Page 3 of Pose for Me
Not every killer is easy to catch; some have given us hell. But they’ve always made a mistake after a while. They got sloppy or forgot something. They have victimology; they use the same weapon as some sort of signature.
The Poser does none of that.
They’re in the wind, and I can’t catch them. I’m stuck.
I swallow my glass of Jack in one go and hold my hand up to Emmy. “Another.”
Two
Ryell
My fingerlightly traces the lines on the page, careful not to smudge the charcoal. The image leaps to life in my mind.
A woman, white, long hair.
Arms bound behind her back, the rope lashed around a tree.
Head down, her tresses obscuring her face. Her hair only serves to cover that she no longer has eyes, the orbs plucked from her head and resting on the ground, as if looking up at what I’d done to her.
A dress, floral. Long and lovely.
Feet bare with an ankle bracelet. Gold, of good quality.
The sketch is beautifully rendered, showing me what I want to do to my victim.
Perfect.
When I’m ready for a kill, I see the image in my head first, then I sketch it to bring that image to life. Only then do I find a victim, but theyhaveto be what I’m looking for. Janet fit my sketch.
Now it’s time I execute it.
Execute.
What an apt word for what I have planned for Janet Ingram, the woman that’s tied down to the dental chair I installed in my renovated basement. As an oral surgeon, no one batted an eye when I ordered an extra chair, since I kept my own inventory.
My eyes trace the lines of the image I drew, my heart rate rising as I think about how I’ll kill her. It’s been a while since I’ve sliced someone. Feeling their blood drip down my fingers, the coppery scent filling my lungs, the bright red color tinging my olive skin.
I just need Janet to wake up so I can look her in the eyes as I take her life.
I chanced upon Janet quite by accident. She wasn’t even supposed to be in my clinic, but circumstances worked in my favor.
My patient, Angela Waters, needed an escort after a routine rhinoplasty since her husband had to work an extra shift. Janet filled that role for her friend and also for my latest sketch.
For a few days after she provided my patient an escort, I followed Janet, learning her schedule and breaking into her home to learn the layout.
She’s single, didn’t have an animal to alert her to my presence, and she didn’t have an alarm system. It was almost too easy.
Once I had her schedule memorized, I went and bought the items I would need to bring my sketch to life. Next-day delivery saved me a lot of hassle.
When I had everything I needed, I went home and prepared the cell in my basement for my guest.
A cloth soaked with chloroform pressed to her nose, and I was able to abduct her from her bed with no fuss. She woke up two days ago in the cell I had constructed in my basement—I killed everyone that worked on it, so no one alive knows it exists—wondering where she was and why anyone would want to do this to her.
“Please,” Janet cries from where she’s tied to the dental chair. Tears spill down her face, streaking through her already ruined makeup.
Stress drains from my body as I take in the scent of her fear, the terror in her wide eyes blinking back at me.
I needed this.
