her smile stretches and she takes the offered dog biscuits. “You’re such a softie, Kap. I bet you give dog treats out to every mutt you see. I’m surprised you have any left for Duke at the end of the day.”