This time Claudia didn’t slam the door. She closed it quietly and paused looking at the extra bolt. She didn’t need to keep danger out, it was already inside. If anything, she’d need an easy exit. Her first idea had been to do something Chad would consider sexually humiliating. Maybe take a picture of his flaccid dick and tag it with his name so that whenever you Googled “Chad Drake,” that was what popped up; or make a video of him getting blown by a male prostitute. But none of that seemed exactly right. She never seriously entertained the idea of killing him. What would that even look like? Gone Girl? Then run screaming down the hotel hallway: He raped me! He raped me! Who would she run to? She wasn’t a murderer. But it was time for Chad to be a victim. Finally, scrolling through her phone last night, unable to sleep, Claudia saw the words that made it click: Another Victim: Slasher attacks from behind. That’s it, she thought: I’ll cut him.

In the morning she went in search of an instrument. There were steak knives in the kitchenette but when she ran them along her fingertips they were dull. She knew she’d have to do it quickly; she couldn’t trust that whatever Lesley dropped in Chad’s drink would last through much dithering. The news said the Slasher was probably using a box cutter, so she walked down to Fourteenth Street and found one at the Home Depot. The clerk barely looked at her. Back in the room, she Googled “How to tell if your knife is sharp,” and tested the blade on a piece of the hotel stationary. It slid straight through.

Claudia took the box cutter out of her bag. She peered over Chad, just lying there, breathing. She studied his face; his gaping pores and puffy nose. He still bit his fingernails, she could see. She imagined him grinning, chewing at a hand, sending the video to group chat after group chat, accompanied, perhaps, by some crude gif. Or maybe just what he’d written to Trevor: Claudia Castro is a slut. Chad Drake was a monster and it was time everyone knew that.

She slid the box cutter’s blade up.

“If you can hear me,” she said, leaning over him, “I hope this hurts.”

She took a shallow breath and drew the edge along his cheekbone. He stirred and she jumped back. The blood ran down both sides of his face, neck to ear, and onto his lips. He jerked up, sputtered, then slumped back. She looked down at her hands: They were clean. They were steady. Chad began to moan. He put his hand to his face and the blood ran through his fingers, tucked into his raggedy cuticles. Their eyes met and she flipped him off.