Two days later, the second, more delicate, her last breath a fleeting thing as she stared up at him, eyes wide with disbelief as he pinched the vein in her neck with medical precision. His hands, sterile and practiced, were already at work—locking the bedroom door from the inside out as he had done at Pearl’s elimination, sealing their fates as though they had never been more than a puzzle piece to be hidden. Both scenes would need to look… perfect and mimic the previous murder of Evelyn Oatley three days before which was not of his doing.
Before he left, the ritual was incomplete. He reached for Doris’ bureau as he watched her remain—silent, cold, and still—and in his hands, he took the treasures that whispered of her life: a gold watch given to her by her husband, polished and elegant; a pen, still warm from the last words she’d written; resting in the curve of her vanity. Each item slipped into his coat as though it belonged to him.
