The more I followed her, the more intrigued I became with the young woman I had seen steal my kill four weeks ago.
Dawn Summers. Quite a name for someone with a shadowed past.
I’d done my homework. She, like our boy Gregory Doren, was from Sunnydale, California. Educated in Rome for high school.Graduated from UCLA in Library Science and Linguistics. Top of her class. She worked for a local museum specializing in Florida and Caribbean history. Her fingerprints were on file for her background check for her work. Other than that: nothing. She didn’t even have a parking ticket.
I thought at first she had one hell of a grudge to follow him to the other side of the country to kill him. But he was not her only victim. Almost every other night, she had new prey.
She, too, had her ritual. Every night, when she said goodbye to her life during daylight hours, she hunted, as I hunted. She stalked cemeteries every night, just before hitting the Miami nightlife. Between the land of eternal sleep and eternal waking, she found new target. Every time, they exploded to dust before blowing away in the wind. And with a turn of her black leather boots, she’d be gone.
My life just got one hundred percent weirder.
What was even stranger were her victims. I’d sometimes be able to pick up one of their abandoned glasses after I’d seen her kill them. Almost all of them were from either Los Angeles or Sunnydale, California. And every single one of them: dead or missing,
I read up on the city of Sunnydale. Had never heard of it before. Turns out, no one ever would again. Some sort of freak earthquake had completely swallowed it up right about our Ms. Summers departed overseas. Earthquake seemed strange, considering the circular crater left on Sunnydale. But geology wasn’t my expertise. People like Dawn Summers were. But I couldn’t quite decide if she qualified for my slide collection. She was a puzzle. And I like puzzles.