CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
He’d been planning this one for a very long time. In a way, the first two had been practice. This was the one he had always had in mind when he’d started. And those first two women had proven to him that he had no real problem with killing. It seemed natural and almost therapeutic. It made him envy the jobs that men back in the Middle Ages had enjoyed—jobs like executioner or the general in charge of whatever group oversaw the torture and dismemberment of their enemies.
This woman was different. He knew her much better than he had known the others. He’d seen her naked, had watched her strip in front of a mirror in appreciation of herself—or, perhaps, in fear that her thirty-something body would maybe not be perfect much longer.
This time, he felt a sense of urgency.
