Clayton watches Addison go—he’s begun counting how many times Addison will turn his back on him. One trick is to interact uncomfortably, creating off beat conversations as a front.

Hiding his true intentions behind a stupid but harmless persona, Clayton builds disgust and pity for himself word by awkward word. Intent to murder lingers—disguised by a self baked, dumb-nut-bread demeanor.

He wins everytime Addison dismisses him with his back turned. The silence is almost broken each time by the glee of success boiling to the lid of Clayton’s closed lips. It’s the kind of dismissal that will leave Addison knifed, or better yet, expose him to the terminal affliction of a tunnelling bullet.

Calculating and devious Clayton remains patient. Washing the vegetables, shucking the corn, and keeping internal tabs on Addison’s reactions with all of the prudence of a profiling police officer.

A smirk fades from Clayton’s mouth like the cold black back of a submerging killer whale.

The hunt is on.