That had been the risk, of course, from the very beginning. The first two subjects had been easy, selected at random from local coffee shops. That recon work had been conducted as Everyday Average Person, the role that had been practiced the longest and was the easiest to pull off. Everyday Average Person had actively sought out two pretty single women. The victims had to be arbitrary; that would be the key. With no connection to each other or Everyday Average Person. It had actually taken more than a dozen tries. Women selected, then carefully followed, only to discover they lived with a husband or roommates or two-point-two kids. It took time and effort, as the research had suggested.

Murder was not for the faint of heart.

But eventually, the hard work had paid off. Two victims selected, fully vetted, then officially targeted. The first phase of operations had launched, marking the transition from Everyday Average Person to Accomplished Killer. Even earned a nickname, the Rose Killer, which had yielded a surprising sense of accomplishment.

Who knew that of all the personas tried on and discarded over the years, the one of murderer might actually fit the best?

Who am I? Your worst nightmare.

What do I look like? Just like you.

Primary motivation: Recognition, infamy, success. Fuck Harry Day. Fuck Shana Day. I will be the best.

Except, of course, last night’s murder hadn’t felt like that.

Last night’s deed . . .

Just thinking about it was agitating. Happy New Neighbor lost the hard-sought approachable vibe and started pacing restlessly instead.

Last night had been necessary. Logically it was understood. Rationally, the Rose Killer had proceeded according to plan. The quick slip of Rohypnol into her tea. Watching her eyelids grow heavy, her words slur.

When she’d slumped over, the Rose Killer had leapt into action, catching her gracefully, slightly surprised and impressed by the quick reflex. Then lifting her nearly weightless frame . . .

Her eyes had opened. She’d looked at her own killer. No, she’d stared into her killer’s soul. She’d seen her own death and acknowledged it.

And her gaze had held clear and open pity.

Then the drug had taken hold, conquering the last of her worn-out body’s defenses as she’d slumped unconscious. Hard part was over. Now carrying her to the back bedroom. Stripping off clothing, climbing aboard, scalpel in hand. Then . . .

The Rose Killer had faltered. Alone at last with the chosen target, most difficult part of the mission accomplished, the great and terrible killer had just wanted to flee the scene. Run away and never look back. She was dead; wasn’t that enough?

Except it wasn’t. Maybe the attending physician would assume she’d succumbed to her cancer, but maybe the doc wouldn’t. Meaning there’d be tests and tox screens, the finding of Rohypnol immediately muddying the waters.