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Whistling to myself, I step through the door and pop it closed behind me, my movements deliberate and confident. The scent of lavender and vanilla wraps around me like a warm hug, so familiar that it’s like the greeting of an old friend.

In a way, I guess it is.

We were friends once, weren’t we?

What were we now?

Cat and mouse.

Victim and perpetrator.

My eyes adjust quickly to the dim light filtering through the thin curtains, my ears catching the hum of her fan left on in the bathroom. I look around, the same as I always do, taking in every picture and cross nailed to every single goddamn wall.

My Mercy is a good girl. Pious and virtuous. Pure and untouched.

Well, she was, anyway, before I touched her.

The faint ticking of a clock, somewhere in the depths of Mercy’s apartment, grates on my nerves like a relentless metronome.

I’m late, I’m late.

Run rabbit, run.

I roll my neck, one way, and then the other, until it pops with a satisfying crack and I can feel the tension under my skin melt away.

My eyes scan the living room, taking in the neatly arranged furniture and the bookshelf lined with old, faded books. A Bible lies open on the coffee table, its pages well-worn from frequent reading. I smirk, my fingers tracing the edge of the holy book as I step past it and into the hallway.

You won’t find protection in these pages, Mercy.

Not from me.

I move down the hallway, my fingers straying to glide along the wall as I move toward her bedroom door. I’m careful to listen to the sounds around me, any type of clue that she could be coming home early.

There’s nothing.

I’m all alone.

Perfect.

The door creaks softly as I push it open, revealing a kingdom of innocence. Her bed is small, modest, the floral comforter folded neatly, with a furry white throw folded at the foot of it. Her nightstand holds a small lamp and a framed photograph of her with her family, their smiles frozen in time. I step up to the table and pick up the frame, my thumb brushing over her face.

“Such a good girl,” I whisper, setting it down with a snort.

Stepping across the room, I move to her dresser. I pull open the top drawer, my fingers sifting through silk and satin. Frilly, girly things. The fabrics are soft, delicate, some of them catching on the rough callouses on my hands. I feel something different brush against my hand and stop, eyes narrowed.

What was that?

My fingers wrap around it and I pull it out, and when my eyes catch sight of it, I bark a laugh.

A red lace thong.

Really, Mercy?

Naughty girl.

I push it into my pocket. I’ll use this later.

The next drawer holds her everyday clothes—simple, modest, nothing like the garments I fantasize about her in. I lift a blouse, holding it up to the light before folding it and putting it back, slightly off-center.