He understood that yielding to his impulses in daylight was a high-risk move. He’d gambled like that only once before, on a sunny afternoon in Jersey City—a risk that had almost cost him his freedom. His luck had held, letting him prowl and stalk his victims. Having escaped captivity, he resolved to pursue his desires under the cloak of darkness, disappearing into the night to evade capture once more. For the past six months, he’d been disciplined, keeping his urges hidden during the day. But today, something had changed.

Across the room, the woman fixed her gaze on a medieval reliquary in a glass case, mesmerized by its gilded silver, niello, and gems adorning a wood core. She was so engrossed, not even the child tugging at her dress could divert her gaze.

He had seen her before at the Cloister Museum in Washington Heights. A black leather tote bag adorned with gold hardware hung from her shoulder as she regularly visited, documenting her observations of the antique artwork in a notebook. Petite, with long, soft auburn hair cascading over one shoulder, her South Pacific-like eyes matched the brilliance of her smile. It was her tender innocence that spurred him to action. Much like the pretentious and impure demeanor of glamorous girls, her natural beauty infuriated him. Women across the board dismissed him, making him seem nonexistent.

After he finished mopping the floor in the Treasury Room from a visitor’s spilled drink and set up caution signs as instructed by his supervisor, he hurried to the supply room. In a crowded corner, he wedged the janitor cart, removed his grey janitorial jumper over his jeans and hoodie, and tossed it into his employee locker. He dropped his timecard into the slot, punching out fifteen minutes before his shift ended and before the museum would close its doors earlier than scheduled for restorations. With considerable effort, he restrained his excitement, composing a calm pace through the galleries of the museum, offering a nod goodbye to fellow employees and a salute to a security guard before bolting down the concrete steps and out the doors.

Instantly, the brightness outside overwhelmed him. His eyes needed a moment to adjust after eight hours in dim light. A comfortable coolness settled in as the afternoon sun began to set. He hurried across the cracked asphalt, avoiding several tour buses whose drivers were patiently waiting to fill their buses and end their workday. He walked onto the sidewalk, found a bench by the visitor parking lot far from the entrance, pulled his navy hoodie over his head, and waited.

He held his head low. His beady eyes stared at the people leaving the museum in God-forsaken slow motion. Fucking leave already. Multiple cliques lingered before the Gothic monastery, snapping photos and chatting amongst themselves. Patience growing thin. A tight grip on the bench’s edge. Sweat streamed down his back. Those damn people had to leave. With so many eyes watching, how could he satisfy his desires?

He took a quick look at his wristwatch. Twenty minutes after closing. A growl, sickening in nature, escaped from him. Exercise patience. Finally, the front door to the museum opened. Another handful of straggling visitors came out. He didn’t find his intended target among them. Did his fixation on the slow-moving people outside make him miss her exit? Did he lose her amidst the crowd? Could he survive until nightfall to find another victim?

Much to his disreputable joy, his wait was over. As she stepped out from behind the museum doors, smiling at the boy with her, a cruel smile spread across his lips. He wasn’t dissuaded by the minor problem the child caused.

For safety, he pulled his dark hoodie lower, concealing all but his pale eyes. To avoid being noticed, he kept a safe distance from the woman and the boy while working inside the museum. It was unlikely the boy would recognize him and say the man who took his mother was the museum’s janitor. At minimum, a five- or six-year-old boy could recall the man’s size; he was big. Indeed, he was. Six-foot-five made him a giant in a small child’s eyes. That horrifying image would forever plague the boy’s dreams. He felt a wave of heat at the very thought of it. There was nothing remarkable about his looks—no scars, tattoos, or piercings. Nothing about him was striking to most, which wasn’t easy to do. The effort required to seem like an average Joe amused him. The gains were worth the time and energy invested. His bland appearance allowed him to maintain his cruel pleasures, which he’d indulged in for years without detection.

Partially obscured by his hoodie, he craned his neck, readjusted the fabric, and watched the woman and boy stroll along the cobblestone path. He examined the area. After the last tour bus left, only three vehicles remained in the visitor lot. He averted his eyes to the main entrance just as Tony, the chief security guard, collected the museum’s new exhibit signs, took them inside, and disappeared behind locked doors.

The museum had closed. Perfect.

Rising, he pretended to admire the view from the stone ledge, captivated by the forest, trails, and the distant Hudson River. He ambled toward the cars as if enjoying a leisurely Saturday at a city museum, assuming the woman and boy were headed that way. Approaching from behind, he would shove her into the car, then drive off, abandoning the boy to his fears and cries.

He reduced his speed when the woman and boy halted on the pavement. The woman caressed the boy’s mocha-brown hair as she spoke to him, eliciting a smile. A thought suddenly struck him. Did she make the drive there herself, or was a husband, family member, or friend coming to pick them up? Panic seized him. Would he miss a perfect opportunity?

Next, the woman gestured toward her left and spoke to the boy. The boy jumped in place, clapping his hands, excited by what the woman had said. He observed them stroll together, heading north on the paved slope outside the museum, toward Fort Tyron Park. The corners of his lips curled upward. A torrent of blood pulsed through his veins. Not everything was lost to him. They headed for the outer trails, and he pleaded with himself that they’d venture toward the area that held the ideal touristic view, capturing the flowing Hudson River, George Washington Bridge, and New Jersey’s iconic Palisade Cliffs in the distance. Picture-postcard perfect.

Ten minutes later, subtly trailing behind, the woman and boy left the sidewalk for a dirt path ending at a chain-link fence, set back several yards to keep people a safe distance from the park’s cliff edge overlooking the highway. A photographer’s dream was found beyond a rope and thick plants, in a small clearing. The view at sunset was beautiful. The thick forest and dense vegetation to the south of the clearing caused his heart rate to increase, sending a thrilling sensation from head to toe. This was the place. After weeks of searching the grounds, he had found a hidden location—ideal for unexpected situations like this. A divine did exist. He craned his neck. Although he saw no one, he heard faint laughter and distant voices echoing from the nearby park, where Washington Heights residents enjoyed the delightful late afternoon—sitting on park benches, playing basketball, or pushing babies on swing sets. Despite the park’s many trail users, he discovered his route, mere steps from his destination, empty.

His tongue swept across his lips.

The boy skipped toward the chain-link fence, pointing at something on the other side—perhaps a rabbit, squirrel, or stray cat.

He checked behind him again; the coast was still clear. He crept closer, stepping lightly and carefully until he was within hearing distance. “Please stay behind the rope, sweetie,” the woman instructed. From her tote bag, she pulled out a phone. “Turn around, sweetie, so Mommy can take a picture.”

Turning, the boy stood, hands by his sides, a toothless grin on his face. The boy’s smile disappeared; his eyes fixed on the man as he saw him approaching from behind.

He covered the distance in five strides, his arm circling her waist, pinning her against him while his other hand covered her mouth. He carried her—her slight body in his arms—creeping backward toward the chain-link fence where the boy stood. He passed over the rope and entered the thick foliage. With a grunt, she clawed at his hand on her mouth and at his head, causing the hoodie to fall off and expose him. Bitch. His grip tightened, the pressure arousing him as he fantasized about breaking her back. No. He had to have her first. Despite the woman’s size, she was a persistent, fiery thing. Her struggles only intensified his arousal. Yeah, baby, that’s it. He glanced at the boy, who stood dazed and frozen, unclear what was happening. He delighted in the look of utter terror and confusion on the boy’s face. The boy’s horrified reaction caused him to relax his hold on the woman’s mouth, giving her the chance to bite. Without thinking, he stopped, let her fall to her feet, and withdrew his hand from the throbbing ache.

“Matthew, run!” the woman screamed.

Hard, he slapped his hand over her mouth once more, applying more pressure, causing her terrified tears to fall onto his fingers. He pushed her further into the bushes and watched the boy run away. How long before the boy found help? He quickened his step, careful not to stumble as he hauled her through the thick undergrowth. A quick look through the thicket and beyond the chain-link fence caused him to slow down. A laugh—deep and menacing. The boy’s run wasn’t very far. Huddled before an elm tree, the boy sobbed, his small body shaking with grief.

There would be no help arriving. He had all the time in the world.