Lauren had been in his apartment many times. It always started with lunch or dinner and a drink or two at either Luigi's or Le Petite Bistro--both within walking distance. She'd dress as he liked, in a short dress or skirt, sometimes without panties. After the meal, they'd stroll along the crowded street, his hand on her back, sometimes her ass. Today, she was alone, sitting on the bed, staring out the window as fluffy snow flakes floated past, her eyes watery. She hated being alone on Christmas day.
She focused on the picture hanging over the bed. He'd told her it came with the apartment. She thought it looked a little like him, receding hairline, empty eyes. Missing was the mole on his right cheek and the blood.
The place wasn't much--one room, two chairs, a table, and a twin bed. He'd told his wife it was for those nights when he had to work late.
He promised Lauren he'd leave his wife--four times. Lauren had learned from more than one man that the three strikes rule only applied to baseball and major crimes. Hearing him say he would be out of town at his wife's parents' house for Christmas and wanted to get together before the family left was too much for Lauren.
She closed her eyes and pictured him tied to the motel bed, a change of scenery she had said. Keeping her eyes closed, she watched him squirm against the scarves holding his wrists and ankles in place, heard his whimpers through the gag. She grunted as the shimmering blade pierced his naked body.
Opening her eyes, she stood to leave and blew a farewell kiss toward the picture. Robert, her assistant, had called. The motel manager had reported a dead body in room 126. The police found her business card in his wallet. They would be at the office in thirty minutes to begin their interrogation. The only question remaining for Lauren was whether she'd confess right away, or make the police work for it.
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