Jessie Hunt 13-The Perfect Impression by Blake Pierce (ebook reader online free .txt) 📗

He settled back into the car seat, trying to get comfortable despitethe joints that never stopped aching. He had time. Eventually, Ms. Hunt would pickup on the clues. It was only then that he’d introduce himself to her sister, Hannah,as merely a feeble old man in need of help from a youthful lass. Maybe he’deven use his real name, Walter, which he hadn’t spoken out loud this century.It might be nice to open up to her before he opened her up.

A car pulled into the driveway. He didn’t recognize it but from theconfidence with which the driver marched to the front door, he knew she must bewell-acquainted with the residents. He made a note of her and took out hisbinoculars to get a better look.

The woman was dressed casually in jeans and a light sweater thatsuggested she wasn’t bothered by the morning chill in the air. Her gray eyeswere alert. She was about five foot seven and well-built. He estimated that sheweighed about 140 pounds, most of it muscle.

The woman was nice-looking despite a long, vertical scar under her lefteye and pockmarks on her face and neck that stood out against her tan skin. Somemight mistake them for acne remnants. But the Night Hunter knew better. Theywere burn marks, the kind one got from an IED explosion. This woman had been asoldier once. He got the sense that she could still take care of herself, andif need be, others.

She paused at the door and turned around to the street, her eyesdarting quickly about. She seemed to sense something was off. Though he knew hewas too far away to be seen, the Night Hunter sank down in his seat.

When she turned back around, he glanced at himself in the rearviewmirror. Other than the angry horizontal scar that cut almost four inches acrosshis forehead, he looked like any other frail elderly man. Still, it was bestnot to push it. He started the car and pulled out. There was no need to takeunnecessary risks. He was a patient man.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

After prepping her omelet, Hannah ambled casually though the house,wearing only a tank top and boxer shorts.

It was a rarity for her to have the place to herself, especially on theweekend. But since Ryan was at work and Jessie was on an island just off thecoast, she planned to enjoy this small window of freedom.

It also gave her a chance to plan her next move without having toconstantly look over her shoulder. It had been weeks since she had heraltercation with the child rapist whom she thought had kidnapped another victim,and the high was fading.

Though the man hadn’t actually abducted the girl in question, Hannahhad found kiddie porn stashed in his place when she broke in. Unfortunately,the guy had returned before she could sneak back out and she’d barely escaped.Anonymously turning him in had been satisfying but she couldn’t cling to thesatisfaction forever.

She returned to the kitchen and folded over her goat cheese, sundriedtomato, spinach, and provolone cheese omelet, then left it on the stove on lowto settle while she went to the bathroom. She faced away from the mirror andtwisted her head around to get a better look at the spot on her back where thepedophile had smashed her with a crowbar during their fight. Sometimes shepressed on the bruise to get a residual thrill from the ache. It had changedcolors multiple times and was now a dull yellow. Unfortunately, the pain had finallysubsided a few days ago.

She turned around to face the mirror and studied herself. She wouldn’tturn eighteen for a few months, but she knew she looked more like twenty-one. Shewas almost as tall as her sister, though skinnier, mostly because she wasn’t asdedicated to working out. Her sandy blonde hair cascaded down just past hershoulders and her green eyes—the same color as Jessie’s—looked refreshed aftera solid night of sleep. She knew that if she really wanted to, she could get anadrenaline rush just by dressing up a certain way and visiting a particularpart of town.

But she wasn’t looking for that type of trouble. Hannah preferred thekind that got her heart pumping and put scumbags away. She tried to convinceherself that if the risks she took resulted in a bad guy going down, they couldbe justified, even if that was only a secondary goal.

The main goal, of course, was always the rush. She’d come to acceptthat it was the only way to generate any real feelings. Most of the time shewas faking them, modeling emotions based on what she saw from other people and inmovies. Sensations like delight, nervousness, apprehension, guilt, and empathywere fleeting at best. If she wanted to have any true stirring in her gut orheart, she required the biggies like fear, hatred, and ecstasy.

But shoplifting and walking across busy streets to make cars dodge herwasn’t getting the job done anymore. She got a nice hit of adrenaline lastsummer when she’d confronted a drug dealer peddling his wares to kids whilejoining Jessie’s friend, Kat, on a stakeout that was supposed to be dangerfree. An even bigger, better jolt came when she helped Jessie bust up a sexualslavery ring by pretending to be a potential candidate.

But those kinds of opportunities were hard to come by. That’s why she’dgone after the child rapist. That’s why, in the weeks since, she found herselfscouring message boards, hunting for potential predators to target.

Hannah turned on the faucet and threw some cold water on her face in anattempt to stop the spiral she could feel coming on. It seemed to work. Shedried her face, pulled on some sweatpants, and returned to the kitchen, whereshe turned off the stove, put the omelet on a plate, and doused it in acombination of avocado cubes, chopped red onion, and salsa verde.

When she sat down at the table, she reminded herself how she’d gottenon this train of thought in the first place: she wanted to stop the cycle. Shesensed that she was teetering on the edge of a cliff. At any