he did the same with the other foot, one step up, close to the wall at the other side.
He made his way up slowly and carefully, testing each step before he put his weight on it. It was going well. It seemed as though he was going to get all the way up without making a sound—
And then, as if the universe had heard his hubris and was punishing him for it, the next step gave an audible creak, making him freeze in place.
He hung his head. Yes, he had been arrogant. That response was right. He deserved it. He remained still and silent for a short time, listening carefully. There was no sound. If she had been woken by the creak, she had not come out to investigate.
He breathed again and began to move, skipping the creaking stair and going for the next one. This time he made it to the top without further incident, and then glanced around, looking for a clue as to where he should go next.
There were several doors, all of them but one hanging open. In fact, now that he looked closely, the last was slightly open as well, the door pushed until it was just ajar. Perfect: the sign he had been looking for. The resident here lived alone, he had known that already. Why close the door all the way if there was no one else in the house? She had closed out the cold air enough to satisfy her and then retired—making his job all the easier.
If he wasn’t supposed to be doing this, then why was it all so easy? He smiled to himself, imagining the difficulty a non-believer would have had in answering that. The formless chaos of the universe had form after all, just not one that we could see. Except we could if we looked closely: in the sun’s disk, the buds of a flower, the shape of the very life-sustaining planet that we all relied on. It was there, but no one else seemed to be able to see the wood for the trees.
He eased open the door, holding it tightly and moving it with control just in case the hinges might squeak, and looked into the bedroom. She was there, turned on her side away from him, her back and the soft fall of her hair across the pillow all he could see. He could hear her gentle breathing, slow and steady, not at all interrupted by his presence in the room.
She had no idea he was there. It was almost too easy. He lifted his weapon, his club that had served him so well so far, and paused, feeling almost cartoonish. It was like a scene from something. He wanted to cackle, or give some other kind of sign that he was there. In the movies, this would be the moment when the victim’s eyes sprang open and she rolled just in the nick of time, away from the villain.
But he wasn’t the villain, and so nothing happened at all when he brought the club down over the back of her head; she just carried on lying there as if she was sleeping, and when he checked her by rolling her toward him, he saw that she was not sleeping at all now but unconscious. Even though the crack that had echoed through the room as the heavy club met the crunching bone of her skull had been loud, he no longer feared the noise. It was only the two of them, and now she wasn’t going to be able to lift a finger in her own defense.
See? he told himself. The transcendental number of pi helped him out again. Now he just had to complete the ritual—by killing her, but also by honoring pi in the best way he could in this house. He already had a plan. Now all he had to do was carry it out. And with no one to disturb him in his work, he was counting this one as a definite win already.
***
Zoe craned her neck frantically, searching in all directions. There wasn’t a single headlight anywhere she looked, no sign of life. No clues to tell her which way he had gone. The killer had been in her grasp, and she had let him escape—go on to take another life. This blood was going to be on her hands.
She could no longer control her breathing for the count. As much as she tried to keep it steady