I’d thought murder took planning and intelligence, but turning the tables on criminals was twice the work. The guilty were naturally wary, constantly suspecting others of doing the illegal and immoral deeds blooming to life in their own minds. Guilty is as guilty does. I watched Isa cross the library parking lot. The bitch. She wore her backpack by one strap. The glow from her cell phone illumined her features with an odd uplight, adding sinister shadows to her pretty face. I’d parked my nondescript sedan ten feet away from her car. Just out of range of the overhead light. I adjusted my hood, got out of the car, and slumped my way toward the entrance. I tilted my chin down. The university hoodie was excellent camouflage. At least 25 percent of the male student population was wearing a logo hoodie at any given time. Not that I had to worry about being seen. Not by Isa. Her head was down, and she was so entranced by her phone screen she saw nothing of her surroundings.
