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The black, six-foot-long bodybag has a white zipper running all the way along the middle. It slaps against the concrete floor as he drops it in front of me. He has a cream dress draped over one arm, in a clear plastic wrapper. He holds it up in front of me. It's attached to a hanger inside the wrapper. A strapless dress with a pleated chiffon skirt. Sparkling sequins around the bust. It's beautiful. Tasteful. How does someone like him pick something like that out? I wonder if all the girls he kills wear dresses. Maybe they wore this one.
"It should fit," he says. "It's in your size.”
He drops the dress on the bed next to me. Takes my pink hairbrush from a back pocket. He must have taken it from my bag. It's clean of hairs, as if he's been picking them off.
"What is this?" I ask.
"I
