Chapter 4: The Hunter and His Prey

It was all I had left. Every night, I replayed the same scenes—Sadie’s voice, Mariah’s tears, the cold finality of the morgue.

How terrified must Sadie have been before she died? How desperate was Mariah when she jumped? These scenes replayed every night in my dreams.

I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. Sometimes I screamed. Sometimes I just lay there, numb, waiting for morning.

The next morning, I put on my uniform and started in on Samuel Greene’s duties.

The jacket was stiff, the shoes unfamiliar. I practiced my new walk, my new smile, before stepping into the kitchen. Every move was calculated, every word rehearsed.

Richard Caldwell left early, leaving Ethan alone for breakfast.

The house was quiet, sunlight slanting through the blinds. I found Ethan at the dining table, scrolling through his phone.

Ethan sat at the dining table, not looking up. “Mr. Greene, can you warm up a glass of milk for me?”

His tone was casual, almost bored. He barely glanced at me, fingers tapping the screen.

I went to the kitchen. “Right away, Ethan.”

I measured out the milk, heating it just so. My hands shook, but I kept my face neutral. The kitchen was spotless, every knife in its place.

He was browsing the news on his phone, his expression calm and focused—just like any other kid.

He looked like any other teenager—absorbed in headlines, sipping his milk. But I knew what he was capable of. The contrast made my skin crawl.

I placed the warmed milk in front of him. He looked up and smiled. “Thank you.”

His smile was easy, practiced. I forced myself to nod, turning away before he could see the hatred in my eyes.

That smile was clean and innocent, as if he really were just an ordinary high school student.

For a moment, I almost believed it. But then I remembered the box under his bed, the way he’d smiled at me outside the school.

I became obsessed. Every detail mattered. For the next two weeks, I carefully collected every detail about the Caldwell family: Richard Caldwell went to the company every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, working from home the rest of the week; Ethan went to and from school on time every day, sometimes played basketball with friends on weekends; the house was cleaned by a professional team every Wednesday…

I kept a notebook hidden under my mattress, logging every movement, every conversation. I mapped out their routines, looking for cracks, for opportunities.

But Ethan’s room worried me most. As the estate manager, I had the right to enter every corner of the house—except for Richard’s study and Ethan’s bedroom.

Linda was clear: those rooms were off-limits. I played dumb, asking innocent questions, but she was firm. My curiosity had to wait.

Every time I tried to approach Ethan’s room, I was always called away for some reason.

The phone would ring, or someone would need help in the garage. It was too convenient, too deliberate. I grew more careful, more patient.

The opportunity came on the third Tuesday.

The calendar lined up—Richard was away, Ethan was on a field trip, the house was nearly empty. I felt my pulse quicken as I slipped upstairs, keys jangling in my pocket.

Richard Caldwell was on a business trip, Ethan went on a school field trip, and only I and two maids were left in the house.

I waited until the maids were busy in the laundry room, then made my move. My footsteps were silent on the thick carpet.

I used the excuse of checking the water and electricity to get all the spare keys to the rooms.

I smiled, making small talk, pocketing the keys as I went. My heart hammered in my chest, sweat beading on my forehead.

Ethan’s room was very tidy, the bookshelf full of all kinds of books, from science to literature; a few certificates and photos on the wall, all showing him winning various competitions.

It was the room of a model student—organized, spotless, even the bed perfectly made. But I knew to look deeper.

On the surface, it was just an excellent student’s room.

The air was faintly scented with cologne and old paper. I moved slowly, careful not to disturb anything. I scanned every shelf, every drawer.

But I noticed a locked metal box under his bed.

It was heavy, with a combination lock. I knelt, heart pounding, and tried the keys one by one.

I tried several keys but couldn’t open it, so I finally pried it open with the tools I’d stashed in my pocket.

The lock snapped with a quiet click. I held my breath, lifting the lid. Inside, my worst fears were confirmed.

Inside the box were four clear sealed bags, each containing a different item: a hair clip, a handkerchief, a pencil case, and a pink hairband—

Each item was carefully arranged, almost reverently. The pink hairband was identical to the one Sadie wore every day.

Exactly the same style as Sadie’s favorite when she was alive.

I bit my lip, fighting back tears. My hands shook as I lifted the bag, turning it over in the light.

My hands trembled as I picked up the sealed bag and turned it over—on the back was a small label with the date and location: the day Sadie was killed, and the name of our neighborhood.

The handwriting was neat, almost delicate. I felt bile rise in my throat. Each bag was a trophy, a piece of a stolen life.

Each sealed bag had a similar label, recording different times and places.

Four bags, four dates, four neighborhoods. I realized, with horror, that Sadie wasn’t the only one.

My heart pounded as I quickly took photos of everything with my phone. Proof. I needed proof.

Just then, I heard a car engine downstairs.

The sound jolted me back to the present. I stuffed the bags back into the box, panic rising.

Ethan was back.

I heard the front door open, voices drifting up the stairs. I shoved the box under the bed, scrambling for a hiding place.

I quickly put everything back, just managed to shove the metal box under the bed, when I heard footsteps approaching.

The footsteps grew louder. I darted into the wardrobe, closing the door just enough to see through the crack.

I slipped into the wardrobe, and through the crack I saw Ethan enter the room.

He moved with purpose, dropping his backpack on the floor. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

He went straight to the bed, pulled out the metal box, and entered the code to open it.

His fingers moved quickly, confidently. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look around. I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t notice anything out of place.

My heart was in my throat—if he noticed someone had touched the box…

I pressed my back against the wardrobe wall, sweat dripping down my spine. Every second stretched into eternity.

Ethan seemed not to notice anything unusual. He just took a brand new pen out of his backpack, put it into a new sealed bag, and then carefully wrote a label.

He worked slowly, methodically. I watched as he labeled the bag with today’s date and a new location. The ritual was chilling in its precision.

After finishing, he gently stroked the metal box, a strange smile appearing on his lips.

The smile was soft, almost loving. I felt a wave of nausea. He closed the box, locking it tight. How could he smile like that?

“Perfect collection,” he muttered, a chilling satisfaction in his voice.

His words were barely audible, but they sent a shiver down my spine. I realized, in that moment, just how deep his sickness ran.

This seemingly sunny, outstanding teenager was actually a twisted killer who collected his victims’ belongings.

The contrast was almost unbearable. I wanted to scream, to burst from the wardrobe and end it all. But I waited, forcing myself to stay hidden.

And Sadie was just one of his many victims.

The truth settled over me like a shroud. I clenched my fists, vowing not to let him hurt anyone else.

Ethan locked the box, humming as he left the room.

His tune was cheerful, familiar—some pop song from the radio. The door clicked shut. I counted to fifty before moving.

I waited until his footsteps were completely gone before coming out of the wardrobe, my back drenched in cold sweat.

I staggered out, knees weak. I wiped my face with my sleeve, forcing myself to breathe. The air felt thick, suffocating.

After sneaking out of Ethan’s room, the things in that metal box haunted me.

I saw them every time I closed my eyes. I replayed the scene over and over, searching for a way to bring him down.

The items in those sealed bags weren’t just things—they were lives that had been taken.

Each one was a child, a family, a world destroyed. I swore I’d make him pay for every one.

My Sadie was just one of many.

The thought made me sick. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass of my window, letting the rage wash over me.

I returned to my room and pulled a notebook from under the pillow. On the first page was a photo of Sadie and my wife.

I stared at it for a long time. Their smiles beamed up at me, frozen in time. I traced their faces with my thumb, promising them justice.

“Soon,” I whispered, my fingers brushing the photo. “Soon, he’ll pay the price.”

The words were a vow, a prayer, a curse. I repeated them until my voice was hoarse.

I printed out the photos I’d taken and pasted them in the notebook.

I arranged them carefully, labeling each one. I made notes, cross-referencing dates and locations. My hands shook, but I kept going.

Ethan Caldwell’s “collection” list: four sealed bags, which meant at least four victims, and a fifth was in the works.

I wrote their names—if I could find them—beside each item. I searched online, piecing together the stories. Each discovery was a fresh wound.

I started tracking everything. Their routines, their habits, every move.

- Richard Caldwell: works from home Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; at the company Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday; usually plays golf on Sunday.

- Ethan Caldwell: leaves for school at 7:30 a.m.; returns home at 4:30 p.m.; basketball practice on Wednesday and Friday, comes home an hour later.

- Housekeeping staff: Linda and two maids, work from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., take turns off on weekends.

I mapped out every hour, every movement. I looked for patterns, for gaps, for moments when Ethan was alone.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. I quickly closed the notebook and stuffed it under the mattress.

My heart leapt into my throat. I shoved the notebook out of sight, smoothing the covers. I opened the door, forcing a smile.

“Mr. Greene?” It was Linda’s voice. “Ethan asked if you could prepare some snacks. His classmates are coming over for group work.”

She smiled, her tone friendly. I nodded, following her to the kitchen. My mind raced, but I kept my hands steady.

“Right away.” I took a breath, tried to steady my hands.

In the kitchen, I numbly prepared a fruit platter and snacks, but my mind kept drifting back to three years ago.

The knife sliced through apples and strawberries, but all I could see was Sadie’s face. I remembered her laughter, her tiny hands reaching for cookies.

When Sadie said she was being followed by a boy in a blue jacket, I should have paid more attention.

The memory stabbed at me. I replayed that day over and over, wishing I could go back, do it differently.

If only. God, if only.

At some point, Ethan appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Mr. Greene?”

His voice was soft, almost friendly. I looked up, forcing a smile.

“The snacks will be ready soon, Ethan.” I forced myself to smile.

I arranged the platter, adding a sprig of mint for color. I handed him a napkin, my hands steady.

He walked a few steps closer, leaning against the counter. “I heard you worked for the Andersons for ten years?”

He watched me closely, his eyes sharp. I nodded, keeping my tone casual.

“Yes, Ethan.”

I kept my answers short, careful. I could feel him probing, testing.

“They have a daughter about my age, right? Named… Anna?”

His question was too specific. I felt a jolt of panic, but kept my face neutral.

The Andersons do have a daughter, but her name is Emma, not Anna. He was testing me.

I smiled, shaking my head. “It’s Miss Emma, Ethan. Anna is their niece—she visits occasionally.” I answered smoothly. I’d practiced these background stories countless times.

Ethan nodded, but kept his eyes on my face. “You look a bit like someone I know.”

He tilted his head, studying me. I forced a laugh, shrugging.

I froze for a moment. He couldn’t possibly recognize me—the plastic surgery had completely changed my face, even my voice was carefully trained.

My heart raced, but I didn’t let it show. I sipped my coffee, meeting his gaze.

“Really? What a coincidence.” I handed him a glass of juice. “Do you know a lot of people, Ethan?”

I kept my voice light, friendly. He took the juice, eyes never leaving mine.

He took the glass. “I like observing people.” He sipped the juice. “Everyone’s behavioral patterns are… interesting.”

The way he said it sent chills down my spine. I remembered the metal box, the careful labels. He was watching me, just as I was watching him.

That sentence sent a chill down my spine.

I forced a smile, turning back to the sink. I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding.

He looked at me like I was a lab rat.

He studied me as if I were a puzzle, something to be solved and discarded. I gripped the edge of the counter, steadying myself.

He suddenly changed the subject, his tone returning to that of a normal teenager. “Are the snacks ready? My classmates will be here soon.”

His voice was light, almost cheerful. The mask slipped back into place.

“Right away, Ethan.”

I arranged the last of the snacks, handing him the tray. He smiled, disappearing down the hall.

After he left, I took a deep breath.

I leaned against the counter, letting the tension drain from my body. My hands shook, but I forced myself to breathe.

In this game of cat and mouse, we were both testing each other’s limits.

Every conversation was a minefield. I had to be perfect—one slip, and everything would fall apart.

But here’s the thing: I knew what he was. He only suspected me.

Three days later, Richard Caldwell left on a business trip to Chicago for a week. This was the perfect opportunity.

The house felt emptier, quieter. I waited for the right moment, my nerves stretched thin.

While Ethan was at school, I snuck into his room again. This time, I brought a mini camera, planning to hide it somewhere. My hands shook as I slid the camera into my pocket.

But as soon as I opened the door, I noticed something was wrong—the bed had been moved a few inches, and the metal box was gone.

Panic shot through me. I scanned the room, searching for any sign of the box. It was gone—vanished.

My heart sank. He’d discovered someone had been in his room and moved his trophies.

I cursed under my breath, realizing how close I’d come to being caught. I backed out of the room, closing the door softly behind me.

This was a dangerous sign.

I knew I had to be more careful. Ethan was onto me now. The game had changed.

I quickly left the room and decided to change my plan. Since I couldn’t get direct evidence, I needed to lure him out.

I sat in my room, sketching out new ideas. I needed him to make a mistake, to show his true face.

That night, as I organized Richard Caldwell’s study, I made sure to "find" a document—a printed news report about recent missing children in the city.

I left the document on the edge of the desk, just visible enough to catch the eye. I wanted Ethan to see it, to know I was watching.

I deliberately left it in a conspicuous spot, making sure Ethan would see it.

I arranged the papers just so, then left the study door half-open. The trap was set.

The next morning, Ethan came downstairs half an hour earlier than usual, with faint dark circles under his eyes.

He looked tired, jumpy. I watched him closely, noting every twitch, every glance.

“Didn’t sleep well, Ethan?” I handed him the morning paper.

He took it with a shaky hand, eyes darting to the study. I smiled, pretending not to notice. He’s nervous. Good.

He took the newspaper, his gaze sweeping over the half-open study door. “Mr. Greene, did you organize my father’s study yesterday?”

His tone was casual, but I heard the suspicion underneath. I kept my face blank.

“Yes, Ethan. Is there a problem?”

I met his gaze, steady and calm. He hesitated, then shook his head.

“No.” He put down his barely touched breakfast. “I want to walk to school today.”

His voice was clipped, defensive. I nodded, masking my relief.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

I kept my tone light, almost teasing. He shook his head, forcing a smile.

He smiled. “No need. I like thinking alone.”

His words were pointed, a warning. I watched him leave, his shoulders tense.

Watching him go, I knew he’d taken the bait.