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Constance scanned the alley for any signs of movement, her eyes settling on the large dumpster just a few yards away. It belonged to the butcher shop next door, its dark green paint peeling and chipped, its lid often left carelessly open. She had seen them discard their waste there countless times—heaps of discarded meat and bones, wrapped in thick plastic bags. Constance knew their mess would help mask her own, so long as she could get it into the bin without being seen.
"Alright, here goes," she whispered, clutching the trash bag tighter as she stepped outside. The cold pavement bit at her feet, sending a shiver up her spine, yet she couldn't afford to hesitate now. With every passing moment, the risk of discovery grew.
Just as Constance stepped out into the narrow alley, however, she was startled by a voice that seemed to come from nowhere.
"Constance! Out with the trash again, I see?" The voice belonged to Mrs. Jenkins, her nosy yet well-meaning middle-aged neighbor who lived two doors down. With graying hair pulled back into a tight bun and a penchant for gardening gloves, even when not tending to her plants, Mrs. Jenkins had an uncanny ability to materialize at the most inopportune moments.
"Mrs. Jenkins," Constance stammered, struggling to maintain her composure. Her grip on the trash bag tightened as she glanced around, ensuring no one else was within earshot. "Yes, just taking out some...trash."
"Seems like you've been coming and going at odd hours lately," Mrs. Jenkins observed, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Everything all right, dear?"
"Of course!" Constance replied, forcing a smile. She searched her mind for an explanation, anything that would satisfy her neighbor's curiosity without arousing suspicion. "I've just been working on a...a freelance project. It's got me on a strange schedule, that's all."
As Constance spoke, she felt the familiar tightening in her chest—the battle between maintaining her facade and the mounting fear of exposure. She couldn't afford any mistakes now, not with the bloody evidence tucked away in the bag she carried. Every word and gesture needed to be calculated, flawless.
"Freelance project, huh?" Mrs. Jenkins asked, her gaze still lingering on Constance. "Well, I suppose we all have our secrets. Just make sure you're taking care of yourself, dear."
"Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins. I will." Constance tried her best to sound appreciative, but she could feel her nerves fraying at the edges. She nodded, hoping the conversation was indeed over, and started forward again.
She'd only gone a few paces, however, when Mrs. Jenkins spoke once more.
"Constance, dear," she said, a hint of disapproval in her voice, "you are aware that your trash receptacle is in front of your house, aren't you? That dumpster is not for public use. You could get fined for using it, you know."
Constance glanced at the heavy black bag in her hand and then back to Mrs. Jenkins. "Oh, well, my own trash bin is already full, and there's plenty of room in the dumpster," she said, attempting to sound nonchalant. "I didn't think it would be a problem."
"Still, it is meant for the butcher shop," Mrs. Jenkins persisted, a slight frown settling on her face. "We should respect their property."
"Of course, you're right," Constance agreed, forcing a tight smile as she adjusted her grip on the bag. She could feel her heart pounding harder, the weight of suspicion pressing down on her like a stone. "I'll be more mindful in the future."
A bead of sweat slid down Constance's temple. She was all too aware that every moment spent talking to Mrs. Jenkins was another chance for her secrets to be discovered. Her eyes flickered to the stained hands gripping the trash bag, praying that Mrs. Jenkins wouldn't notice. Why hadn't she scrubbed them more carefully?
"Is everything alright, dear?" Mrs. Jenkins asked, her brow furrowing as her gaze followed Constance's. "You seem to have something on your hands."
"Ah, yes, it's just paint," Constance stammered, looking at the stains as if seeing them for the first time. "I was working on an art project earlier. I must have forgotten to wash up properly." She hoped her explanation sounded convincing enough.
Mrs. Jenkins peered closer, her eyes narrowing as she examined the stains. "Paint? What kind of paint? I'm a bit of an artist myself."
A surge of panic gripped Constance, her mind racing to come up with an explanation. "It's, umm...acrylic," she said, using the first word that came to mind.
"Interesting," Mrs. Jenkins said slowly, her eyes still locked on Constance's hands. She seemed unconvinced, as if she knew Constance was lying, but hadn't decided whether or not to call her out on it.
Constance's heart raced as she considered her options. She couldn't let Mrs. Jenkins walk away with suspicions; she needed to do something. Her mind conjured up a dark plan: She could stab Mrs. Jenkins, just like she'd done to the others. Then, perhaps, she could roll the body into a rug and toss it into the dumpster. It was a simple plan—simple and bold.
Could I get away with it? she wondered, her eyes darting around the alley for any witnesses. Would anyone even notice if she went missing?
Constance knew she had to act fast, but part of her screamed against the idea of more violence, which would only complicate things. She clenched her fists tightly at her sides, fighting to maintain control over the situation and her own emotions.
"Is everything all right, dear?" Mrs. Jenkins asked, genuine concern lacing her voice.
"Y-yes, I'm fine," Constance stammered, forcing a weak smile even as her hand began to feel along the outside of the bag, pressing against it in search of the knife. She could tear a hole in it and drop the bag, let the contents spill across the ground. Then, as Mrs. Jenkins joined her to help clean up, she would locate the knife and–
Just then, the shrill ring of a cell phone cut through the tense air. Mrs. Jenkins' face shifted from suspicion to surprise as she fumbled in her purse for the source of the noise. Extracting her phone, she glanced at the screen and her eyebrows shot up.
"Excuse me, Constance, it's my daughter," she said hurriedly, concern now painted across her face. "I need to take this."
"Of course," Constance replied, trying to suppress the relief that washed over her. She watched as Mrs. Jenkins retreated back into her home, her attention consumed by the conversation with her daughter.
As soon as Mrs. Jenkins shut her door behind her, Constance scuttled toward the dumpster, her eyes darting back and forth to ensure no one else was around to witness her actions.
