He watched the news coverage from his living room, a glass of Merlot in one hand, a slight smile playing at his lips. They'd found Emma faster than he'd expected. He'd been careful with the placement, tucking her into a grove of trees where the morning joggers wouldn't immediately spot her, but apparently someone's dog had been more curious than usual.
Dogs. Always complicating things.
Still, it didn't matter. The discovery was part of the experience, the moment when his private art became public spectacle. He imagined the jogger's face, the scream, the frantic 911 call. The police arriving, securing the scene, the medical examiner crouching beside Emma's peaceful form.
She'd been beautiful in life. Radiant, really. He'd watched her for weeks before making his approach, learning her patterns, her preferences, the way she laughed at her phone while waiting for the bus. Emma Chen, 26, marketing coordinator, lived alone in a studio apartment in Fremont, had a cat named Miso and a weakness for true crime podcasts.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Their conversation at the grocery store had been effortless. He'd needed her opinion on which brand of pasta sauce was better—such a mundane question, so disarming—and she'd lit up, happy to help, launching into a detailed comparison that revealed her generous nature. People like Emma couldn't help themselves. They saw someone struggling and their instinct was to assist, to connect, to trust.
It made them perfect.
By the time he'd "accidentally" run into her again at a bar two days later, she'd already decided he was safe. Familiar. A potential friend, maybe more. When he'd offered her a ride home because she'd had one too many drinks and her Uber was surging, she'd accepted with only a moment's hesitation.
"You're sure it's not too much trouble?" she'd asked, swaying slightly.
"Not at all," he'd said, flashing the smile that had always worked, the one that made him look boyish and trustworthy. "I'm parked right around the corner."
She'd never made it home.
Now, watching the news anchor's grave expression, he felt the familiar satisfaction settling over him like a warm blanket. They were calling him the Seattle Strangler, which was pedestrian but accurate enough. The FBI had been brought in. A task force had been formed. They were "pursuing all leads."
They had nothing.
His phone buzzed. A text from his sister: Did you see the news? Another one. This is so scary. Please be careful.
He typed back: I know. It's terrible. I'm being careful, promise. Love you.
And he did love her, in his way. Family was different. Family was sacred. The women he chose—they were something else entirely. They were art. They were purpose. They were the only thing that made him feel truly alive.
He finished his wine and stood, stretching. Tomorrow he had a meeting at the tech company where he worked as a UX designer, then lunch with his mother, then maybe he'd go to that new bookstore in Ballard. He'd heard they had excellent coffee and a beautiful barista with dark curly hair who wore vintage band t-shirts.
He wondered what her name was.