Chapter Two

THE BOX CUTTER'S blade was new and sharp, so he used it with care as he cut around the part of the photo's image containing the girl.

She was pretty.

She was always pretty.

He enjoyed her curves. It was one reason he took such care in cutting the images out of the photographs and newspapers, because his knife could slowly-so slowly-caress the curves.

He was careful even with her face, though the curves of nose and chin and jaw barely caused a ripple inside him.

But her throat. The very slight, gentle curves of her breasts, just that faint hint of womanliness. The delicate flare of hips. Those his knife lingered on.

Sometimes he scanned the pictures into his computer and manipulated the images to suit a variety of fantasies. He could replace clothed flesh with naked, change all the different hairstyles to the short, dark, nearly boyish look she almost always wore. He could pose her any way he liked, do wild things with color and texture. He had even found autopsy photos and superimposed her head onto those bodies that were laid out, their exposed organs gleaming in the cold, clinical light.

But that sort of thing, he had discovered, gave him little satisfaction. It was too… remote.

Maybe that was it. Or maybe it was something else.

All he knew was that the computer, while useful as a research tool, had proved worse than useless in satisfying his urges.

But the photos…

He finished the last cut on this particular photo and carefully lifted her out. A candid shot, it showed her coming out of a pharmacy, juggling bags, her face preoccupied.

Though it was October, the day was warm enough that she was wearing short sleeves and a light summer skirt, with sandals.

He thought her toenails were painted. Deep red, or perhaps bright pink. He was almost sure of it, though the picture didn't confirm that pleasant suspicion.

He held the cutout in his cupped hands for a moment, just enjoying it. His thumb rubbed the glossy paper gently, tracing the flare of her skirt, the bare thighs below.

He studied every detail, memorizing.

He closed his eyes.

And in his mind he touched her.

Soft skin. Warm. Almost humming with life.

The blade cold in his other hand.

His lips parted, breath coming faster.

Soft skin. Warm. A jerk now. The hum becoming a primal sound of terror and pain that sent fire licking through his body.

Soft skin. Wet. Slick.

Red.

He smeared the red over her jerking breast. Watched it glisten in the light as she moved. Listened to the un… un… un… grunts that were primitive sounds of agony. They thrummed in his ears like wings, like a heartbeat, like his own quickening pulse.

The fire in his body burned hotter and hotter, his breath came faster, the blade in his hand penetrating in forceful thrusts, again and again and again-

He barely heard his own hoarse cry of release above the wordless, keening sounds she made dying.

Soft skin.

Wet.

Slick.

Red.