Victim#2: Garrett Williams
"Let me go!" The words tore from his throat, raw and breathless. "I said , let me go!"
"Stop fighting it." The grip on his shoulder tightened, fingers digging into muscle like iron clamps. "We both know how this ends. Sit back. Make it easy on yourself."
"No!"
********
Few days earlier
"So, do you carry anything that can kill a person?" Elara leaned against the counter, propping her chin in her hand like she was asking about the daily specials.
The cashier froze, a half-scanned bottle of shampoo hovering in mid-air. "What?"
Elara let the silence stretch, she held his stare for one agonizing beat, her expression deadpan. Then she snorted, breaking the spell. "Relax. Just kidding."
With a lazy wave, she spun on her heel and drifted down the drugstore aisles, leaving the cashier thoroughly weirded out.
As she browsed the shelves of cold medicine and vitamins, her gaze sharpened. She already had everything else she needed to turn her blueprint into reality. The set up was flawless. Now, the only thing standing between her and a completed plan was finding the right poison—and watching the trap snap shut.
Later that night, the beach house was dead silent except for the rhythmic crash of the waves outside. Elara slipped into Margaret's room like a shadow, her heart hammering against her ribs. Creeping to the side of the bed, she carefully lifted Margaret's limp hand, pressing the woman's thumb against the glowing screen of her phone.
It clicked open. Elara scrolled frantically, searching for the stalker's trail. The man was a ghost, rotating through a dizzying web of burner numbers to keep Margaret under his thumb. Realizing she couldn't possibly memorize them all, Elara hurriedly copied the entire chaotic list before firing it off to the hacker she'd hired online.
Over the next few days, she became a ghost in the corners of the windows. She watched him. She watched him watch Margaret.
Every time she caught sight of him, a cold, electric thrill buzzed in her bones. He was so completely oblivious, utterly blind to the fact that the trap was already closing around him.
She wasn't planning anything catastrophic. Not yet. Just enough to make him violently regret his life choices—assuming a parasite like him was even capable of regret.
Twenty-four hours later, Garrett Williams was no longer a ghost. Elara had his entire life laid out in front of her. He was the worst kind of predator—the type who smiled through a restraining order and kept right on stalking Margaret anyway.
It was a dangerous level of arrogance. But then, some people never learn until the floor drops out from beneath them.
At first, Elara just wanted blood. She'd already figured out the math: empty her savings account, find the right kind of desperate men down at the docks, and buy Garrett Williams a one-way ticker to the intensive care unit.
But the momentum choked in her throat the moment she opened Garrett's text threads. The sheer cruelty of the blackmail stared back ather in high-definition-a relentless stream of psychological torture backed by explicit, violating photos he'd captured to keep Margaret caged. The cash in Elara's pocket suddenly felt like a schoolyard fix. Garrett didn't need a warning; he needed to be erased.
Elara stared into the dark, the question echoing in her mind: Would a beating really be enough?
No. A few bruises and a split lip couldn't pay for the muffled, agonizing sobs that bled through Margaret's bedroom door every single night. It wouldn't erase the hollow, haunted look in her mother figure's eyes, or the way she shrunk into herself, completely broken by helplessness. A piece of paper made form a judge hadn't made Garette blink. Why would broken bones be any different? A monster like him would just heal, get angry, and come back worse.
It was the little things that fueled Elara's resolve. Watching Margaret flinch at the front door, afraid to even look at the yard. Seeing her look over her shoulder every three steps, even with Elara right by her side. Every text notification was a physical blow; Elara could actually see the blood leave Margaret's face the moment the screen lit up.
The math was simple. Garrett couldn't be deterred. He proved it every single day, standing out there in the bright, mocking sunshine, watching the house with an executioner's patience. He would stay here, rooted to the spot, until Margaret ran from room to room, pulling down the blinds to shut him out. He wasn't going to stop until he completely consumed her.
Most stalkers harbored a secret dread of being caught, of their private sickness being dragged into the light. But Garrett wasn't typical. He didn't hide in the bushes like a coward; he wanted to be seen. And this was his entertainment. He fed on Margaret's terror, thriving on her discomfort, all while remaining completely oblivious to the real danger lingering inside the beach house—a danger that already knew him from A to Z.
Elara had no intention of running from Los Angeles, and she sure as hell wasn't leaving Margaret. Whatever happened next had to be fast, seamless, and entirely untraceable. Most importantly, she couldn't get blood on her hands this time. Literally. Bloodstains were a nightmare to scrub out of fabric.
And really, what could be cleaner than a little bit of suffocation?
The D-Day
If you wanted a man ruined, you find the person he ruined first. For Garrett, that was David Wells. The two had gone from best friends to bitter rivals after Garrett embezzled a small fortune from their joint investors, dragging their startup into the dirt. David had been forced to shoulder the blame and the bankruptcy, his reputation utterly destroyed.
Structuring the hit around David wasn't just practical—it was art. David would do the heavy lifting, Elara would line his pockets, and a parasite would be removed from the earth. And the beauty of a desperate man was his predictability. If the plan cracked, David's glaring motive made him the perfect lighting rod for the detectives.
He would be too blinded by greed and spite to see the strings she was pulling. A tank of nitrogen, a set of duplicated car keys, and a push in the right direction was all it had taken for Elara to convince David. Thought the amount of money did all the convincing.
"Where did you even get his keys?" David asked, turning in the passenger seat to face her. His eyes were wide, a mix of genuine curiosity and raw nerves written across his face.
They were parked in the dim corner of a convenience store lot, directly across from Garrett's office building. Elara had insisted they meet in her car so she could walk him through the logistic step-by-step.
She reached into the backseat, pulled out a surgical oxygen mask, used for patients in hospitals, and tossed it into his lap with a casual shrug. "Oh, I just bumped into him on the street, lifted the keys, and got a copy made at a garage in another town. Then I paid a kid five bucks to hand the originals over to a cop." She said with a light, easy smile, as if she were giving him a recipe for a salad.
"Through a kid?" David let out a breathy, surprised chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are ruthless."
"I am. Don't disappoint me." Elara reached across the console, popped the passenger door open, and waited.
David didn't move. Instead, he sank deeper into the leather seat, his gaze locking onto her profile. "So....since we're officially partners in crime. What's your name?"
The easy curiosity was entirely gone from his face, replaced by a sharp, calculating caution. He was digging for leverage. If the cops came knocking, he wanted a name to feed them to save his own skin.
But Elara had been playing this game since before David even knew how to write a check. "Christina," she lied smoothly, her voice entirely flat. "Christina Cameroon."
David nodded slowly, his eyes tracking the vibrant red bob of her hair, lingering on the burn scar marking the entire left side of her face, and the frames of her glasses, trying to commit every detail to memory. "Okay. Cool." He finally unfolded his tall frame from the seat and stepped out into the cool night air. "Where do you live, Christina?" He asked, holding the door open.
"Beverly Hills," Elara replied, twisting the key in the ignition. The engine purred to life.
"Cool. See ya." David slammed the door shut, and Elara pulled out of the convenience store lot, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a second glance in her rearview mirror.
David watched her taillights bleed into the city traffic before turning toward the shadow of Garrett's office building. He quickened his pace, slipping into the dark rows of the parking garage. It didn't take long to spot the sensible, unassuming sedan Garrett had driven for years.
David slid the duplicate key into the lock, his fingers trembling slightly. With a soft, metallic click, the door gave way. A wave of surprised washed over him—it actually worked. Moving like a ghost, he slipped into the cramped space of the backseat, pulled the door shut until it latched silently, and spring into action.
David moved with hushed urgency, working under the dim glow of his phone's flashlight. He positioned the heavy, compact nitrogen cylinder securely into the corner of the trunk, wedging it tightly against the spared tire well so it wouldn't shift or clank when the car was in motion. With steady, cautious fingers, he attached the high-pressure regulator to the valve, ensuring a air tight seal before threading the thin, translucent medical tubing out through the gap in the rear seats. Crawling into the cramped darkness of the backseat, he pulled the long line of tubing with him and carefully attached it to the clean, plastic surgical mask. He didn't crack the valve yet—the gas remained securely pressurized inside the steel tank. Instead, he coiled the mask and the line neatly on the floor boards, sinking low into the shadows behind the driver's seat to wait for the unsuspecting sound of Garrett's footsteps.
Half an hour later, Garrett stepped out of the glass doors of his office building. He glanced down at his watch—just past seven—then looked up at the horizon. The sky was still holding onto a bruised, lingering twilight, a typical unpredictable LA evening where the sun refused to fully quit. He walked over to his sedan, slid behind the wheel, and clicked his seatbelt into place. He twisted the key, the engine coming to life with a familiar hum, and reached up with his right hand to tilt the rearview mirror.
His fingers froze on the mirror. Reflected in the glass, sitting quietly in the dim shadows of his own backseat, was David.
Garrett stuttered, his brain failing to process the sight. "David? What—"
His voice died when he noticed the blade catching the dim amber glow of the dashboard lights. Garrett lunged for the door, but the seatbelt trapped him, choking him back. David seized the moment. He burst forward from the backseat, his forearm slamming against Garrett's collarbone while the edge of the knife found it's mark right under Garrett's jawline.
"Don't scream, don't look back, just drive," David hissed, his smirk practically reflecting in the glass. "Let's go for a ride."
"Not so brave now, are we?" David murmured, glancing out the passenger window at the passing gloom. "Good. At least you have the sense to fear death."
They drove in agonizing silence for twenty minutes, leaving the neon pulse of the city far behind. David finally ordered him to pull over onto the shoulder of a dark, forgotten road where the dense wall of a pine forest swallowed the moonlight. The street was completely dead; no headlights, no houses, just empty asphalt. Before Garrett could even process the stillness, David reached over the seat. With practiced, brutal efficiency, he snapped a pari of heavy steel handcuffs around Garrett's wrists, pinning his arms to the steering wheel, and instantly rammed the plastic surgical mask over his mouth and nose.
Garrett's eyes rolled back in terror as he thrashed against the wheel. The cold steel of the handcuffs bit into his wrists as he tried to yank his hands free, desperate to tear the plastic mask from his face, but David's iron grip held his arms pinned flat.
"Let me go!" The words were muffled beneath the plastic, raw and frantic. "Please, just let me go!"
"There's no point in struggling, Garrett," David said, his voice entirely too calm for the tight space of the car. "You and i both know you're not going anywhere. Might as well just sit back and let your death be easy."
"No!" Garrett choked out, the plastic fogging rapidly with his panic.
********
The breaking news banner bled across the television screen in the quiet hours of the night. A body had been discovered in an isolated vehicle near the forest line. The anchor read the police statement with a detached calmness: the victim, Garrett Williams, appeared to have suffered a fatal, natural suffocation. No signs of struggled. No external trauma. Just a quiet, ordinary death of a stressed mind and overworked body.
A cold, slow smile touched Elara's lips. David had executed the plan flawlessly.
She pressed the volume button until the broadcast filled the entire house, letting the confirmation of Garrett's death wash over the rooms. For the first time in months, Margaret wouldn't have to hide behind closed curtains. The shadow outside was gone forever.
The clatter of dishes in the kitchen stopped. A moment later, Margaret appeared in the hall, wiping her damp hands on the front of her apron. Her eyes were glued to the red breaking-news banner on the screen. "He died?"
Elara leaned back against the sofa cushions, tracking the sudden ease in Margaret's shoulders. "You know him?"
Margaret's gaze flickered to Elara, a brief shadow of panic crossing her face before it was replaced by a strange, overwhelming calm. "I....I've noticed him around," she stammered softly, her fingers tightly pleating the fabric of her apron. "Just a face in the area. I didn't know him personally."
Elara let the silence stretch between them for a long moment, the TV audio filling the gap. "Then why do you look like a weight just fell of your chest?"
Rule#7: What the blood doesn't show, the law cannot prove.