Page 23 of Petite Fleur

I scrub every inch of my body in the shower, scrubbing off layers of dried blood and the sticky feeling of sweat and bleach on my skin, figuring I'll worry about burning my bloody clothes tomorrow.

That's what they're for anyway; all of my playtime clothes are disposable in my eyes.

Another precaution to avoid being caught, they'll never find blood stains on my clothes or remnants in my washer if the clothes never make it that far.

Today, however, I'll just worry about getting some fucking sleep.

I think it's been at least 30 hours since I've gotten any and I'm too damn old for that.

It was easy staying up for days at a time when I was 18 and killing, but now at 34?

I struggle.

At 18, I could stay up all day, kill who I needed at night, clean it up, and still have the energy to make it to class on time.

Of course, then, I hadn't perfected my skill. I had no safe place to do it, so I usually did it at the victims' houses.

I always staged it like a robbery, stealing a few things, busting the door off the frame, and making the injuries look like they struggled.

That kind of shit.

I'm surprised I never got caught when I was young and ignorant, but I would always keep an eye on the investigations, not relaxing until I saw that the police had ruled it a robbery and left it alone.

As I have perfected my skill, I realized I needed a controlled environment.

I needed a stable and sterile place to do what I liked.

I need somewhere that won't stain with blood, somewhere soundproof and isolated.

My first official spot was a closed-down store on the outskirts of town. I'd drag them into the freezer, where nobody could hear them if they screamed.

It was the perfect setup then, but after a year or two of that, someone bought the building.

I didn't buy this house until I was 22 and exhausted every other option and location I could think of.

I live on a dead-end road, the last house on the road, and my closest neighbor is over a mile away. It's secluded and quiet—everything I could have asked for.

Of course, it came with a steep price tag. It also needed work done. The basement was unfinished, and the driveway was gravel.

Nothing I can't handle.

I don't know much about construction, but I figured it out. It took me over a year to get the basement built how I needed it, but now it's perfect.

When I first come down the main steps, it has a movie room, a large TV, far too many comfortable recliners, a stereo, and a fridge.

Everything you'd need to host a movie night with friends, but I've never actually invited anyone here.

All hookups are done at their house or a hotel.

This home, this sanctuary, is for me and, someday, for my wife.

No other woman will step foot in my home but my wife.

I wonder if Maeve would like my house?

Fuck, there I go again.

Shut up, Leon.

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