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  He looked around for a better place to hide as his eyes readjusted to the dark and saw she had an en suite bathroom. Perfect. He checked his watch. Now for the hard part: he had to wait. From what Patricia had told him in their sessions, she always went to bed by ten. She complained about her husband being a night owl and disturbing her when he finally came to bed after midnight.

  He waited behind Patricia's bathroom door with a rush of nervous tension. The minutes passed by about as slowly as Patricia moved toward anything, other than the fridge. He used the time to remind himself to take detailed mental notes on everything about Patricia's murder. Even the way it felt to kill. He had decided to write his novel from the point of view of the serial killer he had crafted in his mind. They say all a writer's characters are a part of themselves, which, he supposed, was probably true.

  He suddenly felt the urge not to kill, but to pee. He laid the necktie down on the bathroom counter and untied the drawstring of his joggers. He could see well enough now in the dark that he had no problem aiming into the toilet bowl. He had just released a stream when light flooded the bathroom and Patricia waltzed in. Upon seeing him, she let out a scream. His body involuntarily jerked in her direction before he was able to stop the urine flow, and he trickled piss onto the floor. In a panicked attempt to pull up his pants, his waistband slipped out of his hand. His sweats fell to the floor from the weight of the lock-picking kit in his pocket.

  Patricia wore a grandmotherish nightgown, and, after the initial shock of finding him taking a wiz in her en suite bathroom, she looked relieved when she recognized him.

  Truly, she couldn't think this was a social call. He supposed his baseball cap didn't exactly say I'm here to kill you. But she would be beyond delusional to think he came over to keep her company while her husband was away. He was a good ten years too young for her, in addition to being out of her league. Plus, he couldn't stand her.

  He took as big a step toward her as he could with his pants down at his feet and watched her face change to suspicion and then to fear. She screamed again, louder this time, and took a step out of the bathroom. He had planned to strangle her from behind, but, knowing he wouldn't be able to catch her with his pants down, he had to improvise.

  He swiped the tie off the counter and used both hands to loop it over the back of her head. Her eyes filled with terror as he pulled it taut across the front of her neck. She scratched and clawed at the tie as her face turned the color of beetroot. He felt a tinge of nostalgia for his homeland. He would never understand why Americans didn't put pickled beets on their sandwiches.

  He hadn't intended on strangling her head-on and didn't like the awkwardness of watching the capillaries burst in her bulging eyeballs as he squeezed the life out of her. He forgot about the details he needed for his book and closed his eyes until she stopped resisting and he felt her weight start to sink to the ground. He loosened his hold on her neck and opened his eyes.

  He expected her to fall to the floor but was taken aback to see she was still alive. Patricia's face was now an ugly purple. She gasped for air and placed the back of her hands against the counter to stay on her feet. She looked at him in shock and horror of what he had done before she swung her fist toward his face. It was as if she saw him for who he really was for the first time.

  He grabbed hold of her hand before she made contact and twisted it behind her back, forcing her to turn toward the bathroom counter. She let out a weak cry of protest. He grabbed her by the back of her hair and threw her forehead into her bathroom mirror. Patricia groaned. When he pulled her head away, he saw the mirror had cracked as though a baseball had hit it. Before she could react, he flung the tie around her neck once again, only this time he tightened it from the back.

  She groped at the necktie and threw her legs back one at a time in an unsuccessful effort to kick him. It didn't take long for him to realize this was no different from strangling her from the front since her asphyxiated face stared back at him in the shattered mirror. He didn't like it any more than he had the first time. He closed his eyes, promising himself that if he ever killed again, he would keep them open.

  He pulled the tie as tight as he could and felt the weight of her body as it went limp. He leaned forward, pressing his body against hers to help take some of the weight from his arms. He continued to hold the noose tight around her neck for what felt like an eternity.

  Once he was sure she was dead, he opened his eyes. Out of breath, he let her go. He thought her fat corpse would slump forward onto the counter. But, before he could stop it, he watched her body heave to the side. Her skull smacked against the side of the toilet on the way down.

  She lay on the tile floor, her swollen face littered with burst capillaries. Blood seeped out from a gash in her forehead where it had collided with the mirror. His breathing slowed. He looked down at the mess of his yellow piss and her dark blood on the pale tile, reminding him of ketchup and mustard on a hot dog. This had not gone at all to plan. And, judging from the color of his urine, he needed to drink more water.

  This led him to wonder, was there DNA in urine? The fact that he was uncertain made him question his abilities as a doctor. But it had been a long time since medical school and, thank goodness, he didn't ever have to deal with his patients' piss. After a moment's consideration, he decided there probably was. Drat. He was going to have to clean this mess up.

  He should've been a medical examiner. Then he could've written a crime thriller without needing to kill one of his own patients. He realized his pants were still around his ankles. He pulled up his joggers and cringed as the urine-soaked fabric rubbed against his legs.

  “Crikey.”

  Keeping his gloves on, he checked under her bathroom cabinet for cleaning supplies. There were none. Of course not. He was about to go in search of some, and, when he thought there was no way this night could've gone more wrong, he heard the sound of the front door close. A man's voice echoed through the house.

  “Patricia, I'm home.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Eric considered his options as he assessed the mess around him. Either he needed to make a quick escape or kill her husband too and make it look like a murder-suicide. He opted for the quick escape. He pulled a few sheets of toilet paper off the roll and wiped his urine spill as best he could, careful not to smear Patricia's blood.

  He tossed the paper into the toilet bowl and automatically flushed. He realized the noise this would create as soon as he pulled the lever. Footsteps sounded up the stairs.

  The man's voice called out again, but this time it was louder. “Patricia?”

  There was no window in the bathroom, so his only route of escape would be out the window beside her bed. Patricia's husband would no doubt see him before he could get away. He would have to kill him.

  He pulled at the tie that was still tight around Patricia's neck. He struggled to get his finger in between the tie and her neck since he had looped it through itself to get a better cinch on her neck. Her neck fat sagged over the tie, making it impossible to grip with his gloved hands.

  He didn't have time for this. Patricia's husband was probably already at the top of the stairs. He swung open the door to the bathroom cabinet and pulled out her curling iron. He turned off the bathroom lights, ran across the dark room, and dove under Patricia's bed.

  No sooner had he tucked under it than the bedroom lights came on. His heart pounded against the carpet as he watched the man's patent leather dress shoes stop in the doorway.

  “Patricia?”

  Eric gripped each end of the curling iron's electric cord and wrapped them once around the back of his hands. He waited for the feet to move. He thought maybe the man was going to turn back downstairs when they started toward the bed. They didn't slow as they moved past him, and Eric knew he was headed for the bathroom. For this to pass as a murder-suicide, he needed to minimize any signs of a struggle with Patricia's husband. That would probably be easier if he killed him before he saw Patricia.


  His feet had almost reached the edge of the bed when Eric stretched out and grasped his ankle just as he started to take a step. Eric yanked it backwards as hard as he could from his awkward angle. He felt the floor shake when the man fell to the ground.

  Eric moved fast, crawling over the husband’s back until he was within arm’s reach of his neck. The man started to flip onto his back, but Eric used his weight to keep him face down to the floor. With one of his knees pressing into the middle of his back, he looped the electrical cord around the front of his neck, crossed his arms, and pulled it taut.

  The husband yelled out. Eric pulled harder. His yell turned into a wheeze as Eric compressed his vocal cords. Just like Patricia, he brought his hands to his neck and frantically scratched against his noose. Eric estimated the man had about fifty pounds on him. He was concentrating so hard on strangling him that he was knocked off balance by the sudden roll of the man’s body.

  Next thing he knew, he was staring at the ceiling with the heavy weight of Patricia's husband on top of him. Eric had slightly loosened his grip on the cord when Patricia’s husband knocked him onto his back, but quickly regained his hold when he heard him gasp. The man rolled back and forth on top of him, his weight crushing the air from Eric’s lungs. Eric wrapped his legs around the man’s middle as best he could to keep him from rolling away. It took all his strength to maintain a tight pull on the cord. His hands shook from the strain on his muscles as he noticed the man’s movements become weaker. He exhaled and forced himself to hold tight for a little longer.

  Eric was overwhelmed by the powerful scent of the man’s cologne. It was about five times too strong for what was socially acceptable. There was something wrong with a man who wore that much. For a moment, he pitied Patricia. Her husband’s body finally went limp, but he didn't let go. He wasn't about to make the same mistake that he did with the man’s wife. He counted backward from thirty in his head to distract himself from the burn in his arms and hands. It felt like an eternity until he reached zero. Satisfied Patricia's husband was dead, Eric pushed his fat corpse off him. He moved onto his hands and knees to catch his breath.

  He lowered himself onto his elbows and examined the man he had just killed. He had a thick build, in addition to the medium-sized potbelly that was obvious underneath his dark suit. His balding hair was overly-slicked back. He was clean-shaven and wore a large class ring on his right hand. He had even more neck fat than Patricia.

  Eric wondered if maybe he had judged Patricia a little too harshly.

  The man’s face was now the color of merlot, and he decided to have a glass when he got home. Eric wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around the room for a way to rectify the situation. He needed to hang him from something, but the room only had recessed lighting on the ceiling.

  He left him on his bedroom floor and stepped out into the hall. He crossed his arms at the top of the staircase and looked at the nineties chandelier that hung over the stairwell. A chain helped support its weight on the electrical socket. Perfect.

  He went back and grabbed the fat man's lifeless hands to pull him out to the stairwell. He was surprised by the effort it took to drag him. He had a new appreciation for the term dead weight. He thought he was in shape from his regular yoga practice but now wondered if he needed to incorporate something more into his daily workout routine. He released him when they reached the top of the stairs and took a deep breath.

  Eric looked again at the chandelier and then at the length of the curling iron's electrical cord. He surmised it would be possible to hang him from the chandelier. Possible, but not easy. He was glad he had worn active gear.

  He reached down and linked his forearms under the husband’s armpits. Eric stood, pulling the dead man with him. He leaned the man’s top half over the railing, careful not to let him fall. Once Eric had him propped in a stable position, he looped the electrical cord inside itself around the man’s neck and pulled tight against the power inlet.

  After checking if it would hold, he grabbed the end of the curling iron and climbed on top of the wood stairwell railing. He stood up slowly, stopping a few times midway to find his balance with his arms held out at his sides. He held tight to the curling iron attached to the man’s neck and used the weight of his corpse to help him stay upright.

  He realized the cord was a little short to reach the chandelier unless he pulled the corpse forward. Eric carefully pulled on his neck so that his feet were barely touching the floor. If he pulled any farther, he was afraid his body might topple over the staircase.

  Now for the tricky part. He now had enough cord, but he couldn't reach the chandelier without falling. He would have to lob it over the top and hope the curling iron caught on the gaudy crystals.

  He threw it over the chandelier, but, when he did, he inadvertently jerked the corpse's neck. The curling iron had almost crossed over top the chandelier when the weight of Patricia's husband pulled it down, before it had a chance to snag on anything. Eric watched as the man’s body pivoted over the railing and crashed to the hardwood floor near the front door below.

  Eric felt himself fall forward and reacted by throwing himself backward. His back landed hard on cheaply padded carpet. He rushed to his feet and leaned over the railing. Patricia’s husband lay face down on the floor in his pinstripe suit with the curling iron wrapped around his neck.

  That wasn't good. Eric had read enough true crime to know a medical examiner could tell if a body had been moved postmortem, so he couldn't just drag him up the stairs and have another go at hanging him by the chandelier. He'd probably also sustained injuries from the fall. Eric figured he only had one choice.

  He climbed back on top of the railing and launched himself toward the chandelier. He only managed to grab it with one hand. The light fixture swayed to the side while he reached for it with his other arm. He had no sooner gotten hold of it with both hands when it detached from the ceiling, bringing Eric and its surrounding drywall down with it.

  He felt the air leave his lungs when his back hit the floor. He decided to leave this part out of his novel.

  He stayed there for a moment while he regained his breath and waited for a sign that he had broken his back. He wiggled his toes and, once certain he hadn't broken a bone, sat up slowly. He pushed the chandelier off him and onto Patricia's husband. He wound the curling iron securely around it before standing.

  He shook himself off from the fall and assessed his work. He moved some of the drywall pieces on top of the dead man and wiped his hands together over his body to rid his gloves of the white powder. He looked up at the hole in the ceiling then down at the dead man again. This could pass as a suicide.

  He had one more look around before concluding his work here was done. He let himself out the back, the same way he had come. He broke into a jog when he reached the sidewalk in front of the house. The cold night air felt good as he headed back to his car and reflected on the evening.

  Although there were a few hang-ups, he thought he pulled off the two murders swimmingly. Especially when he had only planned the one. Not too bad for someone who'd never killed before. He couldn't wait to translate them into his novel.

  He got to his car and opened the driver's side. Before getting in, he took one last look in the direction of Patricia's house. He was completely alone on the quiet street. Sayonara Patricia.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Can I get a name for the coffee?” the gothic barista asked from behind the counter.

  “Blake.”

  Stephenson checked his watch and backed away from the register to wait for his drink. He had plenty of time. His girlfriend wouldn't be leaving for work for another hour. He'd already bought flowers to go with her skinny vanilla latte.

  Counting Crows played throughout the coffee shop as he looked over at the small, empty table where he and Serena had spent their first date over a year before. She'd picked the coffee shop—an artsy, locally-owned cafe where most of the customers stayed to dr
ink their coffee out of bright-colored pottery while they lounged on a couch or in an overstuffed chair. They'd had an instant connection and ended up talking for hours. He'd never met another woman like her.

  His hand brushed against the small, square jewelry box he'd safely zipped into his jacket pocket. He wanted to surprise her with something thoughtful without being too over-the-top. Serena hated any sort of grand gestures, especially in public. So, he would propose on her front doorstep on the morning of her birthday. It would be private, which she would appreciate, but Stephenson hoped it would be romantic enough.

  It was Saturday, and he was planning to take her out to dinner when she got off work. He would've preferred to propose to her then, but he was on call over the weekend and next up for a homicide case, so the chances he might have to cancel were high.

  “Blake!” the barista called out before moving on to make the next coffee.

  He grabbed the latte off the bar and walked out of the busy coffeehouse to his car. He seemed to hit every light on the way to Serena's house. He drummed his hands nervously against the steering wheel as he waited for light after light to turn green. He didn't want her latte to get cold; he wanted everything to be perfect. His heart was pounding by the time he pulled in front of her house. He checked to make sure the ring was still in his pocket before getting out of his car.

  He was surprised to see a Land Rover in the driveway. It was early, but maybe one of her friends had also stopped by to wish her happy birthday.

  With Serena's latte in one hand and flowers in the other, Stephenson strolled up her drive and rang the doorbell. He waited a minute for her to come to the door and was about to ring again when he heard Serena's footsteps come through the entry way. Only it wasn't Serena who answered the door.