Whoops and giggles, the scent of Belgian waffles in the air, the screech of balloons being bullied into bubble- eared poodles. The sidewalks teemed with mothers pushing overstuffed strollers and fathers talking into Bluetooth earpieces, while preschool children orbited their parents like forgotten moons—lagging behind, straying from the paths, lured from arm’s reach by the colorful remnants of popped poodles on the ground or the call of a snow cone vendor. Bait, if you were a child molester or kidnapper. Easy pickings.

The killer was neither. Children were of no interest; they committed no crimes. Their mothers did. Heinous, unspeakable crimes they thought would go unpunished.

Wrong.

One such woman was about to learn that. Young, with dark flowing hair and porcelain cheeks, she lurked behind a magician’s kiosk, aiming her cheap little camera at the Kinney family—Robert and Alana, and their two-year-old son, Austin. For the past hour, the killer had watched the woman secretly trail the Kinneys through the carnival, snapping photo after photo of the child. Yes, two years after the fact, the woman’s conscience had apparently kicked in.

Too little, bitch. Too late.

Oblivious, the woman hunched deeper into her denim jacket and followed the Kinneys into the parking lot, keeping to the outer row of cars then edging into the woods to sneak more photos of little Austin. Fool. She was making things easy, tucked out of sight with her righteous ambition and her camera. The killer cut between cars and closed in, face lowered until the cover of trees, though there was little chance of being recognized: boots, cap, beard. Loose nylon jacket with big square pockets. Trusty shears inside. They nearly vibrated with the need to complete their mission.

Easy, now. Watch, wait for the right moment. The Kinneys headed for the far corner of the parking lot, Austin’s legs straddling his father’s neck, his little face stuck in a blue cloud of cotton candy. Robert Kinney pushed a button in his hand and a black Mercedes bleeped to life, and the woman who was about to die skirted behind a row of huge rhododendrons, lifting her camera. The killer straightened, adrenaline surging. She was only fifteen feet away. Distracted, out of sight, unsuspecting.

Now.

The killer came in fast, from behind, shears aiming for that slender throat like a missile. The woman must have heard; she whirled and opened her mouth to scream, but the blades sank into her larynx and the sound came out, Unkh. Her knees buckled and she dropped, the shears plunging in and out, in and out, time dragging each thrust into the slow motion of a dream. The cheek, don’t leave the cheek. The shears pulled out and smashed higher against her face, the smooth flesh turning to pulp, blood spraying onto the killer’s lips, tasting like copper.

Fifteen seconds, maybe twenty—Stop now, before she’s gone. It’s important that she live long enough to understand what’s happening. Quit, stand up. Breathe.

The killer straightened, lungs heaving, and wiped spittle onto the jacket sleeve. The woman lay on the ground, pupils wide, her knees pulling in like an accordion losing air. A gurgle bubbled from her throat and her heart kept at it for another few seconds, then that beautiful moment of dawning came to her eyes.

She knew. In that final, glorious second, the women always understood. Take it, her dying eyes said.

Yes, now, take it. For Kristina. To bring her back.

The killer knelt, gathered a handful of blood-slick hair, and sawed at it with the shears until the hank came free.

A car horn blasted, picking up time again. Shit, get going—there’s still so much to do. Call Fulton; tonight, he would earn his pay. Even back here in the woods, if left, the woman’s body would eventually be found. There was no time for that sort of complication. Less than a week until the meeting with Kristina.

So, pocket the shears and the hair. And take the camera— for god’s sake, don’t leave the camera. Shot after shot of Austin Kinney.

The killer looked down, satisfaction glowing from within, pulled out an embossed card and opened it. The clock was ticking, but this was important: Keep the records straight. On the right side of the card, a scrawled promise: Next Sunday, Kristina, 7:00 p.m. On the left, in the killer’s flowery hand, a list of six names. Smears of brownish-red marked through the first three.

The killer bent, touched a finger to dead woman’s cheek, then placed the glistening red ink on the fourth name and dragged a bloody line across it. Woman Number Four, done.

Only two more to go.

Now, to tie up the loose ends the dead woman had unraveled. The killer gave a final glance to the body and walked away, keeping to the woods and digging out a pre- paid cell phone. Fulton answered on the first ring. "Are you with Russell Sanders?"

Fulton yawned. "He’s been in his apartment all evening."

"What’s he doing?"

"How the hell should I know? He’s alone, spent some time in the kitchen."

Okay. So at least Sanders wasn’t out talking to the police. Maybe the dead woman hadn’t told him yet that she’d found Austin Kinney. Still, she had consulted with Sanders, that much was certain. Probably planned to run right over to him with the camera full of pictures tonight. Reason enough to make sure he didn’t go digging around trying uncover secrets, or worse, calling his buddy Mitch Sheridan.

"You want me to take him?" Fulton. He was getting antsy. "He’s pacing. Looks like he might be on the phone."

Calling police? The dead woman? Mitch? Sanders had to be stopped.

"Yes. Take him now."