Page 184 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

That...

That was art.

I leaned back in my chair, studying his photograph for a very long time. Grey hair. Kind smile. Wire-rimmed glasses. Exactly the sort of face mothers trusted without thinking. Exactly the sort of face children would wave to in grocery stores.

I laughed quietly.

"Oh..."

My fingertip rested against his photograph.

"You've been hiding in plain sight."

The room fell completely silent. Even the old clock on the wall seemed to hesitate before ticking again.

I uncapped my pen. Slowly. Carefully. Most people circle names. Police highlight them. Journalists print them.

I don't.

I drew a single black queen beside Richard Vance's name. A queen changes everything. Then I closed the folder.

Checkmate.

My eyes drifted toward the remaining stack of untouched files waiting patiently on the edge of the desk.

I closed the folder with slow, deliberate care, letting the thick pages meet with a soft, satisfying thud that echoed through the quiet cottage. The sound lingered longer than it should have, swallowed by the old pine walls until it disappeared into the same silence that always seemed to settle over the house after sunset. My coffee had gone lukewarm hours ago, but I lifted the mug anyway, taking another unhurried sip as I watched the rain gather against the kitchen window in tiny silver beads. Cold coffee never really bothered me. Warmth faded. Flavor remained. There was something strangely comforting about that.

Gerald and Frank had stopped arguing sometime during Joey's investigation. That was unusual. Gerald normally found at least six things to complain about before the hour was over, while Frank enjoyed provoking him simply because he could. Now they sat quietly where I'd left them, almost as though they understood that certain moments deserved silence.

I rested my fingertips against the worn cover of the folder, tracing invisible circles across the cardboard while my thoughts drifted somewhere darker.

You know...people always assume the difficult part is learning how to kill.

I smiled faintly.

It isn't…

That's a problem for impulsive people. Angry people. Frightened people. Any fool can squeeze a trigger. Any desperate soul can swing a knife. Violence has never required intelligence. It only requires momentum. I turned my mug slowly between both hands, watching the dark liquid catch the amber glow from the lamp above the table.

The difficult part is restraint.

Outside, the wind sighed through the trees.

The difficult part is waiting.

I leaned back in the chair, my gaze drifting toward the black window where my own reflection floated like another woman sitting opposite me.

Finding the right victim isn't about hatred.

I almost laughed.

Oh, hatred is easy. Everyone hates someone. The woman who parks too close at the supermarket. The man who speaks too loudly in restaurants. The neighbour who trimmed his hedges before eight in the morning.

I shook my head slowly.

No... My victims would never be chosen because they irritated me.

I rested one elbow on the table, cradling my chin against my knuckles.