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He re-wound his DVR to watch it again.

He knew it was vulgar to play the press conference on repeat, but it wasn’t like he was on television every day.

Well, technically, he wasn’t on TV, only the “suspect.” The authorities never mentioned him by name or even his description, which reassured him that despite what he felt were clear signs of his involvement, they were stuck.

He glanced over at the door to his office to make sure it was still locked. Of course, since no one but him could unlock it, nothing had changed. Relieved, he settled into his office chair to luxuriate in what was on the screen.

As he did, he felt comfortable for the first time in what felt like months. His life had been filled with one kind of stress for four months, and then all at once, it became consumed by an entirely different, but equally crushing, kind of pressure.

If someone had asked—but how could they?—he would have told them that participating in this experience with his victims was the first time he’d felt any sense of relief, even comfort, in what seemed like forever. He knew that he was going to have to act again soon. It was the only way to relieve his pain, even if it was a temporary reprieve.

It wasn’t like he wanted to do these things. He knew he was inflicting untold emotional damage on the survivor who was left, bound and helpless, beside the lifeless body of their partner. But then again, that was kind of the point, wasn’t it? These people had to be made aware. They had to know.

That’s why the Whitakers were chosen. He’d seen the way they were in the restaurant, so lovey-dovey. It would have been adorable if it wasn’t so sickening. Same for the Vegas in the movie theater. All that persistent hand-holding, even when there was no cause for it. That kind of arrogant display couldn’t go unpunished. When it came right down to it, he never really had a choice.

Something on the screen in front of him caught his eye, and he paused the press conference, which was ending. How had he not noticed this before?

When the profiler stepped away from the podium, the handsome man with the dark hair to her left gave her hand a squeeze. She looked at him appreciatively. It was clear that those two were more than just co-workers. They were a couple.

And they were engaging in exactly the kind of display that had led him to take action against the other couples. Maybe the dark-haired man thought he was being sly, but to anyone paying close attention, his act screamed of romantic entitlement. And it would not stand.

He had been planning to go out the mall later today, in order to look for his next examples. But that was no longer necessary. He grabbed his laptop and typed two words into the search bar.

Jessie Hunt.