CHAPTER SEVEN
The man sat fingering the now-empty leather sheath.
It’s too bad I had to leave the dagger behind, he thought.
He’d stolen the weapon from a theater props cage some years ago, and he’d become rather attached to it. With its stainless steel hilt and blade and carved wooden handle, it was quite handsome. It would have made a nice keepsake, a reminder of the marvelous act he had just committed.
But of course, leaving the blade in the woman’s body had been an essential part of the spectacle. It looked like the sort of knife that would appear in a production of Macbeth. That was part of its …
What was the word he was looking for?
Charm, I suppose, he thought.
Yes, there was something quaint about making this murder appear at first glance like it might be part of the play. I
