The old man frowned at him, placed a hand on Rickard’s chest to press him further out of the way. “Your posturing don’t frighten me none, boy. Now get outa my way.”

He rapped on the door as he peeked inside. From this angle the toes of Alisha’s shoes could be seen under the gap in the door. “Lady? You okay in there, lady?”

“You think I’m strange?”

The old man turned and found Rickard standing directly behind him. Rickard had invaded his personal space and the old man took a half step back.

Rickard said, “What I find strange is how the girls get sweet-smelling potpourri while us guys get nothing. Do they think they’re better than us?”

The man shook his head at the absurdity of Rickard’s comment. He glanced again at the closed door. “Lady?”

“Something else that’s strange,” Rickard said, “is how some senile old fool thinks he has the right to stick his nose into other people’s business.”

“It became my business when I saw you hurting that lady. You’re a bully, but you don’t frighten me.”

“Is that so?”

“No, boy, you don’t. Not one bit.” The old guy shoved at him, moving nearer the closed door. “Hey, lady? No need to be afraid of this one!”

“You don’t happen to have a son by the name of Joe Hunter, do you?” Rickard asked. “He’s a self-righteous prick just like you.”

Rickard grabbed the old man, spun him around and ran him at the sinks. The man’s hip was jammed up against one of the porcelain bowls, but Rickard continued to force him backward, his left hand clamped over his mouth, stifling his yell. Rickard’s right hand pistoned in and out, jamming his blade repeatedly into the man’s stomach and ribs. He hissed through his clamped teeth as he watched the light go out of the old man’s eyes. It wasn’t a quick death for him: more punishment.

The man slumped to the floor. Rickard reached into one of the bowls of potpourri and scattered some of the perfume-laden petals on the man’s dead body. It didn’t cover the rank smells of blood or the man’s voided bowel.

That done with, Rickard finally peered at his reflection in the mirror above the sinks. For the most minuscule of moments he thought he saw a nimbus of light around him, but then it was gone. He leaned over the dead man so he could get closer to the mirror. Briefly he stared into his reflection, one eye at a time. The mirror was smeared by a hand print, the greasy stain giving the illusion of color that wasn’t really there.