Chapter 23

Trigger warning: This part contains explicit descriptions of murder, rape and/or torture, which may be disturbing or triggering for some readers.

November 5th

I‘ve truly outdone myself.

I know it sounds like I‘m bragging, but today I made history.

This latest girl is my most impressive kill yet. Not because she was a difficult mark. In fact, killing Trophy Wife was as easy as picking off a pig in a pen. But what I did with her after she was dead—that was inspired.

True to her word, Trophy Wife was at The Mac tonight. By the time I got there, around ten, she was already tipsy and throwing back shots like a pro. The matching sweatsuit she‘d been wearing while hiking had been replaced with a red dress the size of a handkerchief, her naked flesh peeking out everywhere.

She hadn‘t seen me when I first arrived, which was fine, because I wanted to get a few drinks in me before I got to work. As I drank, I planned the best way to lure her out of the bar without anyone noticing me enough to describe me to the cops later.

That‘s the problem with going after a girl in public. There are more chances to be tied to her later. It can be incredibly dangerous.

But beggars can‘t be choosers.

And I‘d been looking for an opportunity to show the cops that I was smarter than them. Going after Trophy Wife out in the open would be the ultimate fuck you.

Trophy Wife liked to dance. In the middle of the floor. With her girlfriends. On the bar. Alone. The more she drank, the more she danced. As I watched her, I thought about what she‘d said that day on the trails. That panties were optional. I couldn‘t tell from where I was sitting, but I believed her. Which meant there‘d be easy access.

I could‘ve just fucked her. Screwed her silly and then left her to sober up somewhere. Prolong the hunt, maybe have her a few times before I disposed of her.

But if not her, it‘d be someone else. I had to leave someone for the cops to find, and Trophy Wife was as good a victim as any.

She was jumping up and down to music that was blaring out of the speakers behind the bar, arms up in the air, her fake breasts bouncing around like a porn star. I got this perverted flash of what it might be like to use her as a human dartboard. I wondered if the dart hit her chest in the right spot, whether her implants would explode, make a popping sound like a balloon. It was fun testing out the theory later.

After finishing my fourth beer, I got up from the booth in the corner and made my way over to where Trophy Wife and her friends were dancing around. Moving in and out of the crowd, I walked up to the bar, waiting patiently until my target picked up her drink and took a long swig before going back to dancing. Now knowing which drink was hers, I strolled her way and surreptitiously slipped a cocktail napkin underneath her martini glass. Then I continued to the back and out the door to the alley.

And waited for her to come to me.

I went through my texts as I stood in the shadows, even responding to a few messages I‘d been putting off. When I finally heard the door squeak open a few minutes later, I put my phone away and stepped into the light.

“Issis from you?“ Trophy Wife had asked, her words slurring together. She gave me a Cheshire Cat grin and held out the napkin for me to read. Of course, I already knew what it said.

You‘re the hottest thing in this bar.

Meet me in the back if you‘re

interested in having a little fun…

I nodded.

“Why didn‘‘chu just come over en say hi?“ she‘d asked, nearly tripping over her five-inch stripper heels.

“Well, look at you. You‘re gorgeous. I‘m sure guys have been coming up to you all night,“ I‘d said, taking a few more steps toward her. This was true. No less than three douchey-looking dudes had approached Trophy Wife as I‘d watched. She‘d flirted with each until they bought her a drink, and then she‘d promptly gone back to her friends. “I figured I had to do something clever to get your attention.“

She reached out and touched my shoulder, then ran her perfectly manicured hand down my chest until it rested comfortably on the edge of my belt.

“Well, you gottit,“ she‘d said. “Wanna go somewhere, sexy?“

It was so easy, it almost wasn‘t even fun.

Almost.

“Hell yeah,“ I‘d said. Then I looked back at the door to the bar. “Do you have to tell your friends you‘re leaving?“

She smiled and then let her hand trail down the front of my pants. “They‘re biggirls. They can take care of ‘emselves.“

But they weren‘t the ones who needed to be worried.

I walked her to my car a few streets away, where I‘d made sure there were no cameras to memorialize our departure. I told her I had a romantic little cabin up in the hills and she showed me that she had indeed left her underwear at home. She was blowing me before we‘d even gotten to my place.

Later, when I had her blindfolded and tied to a chair, she begged me to stop. Told me all about the ailing husband she had at home, like I cared.

“You weren‘t acting very married earlier,“ I‘d said, calling her out on her bad behavior. I hadn‘t actually minded this fault in her, but giving her a hard time was just another way to punish her.

“I‘m sorry! You were cute, and I was soooo drunk,“ she‘d said, trying to flatter me. It was nice to hear, but it wouldn‘t change anything.

“Ooooh, you‘re just so cute,“ a high-pitched voice sing-songed through the room, chastising her.

I frowned.

She‘d already endured hours of torture—beatings, punctures, rounds of brutal sex—and I was growing bored. I wanted to get on with the next part.

That was when the real fun began.

“Looks aren‘t everything,” I‘d said, before rushing forward and jamming one of the ice picks into her head. The blood flowed out like I‘d just tapped a maple tree and I quickly placed a bucket underneath her to capture as much of it as I could.

She didn‘t talk anymore after that. Twitched a little, but that was normal.

“I‘m sorry. Did I hit a nerve?“

Laughter echoed through the room.

Most people don‘t know that there‘s a magic hour of the night. Right around 4:15 in the morning, when those who like the nightlife had already made their ways home, and the early birds wouldn‘t be getting up for at least another hour. Almost all of the world was asleep then.

It was the perfect time to dispose of Trophy Wife. I‘d chosen the neighborhood carefully. It was affluent, but not gated. Every home had an alarm system, but none of them bothered to rig their front yards. Because what was anyone going to steal from there? A plastic reindeer at Christmas?

I dragged the body onto the lawn, and then got to work on staging the area. I propped Trophy Wife up against one of two big trees in the yard, the one that was closest to the sidewalk. I wanted people to see her without anything obstructing the view.

This was for all my adoring fans, after all.

I leaned her back, letting her chin dip toward her chest. I‘d already spooned out her eyes and stuffed them inside of her for the cops to find. Silicone and blood leaked out of the puncture wounds in her chest. Cuts and bruises decorated her legs and arms. Using a long needle, I geniusly rigged her hand to give the cops the middle finger. I‘d had to push her fingers down and pin them in place before rigor set in, but it‘d be worth it to see their reactions later.

One of Trophy Wife‘s legs was propped up by a ceramic garden gnome giving off the appearance that he was holding up the appendage himself. It actually would‘ve been quite comical, if the whole area weren‘t drenched in blood.

This had been my favorite part. Head to toe, I‘d dripped and painted and splashed the body with blood. She looked eerily like Carrie in that Stephen King movie.

Now that guy knew horror. Imagine if Mr. King took his twisted mind and used it for something other than fiction… Oh well, those who can‘t do, teach.

When I was finished, I‘d taken a few steps back and admired my work, almost brought to tears because it was just so perfect. But I didn‘t cry, because that‘s not what men do. Crying is a female thing. A sign of weakness.

So, I simply stood there and committed the scene to memory.

I wonder what they‘ll say about me in the papers? And whether my plan will coax Tina out of wherever it is she‘s hiding. Will the cops be impressed? Scared? Pissed off? All of the above? I don‘t care as long as my greatest masterpiece becomes breaking news.

The Ice-Pick Killer is back and better than ever, and I want to hear them admit it.

Admit that I‘m better than them.