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Maybe to pee, maybe to puke, but either way it looked like divide and conquer time to him.
He gave it a count of ten before he followed her back.
Plenty of people crowded on the dance floor, plenty of others massed at the bar or at the tables. The music pounded against the walls.
In his mind, he practiced the slurredOops, wrong doorif he found anyone else in the bathroom.
The music masked his entrance. No one stood at the single, wall-hung sink. Only one pair of feet showed under the stingy two stalls.
Opportunity knocked again, and louder.
He didn’t see any point in ignoring it.
He locked the door behind him.
Risky, definitely risky, but he needed that buzz, that bang.
The instant he heard the slide of the stall lock, he moved.
Her eyes popped when he pushed in the door. Big, almost beautiful brown eyes that glazed over when he smashed his fist into her face.
She barely made a sound as she slid down, and he went down with her, closed his hands over her throat.
“Look at me, Fat Ass. I want to watch the lights go out.”
Too drunk, too dazed from the blow to put up much of a fight, shejust batted her hands at him, gurgled while a Cajun accordion went into a long, hot riff that pulsed against the bathroom walls.
He watched her die, waited for that buzz. And when he felt no more than a faint tingle of satisfaction, he punched her again.
“Bitch.” He slammed her head against the side of the stall as he pulled off the small, cross-body bag she wore.
He tucked it into the back of his waistband and left her on the floor of the stall. When he went out again, the music still pumped, people continued to dance, and the brunette cackled at something the college-boy types said.
He wanted to kill her, too, just for being there, for having the right body but the wrong hair color.
After tossing the sunglasses, he walked another block, pulled off the cap, let it land on the sidewalk where he assumed someone would grab it up.
As he walked, he imagined the screams, the chaos when the next woman stepped into that hole-in-the-wall’s bathroom. That, at least, gave him a little satisfaction. And wouldn’t the brunette feel guilty? Flirting with drunks at the bar while her friend got herself murdered.
More satisfaction.
He decided the effort hadn’t been wasted. Trying new things never hurt. He’d killed someone in a public place, so points for him.
Obviously, he needed to pick another target. He had other choices, and selecting Boring Robin from them just hadn’t done the job.
Morgan would, no question of that.
But not yet, he thought as he walked back into his hotel.
Because when her turn came around again, he had to make it very, very special.
In the blooming time of May, Morgan’s budget spreadsheet looked more promising. Maybe, she thought, life in general looked more promising. A good job with good tips provided her with more free time than she’d enjoyed in the previous decade.
She put it to good use.
When she heard her ladies talk about updating the powder room,she took a look at it herself. Some measurements, a trip to the hardware store, and a few hours’ work would handle it.
She had nearly all the finishing touches in place when they got home.
