But she didn’t turn.
She was so arrogant that she had no fear that someone was behind her. After all, she had not heard the killer come in. She was so infatuated with herself, so obsessed with the possessions she’d accumulated. All she cared about was showing off her trinkets and flaunting her status, even though her entire identity and wealth were rooted in suffering and blood.
An electric thrill raced through the killer’s body. This was the long-awaited moment, the time when the planning would be put to the test.
A weapon was needed. There was the perfect item. A quick detour to the fireplace to grab the poker. And then into the bedroom, moving fast now.
The woman looked up, finally sensing a presence. Too little, too late. Sorry for you, you deserved it, the killer thought, jumping forward to smash her over the head with the iron poker.
Her eyes rolled up into her head, and she slumped in the killer’s arms. The killer dragged her out, ready for the next step—the final, killing step.
The music was blaring as if nothing had happened, as if the woman were still staring out at those expansive, private lawns.
A fireplace poker. A full bathtub. A five-dollar bill. It was payback time. The scene had been set and now the conclusion to this cruel, meaningless life would play out.
The killer’s eyes were cold and hard. There was no mercy in them.
There was no mercy in the killer’s heart either.