I follow her into the living room, and she asks if I want a drink. I say nothing. She walks over to the bar cart anyway and fills a glass with red wine. She tops up her own glass, which is sitting on the coffee table on top of a tattered cardboard coaster from a local bar. I assume it’s not her first bottle of the night.

She says, “Hey, what’s with the gloves? Is it cold out tonight?”

I still say nothing.

She holds out the wineglass, but I make no move to take it from her.

“Suit yourself,” she says and shrugs.

As she turns to put the glass next to her own on the table, I catch her full on the face with a powerful punch. She is stunned. She drops the glass. The red liquid soaks into the cream carpet. Blood streams from her nose, and she staggers. I deliver another blow, and this time, she goes down.

I’m on top of her quickly, knees pressing into her chest, the knife in my hand. I’m aware that my breathing has accelerated, but my hands are steady, and the cut to her throat is clean and precise. Her blood mixes with the merlot on the carpet, and I know she’ll bleed out in minutes, that the job is done.

But I’m unprepared for the rage that follows, the furious pumping of my own blood through my veins, as I watch the life drain slowly from her. I lift the knife above my head, and I plunge it deep into her heart. And then I do it again and again, until finally the rage is gone and I’m slumped on top of her, exhausted. Then there is a new sensation flooding my insides, and it takes a few seconds before I figure out what it is.

Elation.

It’s my first kill, but in that moment, I know it won’t be my last.

I stand and put the knife back in the pocket of my pants. I walk to the hallway and listen at the foot of the stairs for any movement from the rooms above. I hear nothing.

I return to the living room. The music is still playing. The flames from the candles cast strange shadows on the walls. I walk over to the cream leather couch. I look at the lifeless body on the floor, and I smile.

Then I sit. And wait.

1 JESSICA

1

JESSICA

Jessica Shaw stared at the faces in front of her, thinking most of them were probably dead. Dead or didn’t want to be found. Squinting against the late-afternoon California sunshine pouring in through the window, she leaned closer to the MacBook screen for a better look at the photos.