2. Killer

The dog in apartment 5C is barking again. The noise is followed by Ms. Anders yelling at him, just like clockwork. There is a funny odor from apartment 4C. I have yet to determine if it is a rotting body, rotting garbage, or drugs cooking. Knowing this place, it could easily be all three. Mr. Brower's door is open and he is sitting in his living room in apartment 7C. I can see his skinny legs resting on the fold out recliner and his television is playing the news. I don't say anything to him as I unlock my apartment – 8C – and close the door behind me.

My own place doesn't smell great. I can't tell if it is rotting garbage or a dead mouse in the cabinets. Probably both. My nose needs a few minutes to go blind to the smell. I drop my bag by the door, telling myself I will deal with it later. I turn back to the door and slide the chain into place before snapping shut the two deadbolts beneath it. I pick up a small white cube and snap it against the magnet on the edge of the door before pressing in a code on the janky keypad duct taped to the wall. It isn't the most high tech alarm, but it works. If the door opens before the alarm is unarmed, it will make a god-awful screeching. A warning is all I need.

I walk toward the dingy bathroom and turn on the shower, knowing it will take the pipes a few minutes to start producing hot water. Even then, I will have about two minutes before it turns cold again. This entire place is a piece of shit. Not that I care. I am not here for the long run. I grab a heavy duty garbage bag from the kitchen and carry it to the bathroom. As I strip, I stuff the bloodied clothes into the trash bag to be tossed into the garbage shoot later tonight.

I rinse off the sticky redness coating my skin, watching as the water turns pink and swirls around the rusted drain. The last traces of Diego Foster wash away from my body. Once the mess has begun to drip from my skin, I take a brush to clean beneath my fingernails. I wear gloves when I am working, but I can't keep the blood from seeping through the fabric and leaving crescents of red beneath my nails. The water turns cold as I make sure my body is scrubbed clean of sins. Too bad water doesn't work the same way on souls.

Stepping out of the shower, I let my wet body drip onto the bath mat as I pick up a bottle of bleach and spray it over the aged tiles. Nothing can be left behind. Not that I really care about being caught. I am sure if the public really knew what happened and why I chose to mutilate my victims in such a way, I would be considered a hero of sorts. And the idea of prison doesn't scare me that bad. There are worse places I could be in the world. I mean, the worse they could do is lock me alone in a cell. It is hard to lose a mind that you already lost months ago.

I stuff my clothes into the garbage bag and drop it near my other bag close to the door. I can't carry it all out until people go to bed. I walk naked from the bathroom to my small bedroom and pull out sweats and a hoodie. I toss them on haphazardly and run a hand through my wet hair as I pad back into the living room and sit at my desk.

Clicking on the computer, I login to my personal VPN and click a few buttons to get to the chat rooms. Diego was easy to find. I am thinking his other mates might need a bit more convincing. Two of them are already in my sights. Diego must have told them about the chat rooms. One of them is just about to take the bait.

The internet is a marvelous thing. You can be whatever you want to be with a few fake photos and misspelled words. Like a twenty year old stripper working nights to try and buy herself a car. And Diego's mate Holden is very much into strippers. Too bad tonight he is about to find out that Kitty lied about some things.

I ping Holden and wait to see if he comes online. The chat should ping his phone directly to let him know I am available.

HoldenThisDick:

Late night, Little Kitty?

KittyKatsKat:

It was. Not a good day.

HoldenThisDick:

Awe 3. What is wrong?

I flex my fingers over the keyboard. Oh, if only he knew. I debate how to present this scenario. I don't know what Diego might have told him about SquiggleSquirts – the eighteen year old girl that was supposed to meet with him earlier tonight. I don't even know how often Holden and Diego talked on a regular basis. Then again, Holden probably doesn't yet know that Diego is hanging in a tree in the woods off Route 16.

KittyKatsKat:

Can I tell you something and you not get mad?

HoldenThisDick:

Yea, baby.

KittyKatsKat:

…

I wait a few minutes, feigning my nervousness and leaving him a bit on edge. I walk into the kitchen and grab a bottle of water and a few mini bottles of vodka.

HoldenThisDick:

What is it baby? Do you have a boyfriend?

KittyKatsKat:

No, nothing like that. :-P

I chug down one of the mini bottles and toss it toward the garbage can. It hits the lid and bounces off, rolling across the floor to join a sea of others.

KittyKatsKat:

I may have fibbed on a few things.

I spend the next few minutes slowly typing out my explanation. I am sure Holden is on the other end just watching as my icon pops up and down as I stop and go. I want him to be nervous. I have been working for three weeks to reel him in and tonight is either going to move forward Plan A or I am going to have to resort to Plan B.

I explain that I am not a twenty-year old stripper. My real name is Kat, but I am sixteen and live with an angry dad and bitchy stepmother, and it is really hard being here and I just really want to leave and can't wait to be eighteen. I end with a line about wishing he were here and it would all be better. I cringe as I add the heart emojis. Pervs like him always fall easier when you show your belly. They like the idea of something small and innocent that they can manipulate.

I take a slow breath and wait. It barely takes a minute for his reply to come through.

HoldenThisDick:

That is okay, Baby. I can help with that.