The change happened in an instant. The drops turned into a real downpour. The woolen fabric stuck to his body, felt heavy, and made it difficult for him to run. Your feet are stuck in the mud. They were sliding. Your lungs were burning with pain, and your vision went dark. The body was held in place by the sheer zeal of the brain, beating in gusts of rage. He's here. He should be there. You weren't wrong this time. A silhouette was making its way through the trees. Lagged behind, hesitated. Did he force you to catch up with him or did he lure you into the thicket? Quite. The possibilities of this psychopath's twisted brain defied any reasonable assessment. You're not strong enough to arrest him alone. But he gave up on his own, allowed me to turn him over with shaking hands, climb inside and put a knife to his throat.

"You.".. His chapped lips stretch into a painful smile, tearing at the thin, barely healed skin.

Blue eyes the color of the same serene sky close for a split second before opening again. And they look at me with a chilling gaze. With interest. Kennedy. Damn Kennedy tricked you, the FBI. He made them run around like dogs by the tail. Why would that be? To play? To see how things turn out? Your mind demanded answers. The heart is ready to kill. Neither subtly nor slowly, with a precise knife thrust, as my father, a former hunter, taught you.

“And how did you find out? He didn't move, but asked in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he were talking about coffee, family, or an investigation. “Let me guess, did your valiant sheriff allow me to be followed? Clever, clever.”

He pulls his hand away, unable to orient himself or recoil. Squeezes your fingers until you sob, and lowers the knife. Slowly, purposefully, still with the same gaze, listening to the confusion. “Well, what? Will you make a decision? No? Yes?” - the tip of the blade is an inch from the skin, and if it goes inside, it will hit between the ribs. In the heart.