Brookhaven, Illinois

“Hello there, this is Mrs. Morrow speaking. I’m looking for a quote to fix the roof of my house here in Brookhaven. There are a few leaks, and I need some help getting them sorted.”

“We can come out this afternoon, anytime after 11:30. Will that suit you?"

“Yes, thank you. That’s perfect. I’ll be home then.”

At exactly 11:34, Jake pulled up outside Mrs. Morrow’s house in his white pickup truck. He picked up his phone to call her so she could open the gate; the meter-and-a-half fence was decorative and not for protection.

As he drove onto the property, he took in the layout of the yard and the house.

It wasn't as well-secured as most homes, and that stirred the predator inside him. This place fit perfectly into his plans.

Now, he just needed to get everything into position for the stalking to begin, the best part of his mission. He'd been planning this kind of kill for at least a year. Everything had to be right.

The timing.

The access.

The prey, but every time something was not right for his hunt, he would harvest the souls of his mission.

Mrs. Morrow walked over to the truck after opening and closing the gate.

She had short black hair and looked to be in her thirties, tall, slender, and beautiful.

“Hello there, Mrs. Morrow,” Jake said, holding out his hand to her.

“Is it just you who came?” she asked while looking past him towards his truck.

“Yes, just me. I’ll take a look inside the ceiling and then up on the roof. That way, I can give you a proper quote.”

He walked to the ladder strapped to his truck and followed her inside and up the stairs toward the ceiling access hatch. He positioned the ladder and climbed in.

Inside the attic, Jake crouched along the support beams, scanning for leaks. But while he looked, he also studied the space, making notes of how easy it would be to hide up here when his harvest began, and he got all the right feelings for this family.

He spotted the damage—evidence of where the last rain had come through.

Then he returned to the hatch and climbed down.

“Okay,” he said, brushing dust from his hands. “I saw the leaks inside, but I’d also like to check the roof from above.”

About fifteen minutes later, Jake had finished the rooftop inspection.

“You’ve got some damaged roof nails,” he said. “Those will need replacing. We also have a sealing paint for the beams inside that helps prevent mold if you want it applied.”

They discussed options back and forth while Jake scribbled numbers onto a quote slip, and it was always cheaper than the other places in town. Cheaper on purpose.

• - - - -

Later That Night.

Jake parked two streets over, beneath a flickering streetlamp. He killed the engine. He sat still with both hands on the steering wheel and waited for the street to clear. No moving cars, no people.

Just another white pickup in a town full of them. Unremarkable. Invisible and perfect.

He'd seen enough, and this was the right family. This was going to be good... and fun.

Mrs. Marrow wasn't alone, and that was perfect. He needed three, but for her, he'd make an exception.

Earlier that day, he'd watched her husband roll in around five. Red Hilux. Work boots. Shoulders slumped with exhaustion, a man who worked hard every day, and that means he is too exhausted to notice anything, and he's the kind of man who still believes a house makes one safe.

The two daughters weren't far behind. The younger one... ten, maybe... bounced a basketball in the driveway, all scraped knees and energy; she will be the second.

The older one... fourteen... drifted behind her, earbuds in her ears, staring at her phone like the world didn't matter.

A perfect little family.

Perfect enough to be blind.

Now, under the cover of night, Jake moved on foot. He cut through an overgrown lot choked with weeds, broken toys, and rusted-out patio chairs, and he needed to be careful not to trip and break his leg. Jake thought while he was making his way towards Morrow's house.

Brookhaven is the kind of place where people leave things unfinished. That suited him just fine, a perfect environment for his mission and to get away with it.

Crouched behind a low garden wall, he watched.

The porch light glowed weakly, a yellow glow. Curtains were drawn down.

The TV cast a shifting blue flicker in the window.

The husband sat slumped on the couch, beer in hand, remote in the other, something he had to do every night, as it seemed this was his way of relaxing after his hard work.

Upstairs, the lights still burned, and the girls were getting ready for bed. Jake's breath slowed in his chest, and his pulse was steady.

He flipped open his notebook and made a note of what he saw and what the Morrows did.

He started timing:

The delay between movement and the porch light.

How long did the kitchen light stay on when the mother brought water upstairs to the youngest girl?

Which windows offered clean lines of sight to the street?

Every repetition gave him more clues.

There was no dog, no alarm system, and no real camera, just a fake one bolted over the garage, cheap plastic with no blinking light. They felt safe in their perfect life, the right job, the good girls, and the daydreams of weddings and grandchildren, so why should there be security in or around the house?

Obvious, pathetic families.

Jake smirked as he saw Mrs. Morrow walking past the kitchen window. She wouldn't be easy, not with a husband and two kids under the same roof.

But every family had soft spots, blind spots, and habits, and they were easy targets.

All he had to do was wait. Let them unwind, and let them believe they are safe. Let them trust the silence and trust a stranger with fixing the quote.

Thirty minutes passed, and the streets were still quiet; no one was walking a dog or running to get fit or to release stress.

The lights went off upstairs, one by one. The TV clicked off, and the house sank into that heavy, suburban silence and darkness.

Jake closed the notebook. Slid it back into his jacket, and with a last scan of the Morrow house, he stepped back into the darkness and melted out of view.

Gone just like a breath on glass.

The real work hadn't even started.