I’d anticipated that the killing would be messy business, but I hadn’t appreciated the sheer violence of dying. The cut had been perfectly placed for a quick death. I’d like to claim I’m not entirely without mercy, but that wouldn’t be true. My decision was based on practicality and the necessity of adhering to my schedule. After all, it wasn’t the first time I’d used a knife on her flesh, but it was definitely the last. The first few heartbeats after the knife stroke had produced rhythmic spurts with decreasing trajectory. The concrete slab wasn’t perfectly level. The remaining blood that flowed from the wound had run downhill and pooled against the cinderblock wall. Once her heart stopped, gravity allowed the body to leak for several minutes postmortem. Thankfully, I’d stood well back from the red river, sparing my clothes and shoes from contamination.

Leaning over, I switched to a reverse grip on the handle and used the knife point to draw a spiral on her abdomen. Even on an utterly still subject, precision took care. What I’d give for the spirograph of my childhood. There. Done.

I wiped the blade on her T-shirt and placed the knife in a plastic bag inside my kit. Now for the finishing touch. I’d brought everything needed for a proper funeral pyre: paper, kindling, gasoline. The match was struck and tossed. Fire whooshed, flames embracing the body with greedy fingers. I made my exit, not waiting to see if anyone noticed the fire—or the smell of burning flesh. Even if they did, this wasn’t the sort of neighborhood where anyone rushed to call the police. Grabbing the camp lantern, I hurried to my car and stowed my bag in the trunk. I checked the dashboard clock. An hour to spare. I’d counted on her putting up a better fight. Instead of thrashing and resisting death, she’d acquiesced with a few minor struggles, surrendering the moment she saw the knife. Perhaps the puncture wounds had been too deep.

Did some people hang on to hope longer than others? Were physical condition, age, and strength major factors in a person’s survival instinct, or did mental stamina play the largest role? Did a happy student with a bright future have a greater desire to fight death, a stronger will to live, than a homeless runaway? Or was the survival instinct an inborn trait as independent of life events as eye color?

All interesting questions, but before they could be analyzed, the next step of my plan needed to be executed.

Another girl waited. Another death. Another fire.

CHAPTER 2

2

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