I’m Watching You (Richmond Novels #1)

Chapter One

Richmond, Virginia,

Monday, July 7, 4:10 A.M.

Thou shalt not kill.

The shadowed figure squatted in the darkness by Harold Turner’s lifeless body, amazed that excitement, not shame, surged.

The sense of power and righteousness was nearly overwhelming. God’s calling to be the Guardian had never been clearer.

Placing the .45-caliber handgun and silencer into a black duffle bag, the Guardian eyed Harold’s body, propped against dented metal trashcans.

Even in death, Turner appeared pompous. Arrogant.

A neat part divided Harold’s thinning black hair. Manicured nails glistened in the moonlight. His double-breasted suit and white shirt still looked crisp, and his yellow silk tie matched the handkerchief packed in his breast pocket. Gold monogrammed cuff links told anyone worth knowing that Harold had money and taste.

But beneath the expensive suit that Harold always wore were track marks on his arms and behind his knees. It was an open secret that Harold had been a drug addict for years.

The Guardian adjusted Harold’s tie over the growing plume of blood staining the attorney’s shirt. Countless hours had been spent planning this first murder, strategizing and worrying to near exhaustion. And in the end, luring Harold here had required only the promise of drugs. Firing the bullet from the .45 into his chest had been effortless.

‘A fitting place, don’t you think? I mean, a battered women’s shelter. Your wife certainly would understand why I chose this place.’

The shelter behind them was housed in a white Colonial, and it blended so seamlessly into the middle-class subdivision that most neighbors didn’t know the home’s true purpose. Soft moonlight washed over the shelter’s grassy backyard. A six-foot privacy fence corralled assorted kick balls, bicycles, and rusted wagons – all donated toys used by the children staying at the shelter. There was a swing with a long yellow slide surrounded by mulch.

Thoughts of the children stirred anger in the Guardian. ‘There shouldn’t be places like this. It’s not right. Children should feel safe in their own home.’

The Guardian leveled an accusing gaze on Harold. The high-and-mighty attorney had stood up in federal court this morning to defend his drug dealer client, speaking with authority, visibly comfortable with his ability to manipulate ‘reasonable doubt.’

The Harold Turner who had appeared in the county courtroom was a far cry from the man who’d stood here just minutes ago with tears running down his face begging for his life. That Harold had never understood a fear so sharp it burned.

But this Harold had.

This Harold had dropped to his knees. He’d offered money and promised lavish favors – anything to buy back his miserable life.

‘But fancy appeals don’t work on me, do they Harold?’ the Guardian had said. ‘There is no redemption for you.’

A slight breeze rustled through the thick canopy of leaves above. Soon the sun would rise and with it the heat. This had been one of the hottest Julys on record and the heat was drying up yards, draining water tables, and straining tempers.

In the distance a dog barked. A cat screeched. They ran through the dark yards, their sounds vanishing in the night.

The Guardian stared up at the shelter, searching for any sign that the animals had awoken anyone. A light on the second floor came on but it just as quickly went dark. In the last hour of the night, the people in the shelter and the neighborhood slept.

This was a sacred and blessed time. Predawn’s quiet and peace conjured feelings of invincibility and invulnerability.

The Guardian unfastened the gold cuff link on Harold’s left wrist and carefully tucked it in the attorney’s pocket before neatly pushing the shirt and jacket sleeves up to his elbow. A platinum wedding band squeezed the ring finger on Harold’s left hand.

‘His power is great, and He never lets the guilty go unpunished.’ The Bible verse had given the Guardian comfort during the darkest days after Debra’s death. Sweet, sweet Debra, dead at thirty-nine, her life stolen by her own husband. Like Harold, Debra’s husband had been a respected man in the community, but a violent man at home. His tyranny had trapped Debra and her daughter in hell for years.

Memories of Debra and her child brought sadness and regret. Debra had cried out for help. She’d wanted out of her marriage. She’d wanted a fresh start. But no one had come to her rescue. No one had cared what happened behind the closed doors of her house.

And then Debra’s husband had killed her. He’d violently beaten her to death and then, like the coward he was, had retreated and killed himself. Debra’s only child had found her mother. The violence of that day had left its mark on the girl and she’d run away.

Many a night the Guardian had dreamed about Debra and her child and prayed for their forgiveness.

Twelve years had passed. And then the sign from God came a few months ago. The sign was an article in a magazine. It was so clean and pure and it made the Guardian weep. There had been no question then that the time for revenge had come.

Debra was gone forever, as was her child’s lost innocence, but those who hurt their families could be rooted out and severely punished. They could be made to pay for their sins against their families.

The Guardian removed a machete from the black duffle bag and raised the blade high overhead. The edge was razor sharp, finely honed on a whetstone until the blade could slice paper.

Moonlight glinted off the blade before it came down in one slicing blow that severed the flesh and bone of Harold’s left hand.

Blood splattered onto Harold’s face and shirt as well as the Guardian’s jumpsuit and gloved hands. The blood looked brown in the moonlight as it oozed from the stump and pooled in the dry earth around Harold’s body.

Primal energy surged through the Guardian. For a moment, life had never felt sweeter.

Retribution is mine.

After wrapping the hand in a plastic zip-top bag, the Guardian shoved it into the duffle bag along with the machete, still dripping with blood.

Satisfied that no one had seen, the Guardian zipped the duffle bag closed and then jogged across the backyard, slipped though the privacy fence gate, and sprinted to the waiting van parked halfway down the block.

Opening the van’s front door tripped the dome light. Blinking against the brightness, the Guardian quickly got in and closed the door. Darkness shrouded the cab once again. For several seconds, the Guardian sat in the darkness scanning the homes around to make sure no one had seen. The homes remained dark.

Finally, satisfied that no one would intrude, the Guardian shifted his attention to the open flower box on the passenger seat. The box was filled with purple irises. Each individual stem had been capped with a vial of water to preserve freshness.

After removing Harold’s hand from the canvas duffle bag, the Guardian reverently wrapped it in green tissue and nestled it under the flowers.

The choice of irises was inspired. She would understand their meaning.

Friendship. Hope. Wisdom. Valor.

After replacing the lid back on the flower box, the Guardian tied the red silk ribbon around it into a precise bow, removed a prewritten card from the glove box and slipped it under the knot.

The Guardian switched on the ignition. The dashboard light washed over the box and the thick, bold handwriting on the card.

It read, ‘For Lindsay.’