Page 5

The dude leaves the television room, and I’m stuck with just the anchorwoman who couldn’t have gotten more wrong if she tried.

I grab the remote, rewinding to see if they showed more of the scene.

Boring.

Boring.

A shot of the outside of the house.

Further back, there’s some footage of the inside. The corpse is gone, sadly—

Hold up.

I know the drawer was out when I left. I’d really considered—for like, seven seconds—bashing my contestant’s head in with it before I dropped it on the floor. But now it’s back in the dresser.

The camera pans backwards over the bed. For two clicks, there’s a Polaroid on the pillow.

I pause to get a better look.

Polaroids are adorable, and really, really dated. But I didn’t leave a picture. I don’t think the cops would’ve, either.

So…

Someone else was there after I left.

It was probably the Strangler.

I glance around to make sure no one else is nearby before I crawl closer to the television. My nose presses against the staticky screen, and I squint until the pixels make sense.

There’s definitely writing.

Three words.

I hate you.

That’s aggressive.

I think I like it.

Maybe it was peer review night, and I totally missed the memo. They cleaned my kill. They left me a picture. They wrote me a note. Do I get a grade?

I sit back on my heels and let the footage play at regular speed. It’s too quick to get a good look, but it does seem more organized. They fixed the lamp. The chair’s not upside down, either.

The Strangler’s probably some dude in his fifties who says “presentation matters” and means it. He probably also irons his jeans.

No judgement.

Cleanliness can be hot.

But he left me a note.

“Are you okay, Ira?”

Beckett’s voice sends me skittering backwards, slamming into the leg of the couch. My heart’s going to catapult out of my fucking chest.

I didn’t even hear him come in!

Pushing myself up to my feet, I tuck my shaking hands under my arms.