Damn.
She was a fighter.
She kicked and she hit.
Even after he had her on the ground face up, his legs straddling her, the weight of him holding her down, his hands around her throat, she managed to rake sharp fingernails across his face.
“You bitch.”
He clamped his hands around her neck and squeezed until he thought the pads of his thumbs might go through her flesh and come out the other side.
Her eyes widened, wild with fear. He felt her heart rate race, watched her cheeks redden. He grew hard watching her expression shift from anger to terror.
Even as he stared at her, unblinking, he felt her arms go limp at her sides.
Now she had stopped fighting altogether. Her legs had gone slack beneath him.
His gaze became one with hers. He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. She might not realize it as she took her last breaths, but she was special. He would remember her for the rest of his life. She was magnificent. Her eyes, as blue as the clear waters of Tahoe, had turned a stormy cerulean right before they lost their luster. On canvas, she would come alive.
Overcome with joy, filled with orgasmic satisfaction, he finally released his hold on the woman. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes as he filled his lungs with the smell of fear, death, and ultimate control.
He pulled out a two-inch blade and cut away her clothes, then sliced through flesh from left to right, then a clean diagonal cut from her collarbone to her hip bone, and then straight across. He finished his signature with one last horizontal cut.
This time he’d made sure to leave a mark big enough so every crime scene technician who came within ten feet of the girl would see it.
Taking a step back, he took a good long look at his bloody artwork. He stared at her, unsure of the mix of emotions he was feeling. He wasn’t ready to leave, but he had no choice. He tilted her head just so, fixed her hair as best he could, and then spared her one last glance before he walked away.
Heading back toward the trail, he stopped to bury an item he’d brought with him—a mirror. He scooped out the rich soil, placed the mirror inside, covered it up, and gently patted the soil until it was hardly noticeable. Back on his feet, he inwardly scolded himself for leaving the object. But he hadn’t been able to help himself. It was a small but essential part of the composition—the mirror was the artist’s reminder to reflect and speculate, to look inside oneself to gain self-knowledge. With a heavy sigh, he peeled the gloves from his hands, rolled them into a ball, and slid them into his pants pocket. Hidden behind brush and trees, he heard talking: two women discussing their marital woes. He took a quiet breath, held perfectly still, and waited until they were far enough up the trail that they wouldn’t notice him.
He crossed the path, admiring the vast array of trees, all different shades of green, some with silver-tipped leaves. Making his way toward the river, his latest victim all but forgotten for now, he found himself wondering why he didn’t do this more often. The great outdoors: blue skies and the fresh smell of fish, plant, and earth all mingled into one.
Crisp air brushed his face and still he considered it to be fairly warm for the month of April. Halfway down the trail, he saw the very tip of his yellow kayak peeking out from under the brush. Upon reaching it, he leaned over and picked up his life vest. He slipped it on—you could never be too safe when it came to large bodies of water—and, when he was certain the river, at least as far as he could see in either direction, was devoid of people, he slid his kayak into the smooth water, carefully took his place inside, and began to paddle for home.
CHAPTER TEN
Lizzy’s longtime therapist, Linda Gates, placed a cup of hot green tea on the side table next to the couch where Lizzy was sitting. Then she picked up her notebook and sat down in her leather chair. “I have an unusual request.”
“What is it?”
“There’s a woman I’ve been seeing for a while now. She lost her husband and their three small children to a drunk driver.”
Lizzy had no idea where Linda might be going with this. Not once in all their years together had she uttered one word about another client. But Lizzy sat quietly and waited to see what she had to say.
“You might have read about it in the paper. Her husband wanted to give her a break, so he decided to take the kids to his parents’ house fifteen minutes away. They never made it.”
More waiting.
“She read about what happened to Jared, and she thought you might benefit from having someone to talk to. Someone who has dealt with a tragic loss of a loved one.”
“Isn’t that what I pay you for?”
“I agree with her. I think it might be helpful for you to talk to someone who has dealt with a traumatic and unexpected loss.”
“I think it’s a stupid idea.”
“Why?”
“People all over the world are dealing with shit worse than mine or hers. She’ll never be the same, and neither will I. We all just have to keep on moving, get through another day and then another until it’s all one big blur again.” Lizzy lifted a shoulder. “We all heal in our own way and in our own time. You know that.”
“I’ll tell her you’re not ready to talk to anyone.”
“Tell her whatever you want, Linda. Tell her I’m sorry for her loss. While you’re at it, you might think about telling her the truth.”
“And that is?”
“That it might not get any better. That the days get longer and the nights get darker. Her best days could well be over.”
“We don’t know if that’s true.”
“I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.”
“I’m worried about you, Lizzy.”
Lizzy uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again. She picked nonexistent lint off the couch.
“You seem angry.”
“No. Really?”
“Who are you angry with?”
“Everyone.”
“You’re angry with me?” Linda asked without reproach.
“Yes, even you. I’ve known you for what, eighteen years, and I don’t know anything about you, but you know everything about me. That’s fucked up. And, let’s see, I’m angry with my mother. She didn’t come to my wedding, which was probably a good move, since she could have been shot and killed had she made the effort. But she didn’t come. She’s alive and well. So, would it kill her to call me every once in a while? And then there’s my sister.” Lizzy waved a hand through the air. “I’m not even going to bother going there—the list is too long. But you know who I’m really pissed off at?”
“Who?”
“Myself. I hate me. I hate every choice I’ve ever made. I hate being around people. I hate seeing my reflection staring back at me, always judging. I hate the way food feels on my tongue and the way I never taste anything. I hate the ugly gray skies every time I look up. The six o’clock news makes me sick to my stomach. I hate the drizzly rain out there today. I mean, if you’re going to rain, you might as well pour. Give us some real water, not this half-ass shit. I hate my life. Most of all, I hate being so fucking angry.” Lizzy clamped her mouth shut. She was finished.
A long, drawn-out moment passed before Linda said, “You have every reason to be angry.”
“Well, thanks,” Lizzy said as she started to stand up. “Are we done?”
“Not quite.” Linda straightened. “I’ve been married and divorced twice, and I never had children.” Linda put her notebook aside. “Not because I didn’t want them, but because I was born with a fixed number of eggs and the health of those eggs declined as I got older. I’m fifty-eight now. It’s too late for me.”
Lizzy slid an arm into her jacket.
“Both husbands refused to use donor eggs and both went on to remarry and have children of their own. One of them married my best friend, with whom I no longer speak. When I get lonely, I play the violin. I love going to operas. I spend most of my life sitting here in this chair listening to others without passing judgment. I listen to their stories and I see their sadness, feel their grief, and I know, above all, I cannot cry. It would be unprofessional to do so.”