Page 13 of By the Time You Read This (Raisa Susanto #3)

Chapter Nine

Delaney

Four months before Isabel’s death

Peter Stamkos was an evil man.

Delaney usually tried to stay away from labels like that. Absolutes were only her style when it came to mathematics. But Delaney had “stumbled across” his daughter’s hospital records. She was allowed to call him evil.

But that was not all he was.

He was meant to be proof of Isabel’s power, even from behind bars.

Let’s play a game . . .

Isabel had a talent of figuring out just how to kill someone. Anyone simply looking at her victim list might think she chose based on convenience. If they drove at night on country roads—car accident. If they were a gun owner—suicide.

But that underestimated her genius.

Convenience factored into whatever scheme she hatched, but it was believability that really landed the plane.

Someone afraid of needles wasn’t going to inject too much heroin into their veins. Someone afraid of heights wasn’t going to jump off a tall building.

Isabel enjoyed this part, learning all about her chosen victims so that she could make their deaths perfect.

So what should Peter’s demise look like?

Delaney contemplated that now as she watched his house. She was parked on the opposite side of the street, not exactly being stealthy. She wasn’t in the mood to find a better hiding spot, though. Maybe that would come to bite her in the ass later on. Probably it would come to bite her in the ass later on. And yet, she had no desire to figure out a better option.

Anyway, no one would think Peter Stamkos’s death was anything other than ...

Well, that she didn’t know yet. But, however he went, it wouldn’t look suspicious.

Just as she had the thought, Peter and the girl turned the corner onto the street. The girl looked so small, with her enormous book bag, while Peter loomed over her. The daughter flinched when he went to reach for her hand.

Then she very clearly forced herself to accept it.

Delaney wondered what went through Isabel’s mind in moments like this. For Delaney, anger burned beneath her skin, making her itchy, making her want to reach for a gun.

But Isabel didn’t feel , not like a normal person.

Once upon a time, Delaney had tried to do some research about it all. Isabel had mentioned voices in her head enough times and casually enough when they were growing up for Delaney to know there wasn’t just one killing gene that had been turned on.

Yet Isabel wasn’t at all erratic. There were only a handful of victims who she’d killed without meticulous planning—and she’d gotten away with those because she was so practiced and disciplined normally that it had become second nature to her.

She wouldn’t have gotten mad at seeing Peter’s daughter flinch away from him. She wouldn’t have found him abhorrent as a human being. She would have coldly assessed that he would less likely be missed if his daughter couldn’t even stand him; she would have coldly assessed that there would be a way to kill him that wouldn’t look suspicious.

Isabel could fly into a rage, Delaney was pretty sure, but it came out different. And it was almost never directly related to her killing someone.

Delaney tried to put herself in Isabel’s shoes while she watched Peter close the door behind him and his daughter.

Suicide was the obvious answer here—he would just need to have a reason to have been triggered into it. Perhaps a visit from CPS would be enough.

She eyed the neighboring houses. No sign of movement.

Just down the street, though, there was a little playground, clearly built for the children of this development. A woman sat on the bench watching a kid—presumably one she was responsible for—play.

Delaney got out of the car, adjusting her clothing. She was dressed in a gauzy, multicolor skirt, a flowy blouse, and a vest to tie it all together. On more than one occasion, she’d been likened to an older Phoebe Buffay. She enjoyed the comparison, because people who loved Friends in the ’90s tended to have positive reactions to her without Delaney actually doing anything.

“Hi,” Delaney said when she reached the bench.

The woman gave Delaney a smile, but pretty quickly went back to watching her daughter.

“I’m looking at houses in the neighborhood,” Delaney explained—because she didn’t have a kid she could just use as a prop in this situation. “Do you like it?”

“Oh.” The woman brightened. The tax bracket required for this area wasn’t astronomical, but it was something beyond broke . “Yes, we love it here. That’s Kaitlyn, I’m Maya. We’re the blue house over there.”

She pointed to one two doors down from Peter.

“You must know Peter Stamkos then,” Delaney said, and Maya’s shoulders tensed. It was a necessary evil to get them to this part of the conversation. “I literally just met him and his daughter.”

Maya relaxed. “Yeah, he, uh ... he keeps to himself.”

“Why does it sound like there’s a story there?” Delaney asked, pitching her tone low, so she just seemed nosy.

Maya glanced at Kaitlyn. “His wife died about ... six years ago? I don’t know; he seems fine. He just doesn’t really talk to any of us.”

“Does his daughter play with Kaitlyn? They seem about the same age,” Delaney said, pressing slightly, hoping it wasn’t too much.

“No.” Maya made a face. “He doesn’t let her hang out with any of the neighborhood kids.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of weird.” Maya glanced toward Peter’s house, her brows knit. A seed planted.

Then she shook her head. “Anyway. It is a great neighborhood, I swear. Just some odd ducks.”

“I’ve been called that myself,” Delaney said with a laugh. “I really appreciate your time. I hope to see you around.”

Delaney stood and waved before Maya could ask what nonexistent house Delaney was thinking of buying.

Then she went back to her car, moved it to a slightly less conspicuous location.

She watched as Maya paused on the sidewalk on the way home, staring at Peter’s house for a beat too long to be considered normal.

There was an art to this.

And while she was no Isabel, Delaney had to admit she wasn’t half-bad at it.