Murderess, murderess, he whispers to himself. It has an allure, a scent almost. Hothouse gardenias. Lurid, but also furtive. He imagines himself breathing it as he draws Grace towards him, pressing his mouth against her. Murderess. He applies it to her throat like a brand.

“Little girls are cute and small only to adults. To one another they are not cut…”

“Even sex was no longer what it had once been, though he was still as addicted t…”

“Better not to invent her in her absence. Better to wait until she's actually he…”

“In their dreams they touch, they intertwine, it's more like a collision, and th…”