1

  Greta checked out right after having breakfast at the hotel, exactly as she'd planned, though two nights late. Watermelon had never been one of her favorite fruits. Still, that morning, the taste came sweet and fresh, as if her body was demanding a change before her mind even admitted the need to move forward. She interpreted it as a sign that her escape was still possible. That there was still time for a whole new path.

  Traffic was light at that hour, with only a few trucks and buses crossing the road out of the city. Now and then a low-displacement motorcycle wound around vehicles here and there. Torres was the last coastal city in the state before the border. She'd reach Santa Catarina in a matter of minutes.

  The GPS indicated three hours to Imbituba. It would be a peaceful journey along BR-101, hugging the coast. With luck, she'd arrive before noon and have time to look for the rented cabin with plenty of natural light.

  As she drove toward the city exit, her eyes caught the sign that said "Come Back Always." When younger, she used to swear to herself that she'd always come back. But "always" was a hard promise to keep. That was no longer her Torres, just as she was no longer the same Greta.

  She drove unhurriedly, enjoying the scenery. The houses without walls along the highway's edges gave way to wide fields, which soon became dotted with trees. The sunny morning fit her renewed mood like a glove. The encounter with the man and his dog the night before had served as a morale boost. It was a neon sign reminding her that there were still good people in the world.

  Halfway to the cabin she decided to stop for lunch. She didn't look for isolated places this time. The experience at the last deserted stop had taught a valuable lesson: better to be seen by dozens of people and recorded by dozens of security cameras than to be at the mercy of a psychopath in the shadows, with great chances of never being recorded by any camera again.

  She chose a large, busy station, well-lit by the strong midday sun. The parking lot was full, and she watched life happening around her. It was almost like a natural timeline of human relationships. Young couples took smiling selfies celebrating the outing. Older couples shared a table with bored teenage children, refugees in their phones and dissatisfied with the vacation itinerary chosen by their parents. Teenagers who would soon form another smiling young couple, only to not much later become the parents they criticized so much.

  That was exactly what she wanted now. Not so much reality divided into cycles, but life pulsing around her.

  She decided to order a full lunch instead of grabbing a quick snack. Google Maps wasn't always reliable in less inhabited regions like the isolated areas of southern Santa Catarina, and she was never good with reference points. Better to have a full stomach in case it took a while to find the property.

  While waiting for her order at the table, she assessed the restaurant. There were large booths along the walls for large families, with smaller tables in the center for couples and solitary people, like her. In the corner, all tables displayed a standard set containing condiments, toothpicks, vinegar, salt, and olive oil. The ordinary combination on the plastic tablecloth functioned as a welcome declaration of normalcy.

  After appreciating the comings and goings of the light yellow-uniformed attendants, Greta was satisfied. She opened the newspaper bought right at the store entrance. The first pages didn't deviate from the ordinary: local governments' advances in health and education, initiated projects, and some political opinion articles that claimed to be impartial, which was rarely the case.

  She wasn't ready for what she found on the center page. Her mouth went dry.

  SECOND MAN FOUND DEAD AT GAS STATION ON RS-389 ROAD IDENTIFIED

  Second?

  But Daros had said he hadn't killed anyone... No. He hadn't said that. She preferred to understand it that way.

  Her hands lost their steadiness as she continued reading. She almost knocked over the napkin holder, nervous. The first body identified was the employee on duty that night. He'd been found behind the convenience store counter, wearing only his underwear. Cause of death: multiple wounds made with a heavy object to the head.

  "Oh my God," she said in a low voice, feeling breakfast turn over in her stomach. At least the watermelon consumed earlier was practically just water.

  The second body was found inside a dumpster. Cause of death: broken neck. The article continued with an even more disturbing revelation. The second victim was, in fact, the serial killer wanted for at least eight robberies-murders in the state's coastal region.

  "So..." No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't finish the thought.

  The forensics had determined that the men had been killed by different people. The pattern of injuries and the time of death indicated that the employee had been killed by the serial criminal. The police were still looking for clues about the identity of the second killer.

  Greta kept the newspaper open in front of her, feeling her vision blur. She looked around the store, searching for something she didn't even know what it was.

  She remembered the sickening smell of cheap perfume in the SUV's back seat, coming, she now knew, from the hidden robber-killer. So the stranger had told the truth, at least about that. He really wasn't responsible for the attendant's death.

  Okay, but he was still a kidnapper. And he'd killed another person that night, even the man being a criminal.

  She tried to understand the picture before her, but the pieces didn't fit. Who was that man? Or worse: what was he?

  2

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  About an hour after Greta passed the return sign, a headache emerged as a stab while Daros drove out of Torres. The night before, he and Inácio hadn't even drunk as much as they usually did, but his alcohol tolerance was no longer the same. He was exhausted. The last few days had been draining. For this reason, he maintained a more moderate speed than he'd initially planned. Either way, no one was waiting for him in Florianópolis. Almost a trademark of his life, to tell the truth.

  He recalled the conversation with Inácio from time to time. His friend had mentioned that Lurdes was making an effort to rebuild the marriage. She'd done therapy and could now better handle the emptiness of loss. Inácio had made clear his discomfort with the idea of talking about feelings with strangers, something Daros understood perfectly, but which didn't help improve the couple's relationship.

  Still, he rooted for the reconciliation. Lurdes and Inácio were good people, they deserved to find a little peace. Daros wished he could help somehow, but giving useful advice wasn't exactly a skill developed in the tactical training of the army forces he'd belonged to.

  In the background, the headache was transforming into something else. Guilt. He'd completely dismissed Inácio's idea of offering help to people before they died. Not because he thought it didn't make sense: it was more because he couldn't tell what he'd done. Well, he could, but he didn't want to. He was ashamed of having been yet another aggressor in the life of the woman who'd impressed Inácio.

  Why hadn't he tried to reassure Greta when he had the chance, yesterday morning? Why didn't he emphasize that he wasn't a rapist, serial killer, or anything like that? Okay, he wasn't exactly a normal guy, but he didn't qualify as a monster either. So why not be clear with the girl? Why not explain that he wouldn't hurt her?

  The answer was simple, and also embarrassing. Because Daros's social skills were minimal. To make matters worse, when in the presence of women, he generally didn't have the freedom to tell the truth about himself. They were occasional encounters in bars or through apps. He limited himself to sharing the only non-clandestine part of his life: work with information technology. He never considered talking about his recreational activities. He might be far from a model of civility, but he wasn't an idiot. He never considered talking about his nighttime activities. You couldn't just say "in my spare time, I hunt those the law can't reach," and then ask if the person liked pizza. No way.

  So, looking Greta in the eyes and explaining what he did in his free time would be ripping the mask off his face, for the first time in front of a woman. Something as unprecedented as it was intimidating. Daros didn't have the faintest idea how to talk about all that. Not even that deep down, he'd already accepted that the hidden part of his life was condemned to remain in the dark forever. Because maybe he was a monster indeed.

  Lousy excuse. He was human, because monsters don't exist. Human and too empty, to be honest, insensitive like most people. He'd failed precisely because of that.

  Maybe he could, at least, try to locate her on the route and make sure she was okay. That could ease his conscience a little. He imagined it was likely that Greta had also hit the road that morning, before him. Still, women tend to be more prudent when driving. They travel more slowly. The tendency was for him to end up passing her car on the highway.

  If Greta was smart, and experience suggested that was the case, she'd avoid isolated places now. The old trial and error model. Of course, that didn't mean the woman would stop to take selfies at every city sign. After all, she still needed to maintain discretion.

  Following the natural logic of someone traveling, it was likely a driver would choose the midpoint between Torres and Imbituba to make a stop. It was precisely in this stretch that he was entering now. By instinct, his foot eased the pressure on the accelerator while his eyes methodically examined the gas stations along the highway.

  Maracajá seemed a reasonable hint. The dual highways were separated by grassy medians. Along the edges, groups of pine trees raised their branches to the sky at one point or another. But after slowing down to check each open restaurant, he found no sign of her SUV. Greta was doing well at disappearing.

  Good for her.

  He kept the Jeep at low speed, occasionally moving to the right lane to give way to signaling cars.

  I?ara was his second guess. He'd been there once, though he didn't remember exactly why. Maybe looking for a shortcut or needing to buy something. The city had become even quieter after the beach district became emancipated. What was that resort's name? Arroio do Silva? No, that was near Araranguá. It must be Balneário Rinc?o, but Daros wasn't sure. For someone wanting to stay invisible, like Greta, I?ara would be a strategic choice.

  He continued the methodical sweep of both sides of the highway, but there was no sign of the Creta. There were many possibilities. Either he'd arrived long after she'd passed, or she hadn't even left Torres yet. It was also possible that his reasoning was completely wrong. Simple as that. And that bothered him more.

  He was good at hunting, but not infallible. He'd tried, and that was better than nothing. Patience.

  That's when a storefront sign triggered an alert right away, and he looked in that direction.

  The restaurant was in a new, modern station, clearly planned to attract tourists. The spacious parking lot with yellow paint on the ground marking the spaces accommodated any type of vehicle, from tour buses to passenger cars. The logo of a famous fast-food chain stood out in the background, a familiar and comforting sight for travelers from anywhere. The covered area of the station extended under a clay-colored tile roof, sheltering a row of stores in various segments.

  The whole place had the lazy air of waiting. Drivers stretched their legs after hours at the wheel, travelers consulted maps on their phones, small groups shared meals at outdoor tables. It was exactly the kind of place Greta might choose: busy enough to convey security, but impersonal enough for someone to go unnoticed.

  The sign that left no doubt was in an inviting café, with yellow lace curtains in the window. It said "VEGETARIAN MEALS AVAILABLE."

  Daros guided the Jeep slowly through the station. It didn't take long to locate Greta's wine-colored SUV, now surrounded by other vehicles.

  There. The car was there. She was fine. Daros could leave. But he didn't.

  Why the hell wasn't he leaving?

  Something else had caught his attention during the patrol, information processed in the back of his trained brain. Information that hadn't yet reached consciousness. He made another lap, letting his eyes wander the parking lot, in search.

  That's when he saw it. A few yards from the woman's vehicle was parked a black Civic. Even before approaching to confirm, Daros knew the rearview mirror would have a slightly different tone from the rest of the car. He recognized the vehicle right away. He'd been followed by it only once, when he wasn't in his own car.

  The realization hit him like a razor slicing skin: it wasn't him being followed. It was Greta.

  Fuck that. Not his problem.

  If she wanted his help, she would have accepted the proposal to travel together. Although, coming from a guy who'd held her hostage, the idea might not seem so good in the end. Even understanding her reasons, changing the first impression we have of someone is as easy as putting toothpaste back in the tube.

  Decided to leave, he shifted the car into gear to depart. The memory of what Inácio had said about women in body bags came back full force. The image of Greta's face pale and with glassy eyes on a gurney was more than he could stand.

  He owed her compensation.

  He needed a plan. And fast.

  Pulling the parking brake, he opened the glove compartment and took out a notepad and pen from inside. He wrote a long note with direct instructions. He tore off the sheet, threw the pad on the passenger seat, and got out of the vehicle. He adjusted the cap brim downward and put on his sunglasses before walking toward the small commercial area.

  At the stationery store next to the café, he bought the first Santa Catarina map he found. The time to wait for a crime to happen first had come to an end.