Ellen Woods burst into the upstairs bathroom, pausing momentarily to check her reflection in the mirror, examining the fresh blood streaked across her face and neck and splattered all over her white blouse. It would wash off her skin easily enough, but the shirt was as good as gone.
A stream of translucent pink-tinted water ran down the drain as she cleaned her face and dried it off with a monogrammed white towel from the rack. The initials "J. B." were embroidered on it in fine black thread.
Her victim's name was Jonathan Bailey.
No, not victim, she thought. Calling him a victim would imply that he did nothing wrong.
She checked her reflection once more before heading back. She'd missed a spot, a small red streak just below her left eye, but she couldn't bring herself to wash it away. It looked like war paint from one side, or like the charcoal marks football players streaked across their cheeks to keep the glare out of their vision. She found herself captivated by the way the blood illuminated the color of her eyes. Blue, like the sea. She had her mother's eyes.
Oh, screw it. Mom's gonna make me shower after this anyway.
She wiped the blood away with the towel and threw it in the laundry hamper before making her way across the hall to the master bedroom. There was still screaming coming from inside, a sign that the job was not quite finished.
She found her mother standing over the body and polishing the knife that Ellen had left protruding from the man's abdomen. She glanced up from the weapon to shoot a disapproving glance at her sixteen-year-old daughter.
"Now look, Ellie, you've ruined a perfectly good top," said Dianna Woods. "It was expensive, too. And he's not even dead yet."
She pointed the knife at the man bound to the polished cedar bedposts with four of his own silk ties, screaming as best he could for help that wouldn't come.
"Sorry, Mom." Ellen gave an apologetic smile and shrugged.
Dianna sighed. "Well, nothing can be done about it now, I suppose. Don't worry, sweetheart, the first time's always a bit messy." She offered the knife to her daughter and added, "Now, do you want to finish him off, or shall I?"
"I've got it," Ellen said. She curled her fingers around the handle of the knife, took a deep breath, and made a long, clean cut right across the man's throat, silencing him at long last. Watching the river of blood spill onto the mattress, she smiled proudly and let the blade slip from her grasp and fall with a soft thump onto the white carpet beneath her. "Not bad for a kid, right Mom?"
Dianna beamed with approval. "Perfect."
The door creaked open ever so slightly, sending a wave of panic through the two of them, until instead of the police or a concerned neighbor they were greeted by a mewing white cat.
"Aw, look, Mom, he's got a kitty," Ellen said, crouching down and letting it sniff her outstretched hand. It took a cautious step towards her and let her scratch its head, unaware that it was being pet by the hand that had killed its master. "Can we keep him?"
Dianna pursed her lips, a sign that she was about to give in. "If he has any accidents, I'm not cleaning it up."
The cat purred as Ellen scooped it up in her arms. "Deal."
"Good," Dianna replied. "Then take the cat and get in the car. We're not going anywhere until we do something about that shirt."