Preying for Perfection
This is a work of fiction. No matter how visceral the details, this narrative is a calculated, delusional fabrication. Every perpetrator, victim, and witness; every suspect, subject, and bystander; every institution, organization, and burial site is a construct of the author’s design. From the hunting grounds to the dumping grounds, these settings and atrocities are a fictionalized stage for a fictionalized descent.
Should you encounter a detail you think you know, or a tragedy that mirrors your nightmares, understand that any resemblance to lives lived or lost, whether they be the breathing, the buried, or the missing, is a chilling coincidence. This is not evidence nor confession. Any blood spilled in these pages is ink, nothing more.
Copyright © 2026 by r c leone
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Osetion, LLC
First edition
PERFECTION
It is as it was,
and as it shall always be,
this pursuit of that which isn’t,
and shall never be,
the hunting for the hunted,
to kill the hunger for the hungry,
the craving for the craved,
to feed the starving with the starved,
from which the mighty build their might,
for which the wealthy lose their wealth,
for which the mindful lose their minds,
from which the impoverished become the poor,
all of which is senseful,
in this grand scheme we call life,
for the living that we love,
is our longing for this strife.
r c leone
PREYING FOR PERFECTION
Chloe sits Vince at a picnic table between the house and the ocean to finish their iced teas.
Vince squints out across the horizon. “I should’a caught you at work instead’a comin’ here.”
“I don’t wanna talk about it. You wanna talk about it.”
“There’s a collector operating around Boston.”
Chloe’s eyebrows raise over her sunglasses, “And?”
“At least one in each county. Last 15 months or so. Local sheriffs filed with NCMEC.”
Chloe turns to Vince, looking over her sunglasses, “No bodies?”
“Correct. Law enforcement is clueless. At least what we’ve seen. Not federally. Nothing from the state. No one’s looking.”
“Except you.”
“So, it seems.”
“You have a frequency?”
“Seasons. Equinox and solstice.”
“So September is next?”
“Probably. Not sure where.”
Vince didn’t come here for casual fishing. Chloe’s looking for the hook. The bait’s already in her mouth. Biting sets your destiny, “What else?”
“Acquisition on the day. No deviation thus far. Targets vary. No signature.”
Chloe’s condescension isn’t contained, “An artful dodger.”
“Ars liberat.” Vince retorts.
And so they fish. Resistant to being hooked, yet unable to stop.
“Locations?”
“One from home. One from a car. A shopping mall bathroom, a grocery store, and believe it or not, even a hospital.”
“Camera footage?”
“Plenty. And witnesses. All leading nowhere.”
“Rich? Poor?”
“No consistencies. We’re guessing. Seems like a new one. You mentoring anyone?”
The hook.
“That’s why you’re here?”
“That’s not a no.”
“This isn’t my MO.”
“Close though.”
“You really think I’d play like this?”
“You’ve run the gauntlet. Pushed the edge. No recent contact. No advancement. I had to see.”
“And?”
“We need your help. This one’s special.”
“I’m not a recruiter.”
“I’m not asking you to. We’ll find her. You bring her in. She knows what she’s doing. And she’s good at it. Maybe as good as you, without the mess.”
“Mess?” the indignation flares, “You mean like Jackson Pollock messy?”
“Eye of the beholder. Regardless, it took days to clean up. This one doesn’t. Art without the fuss.”
“You said she.”
“Or a petite male. Long hair. Breasts. Listen, you operated, untouched. Hell, unknown. Yes, we helped, but everything else was you. This girl’s out there. Brazen. On her own. Skillful, but detected. Just not by the people that can bring her down. Yet. Headlines matter. You know this. We have a head start.”
“Listen.” Chloe started to spit it all out, “I’ve moved on. Beyond the art. I’m grateful for everything. But I’m not interested.”
“You’d rather she’s arrested? Or killed?”
“No. You have members that can take this on. They need to take it on. Get them involved.”
Chloe’s alone as the sun begins its ocean quench. Glass of wine almost gone. Iced tea long gone, as is Vince. A well-loved photo album open on the picnic table. Not something that can be digitally traced.
On the left page, a black and white photo of a naked baby. Alone. Crying in the rain. Her soaked blankie offers little comfort in an alley flanked by aged brick and rusty fire escapes. A stream of water running the length. Dumpsters in disarray line the vanishing perspective. Garbage strewn about.
On the right page, a color photo of a naked woman. Splayed wide, gutted, lying in an enormous pool of blood. She too is alone in an alley flanked by aged brick buildings. Not the baby’s alley. No rain. Blood spray radiates out, painting both buildings. Guts strewn about.
Chloe reaches out to the baby, running her fingertips across the photo. The breeze off the ocean increases. Comingling memories raise gooseflesh. Storm clouds gather, filling the vanishing sun’s void. Chloe’s cellphone buzzes. Reminiscing is over.
Text message. Potential SPAM, “Mother link: www.mynewbaby.com” Chloe clicks, opening a colorful website forum for new mothers to share their experiences.
Social media.
The simple luring themselves to slaughter.
“MOM!” erupts from the house behind Chloe, causing her to look to the heavens.
“POPCORN’S BURNING!”
The new neighbor arrived unbalanced. Stumbling toward her new house. Disrupting the neighborhood’s weekend. A cardboard box wedged on her hip. A baby carrier dangling from her fingertips. She fumbles for her keys. The baby's eyes wide, tiny hands splayed. Bracing for an inevitable impact. The neighborhood watching from behind curtains. Mrs. Chen, another recent addition, down the street, watches while knitting. A sentinel on her porch.
Cara smolders through her window next door. The glass was more than clean. It was invisible. Cara polished it to perfection. Leaving no boundary between her judgment and the world.
This disheveled next-door woman. A collection of wrongs. An oversized sweatshirt hung off her shoulder. Fabric pilled. Softened by sweat. Cara cataloged the stains: a crust of near-black, crimson at the cuff, sick yellowish streaks at the hip, a spray of pale gray dots everywhere.
Bleached?
It wasn't art. Just a history of neglect.
At the collar, a tag stuck out. A pale tongue of fabric thrust to the world. It was fingernails-on-a-chalkboard for Cara. It was a signature of negligence, dereliction. Recognition of wrongness. Wrongness requiring correction. Wrongness falling up the porch steps. Faltering at the top.
This wretch drops the box and the baby, both skidding across the porch. The box tumbles, spilling its domestic debris. The carrier crashes against the siding.
She didn’t drop the keys.
It smiles at its own ridiculous victory. No regard to the box. No concern for the infant. Tilted, jilted, eyes wide and watering. Hands trembling in the air. It remains silent, poised on the edge of a scream. Waiting for a witness to confirm the trauma.
This degenerate disappears into her new void. Cara feels a spike of angst. It wasn't maternal. It was corrective.
Her hands, encased in white, powder-free nitrile gloves, return to perfecting the window's cleanliness. This drama could not be her concern. It was too close to correct. Too close to risk contamination. Or investigation. Cara does not get dirty.
She wears white because white keeps score. White is not decoration. It's a witness. Any darkening is a fact. She wears nothing that sheds. Nothing that pills. Nothing that leaves a soft trail on doors, floors, or furniture. Her hair pulled back tight. Secured from flailing about. No chance of a stray strand escaping.
Cara finished her ritual on the window. Folds the microfiber. Closing the loop. Sealing this filth away.
Day light shifted across these panes of perfection. The gray overcast resists the sun's attempt to brighten the scene. The house next door has been empty for months. Lawn creeping. Porch paint curling. It was the kind of neglect that happens when no one feels responsible. It was not likely to change soon.
This new human blight reemerged. She didn't reach for the child with care. She gripped the infant's torso with force. Ripping, spinning the weight from the carrier. Limbs splayed in another jerk of the Moro reflex.
She held the baby away from her body. Hoisted high, facing the street. A presentation. A trophy to an empty street. A sacrifice of flesh offered, "Sophie! Look!"
Sophie's face was a mask of confusion. Her whimpers caught in her compressed lungs. Struggling against the grip she suffered. No doors opened. No curtains ruffled. Mrs. Chen paused for a moment to watch. The clouds parted on cue. The sun breaking on Sophie's face.
This procession rotated to face Cara. The vision became clear. Cara registers shape and weight. A small body held upright. A head tilted, as if listening. Legs dangling with slack elegance. It was held with a lack of effort. A body that cannot fight.
Cara knows!
The way the surface catches the light. A restrained sheen. The quiet confidence of fired glaze. This face is proportioned. The lips are a soft rose. Not painted to smile. Painted to exist. The eyes are glass. Blue and deep. A sliver of sky trapped in them.
A baby?
A doll!
Porcelain!
Cara begins the inventory: neck seam quality, jawline definition, cheek color gradation, lash line application. The symmetry of the pupils. She searches for manufacturing flaws. Places where cracks start. Where cracks hide. No crazing visible.
The hair is extraordinary. Fine and flowing. Individual strands. Genuine rooting. Not a glued wig. Possibly human hair. Delicate finger separation. A complexion of sophisticated glazing. Multiple layers creating depth, warmth in the cheeks, translucency at the temples. French or German manufacture, late 19th century aesthetic.
The kind of realism that separates masterwork from mass produced. This is not perfection as a compliment. This is perfection as a classification. No visible damage. No restoration work detected. Original condition.
Collector quality.
She'll need closer examination to confirm.
Cara's breath catches, becoming something deeper.
Excitement!
Sophie is next door. Sophie is within reach. The thought arrives as a flame of desire that cannot be readily extinguished.
Cara's gloved hand presses against the glass. The void she had polished was gone, fogged by the heat of her palm. She could no longer be a witness. She was a conservator. And the conservation of perfection requires the removal of blight.
The sun on Sophie's face dims. The immaculate glory of this revelation is swallowed by a thick, oily darkness. Cara's flesh crawls. Her heart sinks. She shivers as her mother's shrill, maniacal voice demands her full attention, "Cara!"
The reek of her childhood permeates her being. The stench of sour milk and stale cigarettes. The shriek of mother's pending wrath vibrating in the marrow of her bones. Under her bare feet a carpet matted with a history of spills. An inconsequential improvement over the splintering floor it attempts to soften. The water-stained wallpaper peels in damp gray tongues, unable to speak of the atrocities inflicted in its presence. Baby Lily's pale lifeless body at mother's feet. A perfect life lost. Unpreserved.
Cara cries.
The room of ruins fades. The house of pain recedes. As Cara picks through the pieces of her childhood, Sophie comes back into focus.
Tears gone.
Perfect porcelain can be protected. Cara is stronger now. She has knowledge. She has the means to defend against these injustices. Sophie is a perfect masterpiece. Cara will not let filth contaminate this one.
Squinting against the spotlight of the sun, this lesser-Lilith neighbor sees Cara watching the spectacle from her window. She lowers Sophie, tucking her sideways on her hip with one arm, waving to Cara as she descends the porch steps. Cara does not reciprocate.
"We may have a new friend Sophie," she mumbles as she crosses her yard, to a dilapidated wrought iron bench under the front oak tree. It's the wrong place for anything that matters. The clouds reclaim the sun, returning a dull gray ambiance to the stage that has been set.
She sets Sophie on the bench, crouching to tap Sophie's forehead with one finger. Not with force to chip, but to be careless, tipping Sophie's head back against the bench. A small leaf flutters down catching in Sophie's hair.
The woman stands, pulls out her phone, while turning away, walking toward the house.
Of course. An Android user.
Sophie is left alone beneath the oak as if the bench is a safe place to abandon such a thing.
Neglect is cumulative.
Cara watches Sophie alone on the bench. Unprotected. Vulnerable. Perfect.
This creature yells back to Sophie while mounting the porch steps, "Don't wander off." Disappearing back into the house.
Cara sharpens into certainty.
Acquisition. Preservation. Wrongness corrected.
Reappearing with a red Solo cup. Pausing, glancing at Sophie long enough to remember. This pseudo-mother walks back across the yard to the bench, lifting Sophie by one arm, a quick swinging jerk, then sits herself, hard landing Sophie next to her. Sophie's head leans against her, corrected with a tap to Sophie's cheek with one finger to knock the head back against the iron bench.
Taking a swig from her drink, she scans the street. Her gaze drifts back to Cara's window. This time it lingers. Cara does not move. She stands in her white room in her white clothes, with her white gloves, meeting the look.
This caretaker's mouth curves into a knowing smirk, as if she had found what she was looking for. She lifts Sophie's hand, making it wave, an erratic motion that turns something beautiful into a pathetic display.
"Hello," she calls, bright and loud to carry across the neighborhood, "I see you."
Cara does not wave.
Tilting Sophie's head a fraction, toward Cara's window.
Her phone rings, with a quick answer.
"Chloe."
It's named. New life. Vitality. How wrong could a name be?
"Yeah, I'm in. Worst house in the best neighborhood, right? Great investment, but no ocean." she laughs, her voice a gravelly rasp that carries across the yards. "We're set. The package is set. Can't wait to meet the neighbors. Quite a vibe here. I need to throw a bash next weekend. Liven the place up."
A pause as she listens, taking another swig from her cup.
"Oh yeah, already drawing attention. This is going to work out fine." Chloe turns back toward Cara's window, lifting her cup in a mock toast before ending the call. "Come to the bash if you're so concerned. Bring whoever."
A breeze moves the oak. Another leaf drops, landing in Sophie's hair, resting on the first. The tiny weight of it feels obscene.
Cara turns from the window.
Next weekend?
‘Sunday Funday’ started bright. White bike so shiny and clean it could be new, if it wasn’t a vintage Peugeot Bretagne from the late 70s. It’s fitted with a white seat, front basket and panniers. And of course, a white bell.
The weather is right for today’s ritual. Though after seeing perfection yesterday, everything feels different. Heading south toward Concord Cara rings her bell passing Mrs. Chen, who was watching her long before, knitting away the morning.
The latest iteration of the corner bakery has shut down again, multiple failures there, but Imagine is only a few minutes away. A little detour, but worth it for a croissant or feta twist to carb up for the ride, and a quick pass by the park. Many families spent Sunday mornings at church. Cara was more inclined to get out. Enjoy a beautiful day hunting for perfection.
Fueled and back on the road, skirting around Havard Square, for the long Cambridge stretch to the Antique Market. Not always a sure thing but five floors of possibilities makes it worth an occasional visit. While Cara maintains an inconspicuous presence, a few dealers know who she is, given the family is in the press often. As such, they keep an eye out for Cara, knowing her proclivities, but the quality of their offers is inconsistent. There are so many vulnerabilities to consider for conservation. Preservation or restoration, which most people, professional or otherwise, do not understand. After traversing all floors, diligent about not missing anything, ensuring each dealer’s goods were reviewed, nothing manifested. Not the first disappointing trip. Also not the last.
Making her way back down through the floors Cara’s eye is caught.
Almost missed this.
There in the aisle, lying in a pram eyes closed, as some manufacturers used sleeping-eye mechanisms, or flirty-eyes for side-to-side movements, was an exquisite specimen. Thumb in its mouth, fingers curled around its nose. Cara stopped dead. Stooping to inspect closer. Reaching out to touch the pristine surface.
Two in two days?
“I know! Right!?” was all it took to trigger Cara out of her infatuation. The already recognizable, irritating timbre of Chloe’s voice, in an animated discussion with a dealer down the aisle.
Cara had not recognized Sophie with closed eyes, sucking her thumb, but now with Chloe’s calamity of a presence the context was revelatory.
Proximity is dangerous.
Cara exited with haste. A light sweat had formed across her entire body by the time she reached her bike. Not from exertion. This was panic. Adrenaline tremors were coursing throughout. Mounting the bike was awkward at best. A foot slip slammed a pedal into her shin. The pain did not register as Cara’s brain was in an unusual state of chaos, unlike anything she had experienced throughout her controlled 33 years of living. The bike was underway. Autonomous, as Cara was not focused or even in deliberate control. Over the river to Toscano Beacon Street. Lunch reservations made weeks ago.
“Are you okay?” the host inquired with concern, Cara still not there in mind or body. “Cara?” knowing who she is, “Can I get you something to clean up the blood?”
Blood?!
Cara cocked her head, “What’d you say?
“Do you want something to clean up the blood? Running down your leg,” the host pointing to the shin that suffered the pedal attack. Unbeknownst to this Cara. Leaning forward Cara observes the distinctive red against her pale skin, soaking across the edge of her short white sock. Grabbing for the air as she loses strength everywhere. The host scooping her up before she faceplants, guiding her to an empty table to be seated.
“Ice cold Peach Bellini coming up.” He said as he walked away. Cara still dumbfounded by the blood as she returns to her mind. Then to her body. Lunch was spent in careful recollection. If Chloe saw her, or anyone else for that matter.
Sophie is amazing!
Correlation must be mitigated.
Is there a fix?
After lunch Cara continued her retrospective, walking Charles Street. Intending to frequent some of the shops, she instead just walked up to Pinckney. With extreme caution, remounting her bike and heading down to the Gardner for some music. Nothing registered through Cara’s thick brain fog.
No interest in the day further. Not even to enjoy a ride on Memorial Drive, just headed straight home.
The Monday sun is blinding as Cara enters an empty conference room, setting her laptop at the head of the table. She goes to the window overlooking Brahmin Way, flush with pedestrians and vehicles moving about their simple day. Uninterested, Cara finds the remote, lowers the shades to block out the contamination, activating the screen behind her end of the table. The wall clock shows 12:47, as Cara minimizes the flurry of tabs, applications, and documents on her laptop.
She searches: Housewarming gifts for a new mother
Sponsored products begin the results from the likes of Oprah, Good Housekeeping, and Amazon.
Passé
Followed by disparate articles from HGTV, Reddit, Eater, Facebook, and Amazon, again.
Prosaic
Videos, Etsy, Pinterest, Quora, and on, and on.
So much useless stuff for such an empty gesture.
Scrolling through, trying to determine what would send what kind of message to the wretched creature.
“Afternoon Director Brahmin.” brings Cara’s attention back to the room, which is now filling with people.
“Someone interesting move in?” asks another random, evoking a questioning vibe rising in Cara.
“I got that for my new neighbor last year.” says another, now pointing to the screen behind Cara. Cara long blinks, realizing her laptop is already projecting to the room, giving them a rare glimpse into something personal. She opens the intended presentation of a cadaver side-by-side with The Brahmin Plastination Institute logo, beginning the meeting, “We need to optimize resin viscosity and impregnation timelines.”
The presentation shows cross-sections of preserved tissue at increasing magnification. Cara navigates through slides with precision.
"The polymer penetration remains inconsistent in areas of high capillary density," she explains, onscreen pointer tracing the problem areas. "We're achieving excellent results in major muscle groups and organ tissue, but losing definition in the extremities."
A research associate leans forward: "The fingers and toes are still showing collapse before complete impregnation."
"Unacceptable." Cara's response is sharp. "We need complete cellular replacement. Every detail must be preserved."
Her intensity draws expression from all faces. The associate continues with care: "We've extended the dehydration phase by forty-eight hours, but the smaller structures…"
"The face," Cara interrupts. "What about facial tissue? The cheeks, the lips. Are we maintaining natural color gradation?"
A moment of silence. The team exchanges looks.
Dr. Kenji Yamamoto, Senior Plastination Technician, clears his throat. "Director, the facial tissue in our adult specimens shows excellent preservation. The techniques we developed for the museum exhibition pieces…"
"I'm not asking about adult specimens." Cara's voice has an edge now. She catches herself, moderates. "I mean… we should be considering scalability. Smaller specimens require different protocols. More delicate handling. The tissue density is different."
"We could develop parallel protocols," Yamamoto offers diplomatically. "Though our current resources are focused on educational anatomy specimens."
Cara nods, makes a note. "We'll fund a track through the family trust. We should be prepared for any specimen size, any preservation challenge."
She clicks to the next slide: a timeline chart. "Current processing takes twelve to sixteen weeks from fixation to final curing. That's too long. We need to compress the timeline without sacrificing quality."
"Director," one of the graduate students ventures, "the tissue needs time for complete polymer saturation. Rushing the process risks incomplete preservation, potential degradation…"
"Which is why we optimize," Cara cuts in. "Better vacuum pressure. Higher-grade polymers. More precise temperature control. Perfection isn't optional. It's the entire point."
The meeting continues. Cara is brilliant, demanding, veering into areas that seem tangential to their funded research, but no one questions it. She's the Director. It's her family's money that built this place.
After the meeting, Cara walks through the Institute's main plastination laboratory. White tile floors, white workstations, technicians in white lab coats monitoring various stages of the preservation process.
Station One: A cadaver lies in a large acetone bath, the dehydration phase. The body is weeks into the process, tissues gradually replacing water with solvent. A technician checks the acetone concentration, logs the reading.
Station Two: The vacuum chamber hums quietly. Inside, a heart suspended in polymer solution. The vacuum draws the polymer into every cell, replacing the acetone. It will stay here for weeks.
Station Three: The curing room, where completed specimens harden under controlled temperature and gas exposure. A full skeletal system with preserved connective tissue stands on display, ready for a medical school.
Cara pauses at each station, observes, makes no comment unless something is imperfect. A misaligned specimen. A concentration reading that's point zero three percent off target. She notices everything.
Yamamoto joins her. "The new shipment of polymer arrived this morning. Did you also order supplies through your account?"
"For supplementary research," Cara replies smoothly. "I'll be working on protocol refinement."
"Of course. Will you need assistance?"
"No."
He nods, doesn't press. Director Brahmin is known for her solitary work habits, her need for absolute control over every variable.
As they walk, Cara's eyes linger on the equipment. The specialized tanks. The vacuum chambers. The precise temperature controls. Everything needed for perfect preservation.
Cara's office occupies the northeast corner of the building, floor-to-ceiling windows that she keeps covered by white automated shades. Protecting her space from fading, discoloration. The interior is all white. Walls, floor, ceiling, desk, furniture, even the frames on the walls.
MIT – Biological Engineering, Biomedical minor.
Harvard Medical School.
Published Research: "Advanced Polymer Impregnation Techniques for Tissue Preservation"
Newspaper Headline: “Brahmin Family Endows $100M Anatomical Preservation Institute” with inset photo of Cara, stoic amongst a smiling group of male administrators. The shot is taken in the frosted glass and limestone atrium of the Institute. Cara is dead center. She’s wearing clinical white that is so bright when flanked by various male administrators in charcoal and navy suits, creating a dark, organic frame that makes her look like a porcelain doll.
She locks her office door, returning to her desk, a multi-screen intelligence center. Charts, graphs, 3D body models, white papers, reports, and a baby monitor product page in the middle of it all. Opening a new tab, Cara begins researching the device's technical specifications. Keeping notes on another screen. Wireless protocol: 2.4GHz. Encryption: WPA2. Cloud connectivity: optional. Password setting: predictable. By the time she's done, she'll know this monitor better than its manufacturer. She'll know how to access its feed. How to bypass any security. How to see inside Chloe's house whenever she wants. All in the interest of safety, she tells herself. Monitoring for negligence. Insight when the time comes.
Cara adds it to her cart. Next day shipping. Buy now.
Her phone buzzes. Text message from her assistant: "Finance committee review. Schedule pre-review this week or next?"
“Next”
The board of useless distraction.
The unknowing inquiring about the unnecessary, creating unease.
Cara works from home Tuesday’s. Up and out early for a ritual walk around the neighborhood. Active. Fit. Aware. Sunscreen pre-sunrise. Coordinated white top, shorts, and sneakers, topped with a white hat. D&G white sunglasses in place.
Quiet wealth.
AirPods in. Steve Reich on. Let the stretching begin.
Cara preps in her driveway, parallel to Chloe’s Maroon Honda Civic, which has seen better days. Crossover toe touches provide Cara the means to inspect the street in all directions. No one in sight. Not even Mrs. Chen.
Cara begins her walk with a quick detour up Chloe’s driveway. Pulling an AirTag from her pocket, snug in its magnetic holder, she squats at the rear driver’s quarter panel attaching it up under, out of sight. Given all the rust, this might not work. Especially if the whole panel falls off.
Back down the driveway. Normal walk.
Proximity is dangerous.
Next door is too close. When something vanishes, authorities draw circles. The first circle is tight: family, household, immediate neighbors. Door-to-door. Interviews. Doorbell and security cameras need to be identified and cataloged. She'd need a plan to mitigate Mrs. Chen, always knitting on her porch. Even if Sophie disappears from elsewhere, Cara's own surveillance effort could raise suspicion.
A woman who lives alone next door. No visitors.
Sophie cannot disappear from that house. Cannot vanish from that porch, that yard, that iron bench. The radius would encompass Cara.
The acquisition must happen elsewhere. Away from this street. Away from the neighborhood entirely. In circumstances that break the geographic link, sending investigations in other directions, toward other suspects, other narratives.
Standard protocol is required:
1. Pattern Documentation: Two weeks minimum.
2. Vulnerability Assessment: One week minimum.
3. Preparation: One week.
4. Acquisition: Single event.
Four weeks.
But Sophie is collector quality. Possibly the finest specimen Cara has ever encountered. And Sophie risks being damaged with every careless moment in that creature's care.
Expedited protocol can be compressed with intensive surveillance, which is underway, concurrent analysis, supplies have been acquired, staging location is ready.
Twelve days is feasible.
Twelve days of risk that this beast might drop Sophie, crack her, cause irreversible harm.
Seven days of proper methodology could work. Seven days that keep Cara undetected, unsuspected, safe to continue her work. She will follow protocol. Even expedited protocol is still protocol.
Fall starts in six.
Six days.
Cara crisscrosses the neighboring streets. Up one. Down one. Left here. Right there. Her vintage white ceramic Apple Series 5 watch alerts her at the 30-minute mark to reverse course. Crossing back, Cara sees Chloe’s Honda in the stopped traffic. Chloe doesn’t appear to acknowledge Cara as she crosses, or when she passes down the sidewalk. Not that Cara would acknowledge Chloe’s presence either, but at least the quarter panel is still attached. Sophie’s car seat is visible, but Cara cannot confirm Sophie is in it. Checking her phone Cara confirms the AirTag is attached as Chloe turns out of sight.
Home comes into sight. Mrs. Chen at her post. Tracking Cara. Hands knitting. Cara halts in her own driveway. Conducts her final stretches, then heads inside, anxious to log Chloe’s travels.
Cara sits at her home intelligence center, reports and white papers replaced by the baby monitor's technical manual open on one screen, with network penetration tools and firmware documentation on others. The baby monitor connected to her laptop.
The device's security is adequate for normal users. Laughable for someone with her technical background. She maps out the vulnerability chain: default admin credentials, unpatched firmware, basic encryption on the cloud service.
Once Chloe connects it to her home network, Cara can access it remotely. Watch Sophie. Monitor Chloe's patterns. Document every instance of negligence.
She repackages the monitor in its original box. Wraps it in pristine white paper. Adds a white bow. In a white gift bag. She then scribes a handwritten card on white stationary:
"For your peace of mind."
Simple.
Thoughtful.
Normal.
She sets it by the door, ready for the anticipated party invitation.
Cara leaves the Institute early. Her assistant notes it but says nothing. Director Brahmin keeps her own schedule.
Cara drives toward the address she memorized. No GPS. No cellphone. Chloe stayed for an hour yesterday. Cara parks two blocks away. Walks to a coffee shop with a clear sightline to the building entrance. Sitting by a window with her phone, appearing distracted.
4:47pm: Chloe parks, loads Sophie in a stroller while looking around. Chloe doesn't rush. Doesn't fumble. Takes time to adjust Sophie's blanket before entering the building.
Support group? Therapy? New mothers' meeting?
It doesn't matter. What matters is the pattern. The predictability. The window of opportunity.
Cara waits. 6:18pm, Chloe emerges moving more slowly, carefully, clearly tired. She loads a sleeping Sophie and the stroller into her car with practiced efficiency.
Cara follows at a distance as Chloe drives to a grocery store. Watches as Chloe parks, looks back at sleeping Sophie, makes a decision. Chloe gets out, locks the car, runs inside. The car is visible through the store's front windows.
Sophie is alone. Car seat visible through the rear window.
Cara's heart rate runs. Her hands grip the steering wheel. She could . . .
No.
She forces herself to breathe. To wait. To observe.
Three minutes and forty seconds later, Chloe returns with a single bag. Unlocks the car, checks on Sophie, drives away.
Cara drives home a different route, mind working through the next steps.
The party this weekend.
Not yet invited
The baby monitor delivery.
The surveillance setup.
Everything must be perfect.
Five days.
Thursday’s sun is unseen as Cara begins backing out of her driveway. The Finance committee chair wants a pre-meeting discussion this morning.
“Hey neighbor!” snaps Cara’s head to see Chloe in her morning mess. Worn through, discolored pajama bottoms, with a ‘100% Dirty’ graphic tee (some kind of band?), tattered robe wide open, barefooted, bedhead defined. Sophie clinging for her life propped on one hip, coffee cup in the other hand, sloshing her coffee as she waves. Chloe starts to approach Cara’s car, causing Cara to break.
The invite!
Chloe rethinks, turning to set Sophie on the driveway, spilling coffee along the way, then resumes her advance to Cara’s passenger side. Slipping in the dewy morning grass between their driveways, Chloe splashes coffee on Cara’s window, down the side of her white Honda Accord.
Less than amused, Cara lowers the passenger window.
“What a mess. Looks like rain today, so no worries.” Chloe chuckles as she leans into Cara’s car.
“I’m Chloe.” Offering her dry hand to Cara for a shake.
I’m not touching that.
“Hello Chloe.” Cara emits without offering her hand in exchange, looking at Sophie who has tumbled about the driveway, landing on her side then her back, struggling as a turtle might. Chloe doesn’t look.
“She’ll be fine.”
“I hope so.”
“Listen, I wanted to let you know I’m having a bit of a bash Saturday. Christening the new house if you will. Love to have you.”
“Thank you. Very considerate. What time?”
“Anytime. There’ll be killers in and out all day.”
Chloe pulls back from the car, heading toward Sophie squirming about.
“Killers?”
Is that slang?
“You’ll fit right in.”
“What should I bring.”
“Yourself.”
Chloe snatches up Sophie as the rain starts, disappearing into their house, as Cara continues backing out her driveway. Mrs. Chen already knitting this morning’s activities.
Cara’s drive is slow as the rain intensifies into a cycle of deluge, drizzle, deluge, frustrating drivers and pedestrians alike. So loud too. At the light Cara wakes her phone to see she missed an alert:
TrackTag Found
TrackTag was seen near Home
My AirTag?!
Cara clicks the alert, unlocking her phone as it opens Find My. Her AirTag location shows Portland and Main, which is the intersection that just turned green.
Her AirTag is with her!
Cara hit Play Sound, but the cars behind her honking their impatience drown out any indication of the tone. The Institute is two more blocks that cannot be traversed fast enough. The parking garage is free of observers as Cara hits Play Sound again. The ping reverberated through the empty structure. Echoing recognition that Android Chloe found the AirTag and returned it.
Stuck to the passenger door, which, as Chloe indicated, is now clean of the coffee.
Cara swipes it off, storming to the elevators.
Four days!
The rain has taken control.
The observed is now observing.
The objective has been objectified.
Cara’s room is a sparse white enclave within the entirety of this white house. Porcelain dolls arranged on the bed. Cara retrieves a key from the pocket of two dolls, using one to unlock what most people would believe to be a closet. The closet however is revealed to be a short hallway to another door. Illumination ignites as Cara steps in. The second key unlocks the second door, leading into a brilliant yet windowless expanse of a room housing a varied collection of porcelain dolls.
The light is cold, reflecting off walls lined with shelves. Clear boxes in ordered rows, each one aligned, each one holding a figure posed, protected. The collection is not beautiful; it's preserved. Amidst the rows is a perfect rectangle of absence. A waiting opening.
Cara crosses the room to a desk that amongst other typical desk ware includes a label printer. Dry thermal ink. She presses the button with her fingertip to feed a blank strip forward.
She types on the small keypad with careful taps, one letter at a time.
S -- O -- P -- H -- I -- E
The printer hums, producing a white label with black letters. Cara peels it, placing it on the edge of the empty shelf space. SOPHIE.
She stands before the empty space. The room silent except for the faint hum of the air filtration system.
Cara allows herself to see it: Sophie here. In this space. Preserved. Protected from contamination, safe from the careless hands that drop and damage and destroy. No more neglect.
Sophie's glass eyes would catch the light from precisely the right angle. The porcelain skin unmarred, uncracked, eternal. The small hands positioned just so. A white dress! Cara already knows which one. Pristine and pressed. Everything perfect.
Lily would love it here too.
Cara's hand traces the air above the empty shelf, the gesture of placing something precious that isn't there yet.
Cara sighs.
Three days.
Yesterday’s rain stopped at some point last night, but the dark clouds remain, making this morning feel like it’s evening already. No sun to dry. No sun to refresh the day. No new start. A continuation. A day that will carry a threat to anyone that dares venture out of their safe dry place.
Chloe’s bash appears unaffected. Cars have collected nearby spaces, yet more arrive in dribs and drabs, spreading down the neighborhood.
Killers she called them.
Mrs. Chen knitting them in as they manifest.
Cara checks the forecast. It’s already wrong, claiming rain will continue, although it isn’t raining. Supposed to be a sunny day.
Chloe has a party tent setup in the backyard, house doors are wide open for anyone to enter, as is the fence gate. A hasty exit could be executed in a variety of directions, if rain did begin, or some other reason.
This isn’t the kind of gathering that Cara wants to linger in anyway, let alone stepping into the den of a spooked animal. Present the gift. Collect some data, and get back to the safety of home. Chloe is tuned in now, so this surface play may not work.
Two days.
Regardless!
While the clouds maintain their darkness, they are losing their fight against the sun. Moments of stray sunbeams break through, illuminating in random directions to confuse and confound the cloud’s efforts to keep their hold on the day. By the time Cara has assembled herself the heavens have cleared a bright oasis over the neighborhood. Drying. Refreshing.
Cara crosses their driveways, white gift bag in hand, entering Chloe’s domain through the gate. The music is loud, as are the voices. A continuous wave of people coming and going. Hellos and goodbyes mixed with handshakes, hugs, and laughs. Chloe holding court at one of the folding tables in the furthest corner of the tent. The tent providing the only shade against the intensifying sun. Sunscreen would have been a good idea.
Where is Sophie?
Cara zigs and zags her way through the tables and throngs, smiling and apologizing along the way. She queues up in the procession to bow before Chloe. Eye contact made before Chloe turns her back. Cara’s frantic scans speed around the tent looking for Sophie.
Where’s Sophie?
“You can put gifts on the dining room table.” Says Mrs. Chen pulling on Cara’s arm.
Time stops.
This is the first physical contact Cara has had with Mrs. Chen, or anyone in recent memory. Mrs. Chen pulls Cara with insistence. No one seems to notice or care. Cara complies. An excuse to defer a potential confrontation with Chloe. As they approach the back door Cara sees Sophie’s pram off by itself in the sun.
Where’s Sophie?!
Inside it takes a moment for Cara’s eyes to adjust, but Mrs. Chen is a sufficient and sturdy guide, as she takes the gift from Cara’s hands adding it to the colorful assortment of bags, boxes, and cards on the table.
“Chloe will open them later, after lunch is served.”
“Are you the planner?”
“No. Just know what’s going on.”
Where’s Sophie!?!
“I see.” Cara resumes scanning for Sophie.
“Do you? Maybe not as much as you should.”
Time stops again.
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“You are not as smart as you think you are.”
“What leads you to such a conclusion?”
The caterers arrive with their carts of food trays interrupting Mrs. Chen before she can respond. As Cara backs out of the way she bumps into people entering from the backyard. The separation from Mrs. Chen grows as anxious guests position for lunch. Mrs. Chen’s arms waving to guide and align this herd. Cara is pardoning each new person in line, until she has returned to the back door, to see Sophie baking in the sun.
No!!!
Cara darts into the backyard to Sophie’s sweaty little body in a drenched onesie, asleep, breathing rapidly, thumb in her mouth again. Self-soothing.
Cara panics.
Makes room under the tent, shoving the pram out of the sun.
“You want to hold it?” Chloe asks, coming up behind Cara.
Cara does not turn, “No, but thank you.”
“You sure? I thought you might, given your interest.”
Cara continues marveling at Sophie, with worried concern.
“My interest is one of preservation.”
“They’re more resilient than you might think.”
“Even so, they shouldn’t be neglected.”
Mrs. Chen interrupts, “You wanna be served? The spread is here. Get in there before it’s gone.”
Cara turns to see Chloe walking into the house.
Taking a long look at Sophie, stomach churning.
Take it now!
No!
Yes!
Nooo!!!
Cara goes home for lunch.
The rain started with her first bite. Hands still shaking, thirty minutes after Uber Eats delivered her Verde rice bowl, with a PATH still water, from Clover. Replated in a white Pillivuyt Plisse porcelain pasta bowl. She can smell the BBQ from Chloe’s. The entire neighborhood can.
Disgusting.
Cara listens for clues that lunch has ended and the gifts are being opened. The only real clue is when the music ended.
Pacing like a caged animal Cara waits. Gift openings can take forever, as she recalls from similar family gatherings. “Oh thank you” and “So cute”, mixed amongst the “Just what I wanted” and “How did you know?”. It’s worse sitting through it, although even in this remote scenario it’s still frustrating. Cara waited about 15 minutes before heading back to Chloe’s.
It was still drizzling when Cara stepped out, making haste across the driveways, through the gate, under the tent. There were a few people huddled at different tables in conversation, with varying degrees of drunkenness starting to show. Making her way into the house she passes the pram, no Sophie. Cara spins to survey the tent but doesn’t see Sophie anywhere. Inside, the opening calamity was in full swing. Laughing, shouting, side conversations, all competing with Chloe’s narrative with each gift. Mrs. Chen conducting, conveying a new gift each time Chloe finished one. Cara had not missed Chloe opening her white gift bag.
The bag was as easy to find amongst the gifts as Cara amongst the guests. Both all in white stood out like neon in the throng of earth tones that this group preferred. When the time came it didn’t take much for Chloe to discern, although Mrs. Chen seemed to prolong the experience until the end.
“No name.” Mrs. Chen relayed to Chloe with the bag.
“An anonymous gifter.” Chloe exclaimed, stirring the crowd to “ooh” and “ahh” in response. Their drunkenness beginning to peak.
“A white knight? Or knightess?” Chloe added pulling the white box from the white bag, raising a giggle with heads turning toward Cara.
“Peace of mind!” Chloe laughs, waving the card at Cara.
Cara bowing her head in response, as Chloe tears through the paper, the savage she is.
“See!” Chloe extoled, “A baby monitor!” As she held the box overhead twisting left and right for the guests to see.
“Where is Sophie?” Chloe asked to no one. Everyone looking around, shrugging to one another.
“I need AitTags to put on that kid.” Chloe wisecracked, everyone laughing, with no acknowledgement of Sophie’s whereabouts.
“Cara’ll find her,” being the last thing Cara heard as she headed outside to see Sophie’s empty pram. The music restored to peak decibels. Drunken karaoke commenced under the tent, drawing mass attention, including from the beast throwing Sophie in the air repeatedly.
Cara grabbed the pram, approaching the now seated menace, bouncing Sophie on their knee, singing along to Garth Brooks, Friends in Low Places, with everyone else, as loud as they could.
“Allow me!” Cara demanded in a stern direct voice, hands open, arms outstretched to take possession of Sophie. There was no resistance to Sophie’s acquisition. Cara paused, eye-to-eye with Sophie, rejoicing in the full weight of what she now had.
So lovely!
Placing Sophie in the pram, a smile beginning to form on Cara’s face, until Chloe jostled the pram with her firm grip on the handle.
“We should talk.”
Cara turned and headed for the gate. Chloe pursued.
“We know what you are Cara.”
Cara picks up her pace through the gate.
“Are you collecting for Lily?”
Cara stops and turns in the driveway.
Chloe moves between Cara and the pram.
“I took Sophie for you.”
Cara’s sudden swing connects with Chloe’s jaw. Chloe’s head snaps back, facial expression dissolving into jagged shock. Her center of gravity failing. A total structural collapse. She begins a staggering descent toward the ground, catching the frame of the pram along the way.
Cara’s remediation of the obstacle that had stood between her and this perfection was triggered.
Too emotional.
Unplanned.
Now problematic.
She didn’t wait for biological feedback. She didn't stay to witness the kinetic chain she had set in motion.
Time dilated, unfolding in a series of clinical frames.
Cara sprung to the pram, acquiring perfection.
Sophie was no longer a remote opportunity; she was a frantic mass. The crying was a sensory violation, a distress that Cara pressed hard against her chest.
The pram did not offer a rescue for Chloe. It became a complication. It mirrored Chloe’s descent, wheels spinning in a frantic, useless orbit as they tangled with her legs. It was a messy, uncoordinated choreography of gravity and plastic.
Cara disappears around the corner, heading back to her house with a crying Sophie in her tight embrace, fumbling with her own door, back to momentary safety. Consequences will need to be addressed.
Discipline!
Witnesses!
Proximity!
But perfection feels wonderous!
Chloe regained consciousness in the rain, not sure how much time had passed. She’s cold, soaked, and sore. Cara is nowhere. The pram is toppled under her. No sign or sound of Sophie. Shaking off her grogginess along with some water, Chloe pulls out her phone and sends a text: NOW
Drunken karaoke under the tent muted the altercation and cries, though Chloe’s return sparks a round of cheers for her to join them, despite no one seeing her lying in the driveway. Inside the house was a bit more mellow, with people crashing out or in low tone conversations.
Chloe made it to her room undeterred, unlocking her nightstand to retrieve a semiautomatic pistol she clipped to the back of her jeans, concealed by her soggy shirt.
Text response received, “In route”
Back outside Chloe heads to Cara’s house, Sophie’s blanket, dragged across the driveway, pointing the way. The entry door ajar.
Chloe approaches gun forward, scanning all around as she opens the door with her foot. In rapid succession she enters each empty room, leaving drips and splotches of water in her wake. The floor plan is consistent with flow through connections from kitchen to dining room to living room to main entry hall. The stairs to the second floor posing an ascent.
The second floor was more of the same emptiness. Nothing in the two empty bedrooms but porcelain dolls. No beds or dressers. Bathroom empty. Master bedroom. More dolls. A locked closet. But no Cara or Sophie. Chloe relaxes, lowering the gun. So many dolls. So many dirty footprints.
Making her way back to the first floor Chloe notices that everything is white. The walls, the ceilings, which is not surprising, although all the walls are white, no accent colors anywhere. The floor is white, the carpets are white, the drapes are white. The furniture is white. Come to think of it, all the dolls were dressed in white.
She must clean all the time.
Back to the kitchen with still no signs or sounds of Cara or Sophie. The basement, with its white stairs, doesn’t feel too welcoming. Gun back up as Chloe descends. Every wooden step broadcasting her approach. There’s no effective shielding from an assault if Cara is waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
Last step. Chloe crouches as she swings into view of the basement. Nothing but white painted concrete blocks. A white water heater, white washer and dryer, a white furnace. Other than its colorless cleanliness, this basement is typical, except for a hallway, or more or less a tunnel, which appears to lead under the backyard.
As Chloe progresses through the tunnel she can see movement ahead. A room begins to come into view.
A lab?
There are tables with vials and instruments organized in rows.
A nursery?
There are clear acrylic hospital bassinets, with a baby in each, but they’re full of fluids and tubes. There are isolettes that appear normal enough, also with a baby in each. None of the babies are moving. None are making sounds. The gurgling and humming of equipment sets the confusing ambiance of this place.
An assembly line?
Everything appears arranged in a progressing manner with the lifeless babies in different stages of whatever this is.
A morgue?
There’s a wall of baby sized stainless steel doors where bodies would be stored, and an autopsy table where Sophie lies still, eyes closed, with a face mask over her nose and mouth. Cara is standing next to the autopsy table, dressed for surgery, her gloved hands arranging porcelain doll parts on a side tray.
Face.
Hands.
Feet.
Glass eyes.
She turns, reaching to focus the overhead surgical light on Sophie as Chloe enters the room. They make eye contact but no sudden movements. Chloe lowers the gun.
“I’m here to help.”
“Oh?”
“I got Sophie for you.”
“Got?”
“Mothers are my prey.”
“Prey?”
“Like babies are your prey.”
“I don’t prey. I preserve.”
“We need to go.”
Cara looks up. Preparations complete on Sophie.
“Go?” scalpel in hand Cara moves clear of the autopsy table toward Chloe.
Chloe raises the gun.
“Somewhere safe. Somewhere you can keep collecting.”
“Who are you?”
“Put it down. We can talk.”
They both hear sirens. And more sirens.
“Not the kind of help I want.” Cara lunges for Chloe with the scalpel. Chloe fires, hitting Cara’s shoulder, knocking her back, stumbling amongst the equipment surrounding the autopsy table.
“Please. This isn’t what you think. We’re not cops, but we need to go. Is there another way out of here?”
Chloe’s voice is starting to waver. This isn’t the kind of help she thought would be coming either. Cara recovers, blood vibrant against her white shirt. Hands shaking but she still has the scalpel, taking another lunge at Chloe. Chloe fires again. This time Cara collapses to the floor. Blood now pooling on the white floor.
Shouts can be heard down the tunnel. Chloe drops the gun scrambling around the chamber looking for an exit as multiple police officers enter, guns drawn.
“Freeze!”
Outside the scene on the street is chaotic. Red and blue lights rotating across the neighborhood in a spectacle. Spotlights highlighting both Cara’s and Chloe’s houses, along with various teams scattered across the yards, sidewalks, even in the street, now blocked in both directions. Police cars, crime scene investigation vans, hazmat, coroners, fire, ambulance, and media working its way in from the periphery.
Mrs. Chen is in an animated interview with detectives, pointing back and forth between the houses, including her own, across the street. Party goers disperse. Neighbors, onlookers, and everyone else crane to see as a stretcher is brought out. Not a decedent, as the head is not covered, but too many EMTs working the body to see who is being loaded into the ambulance. Doors slammed, double knock starting the sirens for a flash exit from the stage.
Silence spreads as another stretcher emerges. This one an uncomfortable scene. Four small bodies, arranged sideways on the stretcher, covered head to tiny feet, are transported to one of the coroner vans by hazmat suited technicians. Two more stretchers appear in sequence joining this grim parade. Cries and gasps breaking the silence to complete the morbid tone of tonight’s events.
Chloe, being led out of the house in handcuffs, provides a temporary reprieve to the trail of infant bodies. Thus, igniting a pandemonium of flashes and shouts accompanying the cavalcade of reporters straining the crime scene borders for their headline moments. Chloe is loaded into the back of a police cruiser, no sirens, but a fanfare exit into the night.
“We’ve got a pulse! Weak. But steady.” Is heard amongst the commotion in the back of the crowded ambulance. This triggers a sweated EMT to cease CPR, decelerating their own breathing, but not the speed of the ambulance, as they climb off the body on the stretcher. Cara is an unconscious spectacle in her own blood. Wired, intubated, infused with all available means to save her life.
“Let’s restrain her.” So dictates the lead paramedic seated at Cara’s head, monitoring the alerts, tracking the data from the various electronics attached to Cara.
“Why? She’s out for the count.” Retorts the Tech at Cara’s feet, as the other two begin strapping Cara’s arms to the stretcher.
“Precautionary.” As she ratchets a strap across Cara’s forehead, “Her feet too.”
Complying with disdain, the Tech shakes her head, when Cara startles into consciousness. Rapid progression as the closest EMT grabs Cara’s loose leg before Cara can react to the Tech finishing tying it down. Cara flexes against all the restraints at once. The leader slaps her hands to both sides of Cara’s face, getting her attention while making inverted eye contact.
“Relax. We’re here to help.”
Cara’s eyes dart around taking in what she can with her limited span of mobility. She tests the restraints again.
The lead paramedic nods, directing to the front seats, “We’re good now.” The sirens along with the internal overhead lights are turned off.
“Sleep now.” She coos to Cara while injecting a syringe into Cara’s IV bag. The Tech shakes her head again.
The ambulance doesn’t turn, even though Cara can hear the turn signal, feeling the ambulance accelerate, merging with sounds of traffic. Turnpike lights strobing the interior, with the medical displays creating a psychedelic tapestry for Cara’s rest. The darkness amplifies the effect. Hard rain percussion starts on the roof, windshield wipers beat, mixing with this eclectic chorus, as they race off into the night.