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Forty-Seven

Especially the next victim, who will likely put up a fight. And this kill needs to be quick and quiet. A secret. Because the moment Anna finds out about it, she’ll go into battle mode.

In the middle of the car, the killer pauses, listening. There’s nothing to indicate anyone is nearby. Hopefully it remains that way. Not willing to risk it, they approach the door of the next person to die.

Jack Lapsford.

The last conspirator left.

After he’s gone, only Kenneth Wentworth will remain. And while it would be nice to murder him, too, it’ll be up to the courts to decide his fate. That should make Anna happy. She deserves at least one victory.

The killer is now right outside Lapsford’s door, twisting the handle until it opens just a crack. They nudge it wider with a foot. A light creaking of agitated hinges. And when the killer looks inside, they see someone seated in the chair by the window.

Not Jack Lapsford.

Anna.

She smiles, like she’s been waiting for hours. Like she’s known all this time what they had planned.

“Hello, Agent Davis,” she says. “Feeling better, I see.”