Chapter Three
Cole
This place is so depressing. Not a Christmas decoration in sight. Not even a Christmas card on the small round dining table. How can someone live with such a lack of merriment?
Stammering a little, the woman asks, “Um, my what?”
“A Christmas tree?” I repeat myself. “Why don’t you have one? It’s a week before Christmas and you don’t even have a tree up yet. Not even one of those little three foot plastic things.”
The woman looks around the room as if searching for a tree to materialize out of thin air.
Her eyes are the kind that tip up at the outer corners.
They’re so captivating. And those lips? What I wouldn’t do to have them wrapped around my cock.
I think God dipped into my wildest fantasies and made my dream girl come to life.
I have no idea how old she is but this is the figure of a woman.
Drawing me out of my appreciative trance, the woman says, “I don’t have one.”
Gesturing with both hands around the small apartment I say, “Yeah, I can see that. Why not?”
“Because I hate Christmas.” She narrows her brows at me like I’m the crazy one.
“What? How can you hate Christmas? It’s the most magical time of the year. The lights. The snow. And the food! If you’ve never had a Christmas cookie from the bakery on third street, you’re missing out. It’s a transformative experience.”
“I just–hang on. Who are you and why are you in my apartment? How did you even get in here?”
I guess we’ll circle back to the whole hating Christmas thing later.
“Oh, the window.” As I point to the window I realize I’ve left it open so I hustle over to close it.
I don’t want to catch a cold. I give myself a brief moment to enjoy the scent of freshly fallen snow now that I’m not panicking as much before closing the rocket pane and flicking the lock back into place.
“These old things are really easy to unlock.”
The lady gapes at me. “But why are you here? Are you here to kill me?”
“What? No. I killed the guy three floors above you.”
Her jaw drops in shock forming her pouty pink lips into a perfect O. I’ll be fantasizing about that when I get home, for sure.
“Are you serious?”
I scoff. “Of course I’m serious. Why would someone joke about a thing like that?”
Stammering again, she concludes, “You–you killed Frank?”
“Yeah.” She doesn’t look devastated over it so I can assume they weren’t close. But I ask anyway, “Why? Were you guys a thing?”
To which she replies, “No. He’s not my type.”
“You aren’t his either.” I mutter under my breath. Or is it weren’t since he’s now deceased?
Hurting her chin forward, she inquires, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a little too old for his liking. Frank preferred his partners sixteen, innocent, and unwilling.”
Her mouth parts in shock again. She’s going to have to stop doing that before I lose my self control.
“You’re saying Frank was a…a pedophile?” She whispers the last word like just saying it will land her in jail.
She’s awfully cautious considering she’s not the one who committed murder a couple hours ago.
“As depraved as they come,” I confirm for her worried mind. “Although, I guess not anymore since he’s dead and I–oh shit. I forgot his heart upstairs.”
Those beautiful eyes shoot wide open at the mention of my negligence.
How could I be so careless? What’s the point in all this if I can’t get the heart home?
I guess the point is that I took another evil person off the street, but still.
My shelf will have a bare spot with no decoration.
Everyone knows the rule of thirds when it comes to art.
I need that heart or it just won’t look right.
“His heart?” The woman asks timidly, reality washing over her as all the dots start to connect. “Are you–are you the Serial Killer Santa?”