of the park. Unfortunately, the man, despite his efforts, could not even manage a bunt, and in a desperate attempt for fulfillment, Monica—she on top; he still inside her—reached for one of her instruments (always hidden close by), and slashed his throat.
Staring down at disbelieving eyes, a mouth gurgling red, and frantic clawing at a throat that no longer worked, she came instantly.
Future sexual encounters of the same nature occurred, but they were infrequent. More sport than anything else. The job satiated her appetite with far greater satisfaction.
And so now, just as the female subject (40; dirty-blonde hair; five-foot two; Pilates at twelve on Tuesdays and Thursdays) lifted her head off the pillow to likely obey the blind suspicion subjects sometimes had—the suspicion they were being watched—she did not receive two quick bullets like her son had. Instead she got a lightning-quick injection to the side of the neck that put her back into a deep sleep. The husband (42; brown hair; five-foot ten; work hours eight to six; happy hour with colleagues on Wednesdays and Fridays from six to eight) barely stirred, even when he received an injection of his own.
Monica left the sedated couple, entered their bathroom and hit the light. Her reflection in the stretch of mirror above the dual sinks was exceptionally kind: dark, seductive eyes, full lips, healthy dark hair that usually bounced at the shoulder (now pulled back tight for job efficiency), and a body that defied the majority by being slim and tight in the usual trouble spots; full and firm in the oft-desired.
These physical gifts were accentuated—and coveted by every female eye she passed—by a powerful and sophisticated aura, product of conditioning from years in the most elite of boarding schools. If she were wearing a power suit instead of the unassuming but apt attire needed for her current assignment, she could easily pass for a seven-figure knockout parading down Wall Street.
Monica placed her leather bag on the sink, glanced into the bedroom at the couple, and felt the familiar tingle begin its feathery dance down her body. Now she would take her time.
* * *
Monica sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. Inhaling deep, she glanced over her shoulder, searching for the remote. It was on the nightstand next to the wife’s corpse.
She stood, strolled past the chair that held the husband’s bound and mangled body, flicked an ash on his scalp, picked up the remote from the nightstand, and returned to her spot at the foot of the bed.
Crossing her legs, she took a second drag, leaned back on her elbows, and blew a long stream into the air. She tweaked the toes of the dead woman next to her, then clicked on the television.
The news was replaying a top story from a few days ago. The incident had caught her attention the night it aired, and she had given it a brief glance. Multiple murders in the sticks of western, Pennsylvania. A place called Crescent Lake. Torture. Sick games. Something out of a movie, they had said.
Now they apparently had the whole story.
She turned up the volume and looked on with the casual eye of an athlete watching their own sport. She hoped this local station had the balls to air recordings of the aftermath. The breaking report she had witnessed days ago on assignment in New York had given her nothing but a woman with a bad dye-job, blabbering in front of a cabin in Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania.
For the moment this one looked to be no different. Same bullshit drama in front of a cabin. A man reported this time, one with a bad toupee and capped teeth. He carried on as though auditioning for a Hollywood role.
Four murdered…two men responsible…brothers…one of the brothers eventually killed in an act of self-defense…the other brother critically wounded and in custody.
Her casual interest was waning.
The reporter disappeared, and Monica was finally rewarded with a brief shot of a large black body bag being carried out of a cabin and into an ambulance.
She rolled her eyes. Painfully unfulfilling. She took another drag of her cigarette and blew perfect smoke rings.
Toupee returned for a brief moment to provide new details about the naughty brothers. And then, for the first time, their pictures—side by side headshots that took up the whole screen.
Monica sprang upright, the remote falling from her hand, the battery casing breaking open as it hit the rug. She leaned forward and gawked at the screen. The brother on