Page 22 of The Serial Killer’s Sister (The Serial Killer’s Daughter #3)

Wait a moment; I spoke a lie –

I never really wanted to die.

But if I may, and if I might,

My heart is open for tonight.

FEbrUARY

A year ago

He hadn’t wasted any time toying with this victim – he hadn’t felt the need to touch her skin or stare at her features, either whilst he killed her or once she was dead.

It was business now; he had no particular feelings for, or even against, the woman.

She was a means to an end. He wasn’t the same as other serial killers; ones who killed because they were compelled to take lives – needed to.

He didn’t do it for the thrill. He didn’t fit the profile – the stereotypes perpetuated by the media, on TV, in films and novels, or even by professionals, like psychologists, or profilers who worked with the police.

Anger drove him. A need to reach his goal.

Revenge. He maybe shared some similarities, but he certainly didn’t consider himself a typical killer.

‘Wait a moment; I spoke a lie – I never really wanted to die. But if I may, and if I might, my heart is open for tonight.’ He smiled as he spoke the words, but took no pleasure when he made the long incision down the centre of her body, then cut through her chest bone; or when he split the ribs open, spreading them wide to access her heart.

He did experience a shiver of exhilaration when his fingers encircled it; when he thought about how it had been beating a few short minutes beforehand.

How he’d been the one that caused it to cease.

He was sure he’d feel so much more when it was her life he ended.

He was getting ever closer to that goal.

He rested the heart back in the cavity while he gathered the tools.

He severed the aorta first, his hands shaking.

It was the adrenaline, he assumed, because it couldn’t be nerves.

Then he sliced through the inferior and superior vena cava, followed by the other arteries and veins he couldn’t recall the names of; he’d never really paid enough attention in his biology lessons.

It didn’t matter; it wasn’t as though he was transplanting it, he just needed it out of this body.

He didn’t want to rush it, though. It couldn’t look like a sloppy job or some afterthought; it had to appear as though it was fully intended.

He removed the heart and held it in his hand, surprised at its weight, then he placed it inside the plastic container, snapping the lid on tight.

The meaning behind what he’d done wouldn’t be easy to decipher – he didn’t want it to be.

He’d mixed it up a little to keep it interesting.

Complexity was required. That way, when the time came, it would all fall into place and she’d know.

And he wanted to be there to witness her full horror.