It had been a while since Blythe's in-person sessions with had ended. They kept in contact through letters, email and the occasional phone call, but mostly Blythe was now on her own. She would continue to reflect back on their conversations with fondness. He was the only adult that seemed to truly understand her, and talk to her as an equal.

It had also been several months since she had indulged in her "hobby". had taught Blythe all she knew about how to do it safely and without risk of being caught. Unfortunately, all good things had to come to an end and Blythe was forced to leave the good Doctor behind.

However, Blythe would always be grateful to him and the 8 "friends" she had a most fulfilling experience with.

Her moving away from the dear doctor had nothing to do with her peculiar desires or any "bad influence" her father thought Lector had on her. Instead, it was simply a result of her father's occupation as a pilot, and perhaps as a slightly delayed reaction to her mother's death. Blythe would fervently deny her mothers death having any undue effect on her "urges" except for, of course, making pretty young girls that had a resemblance to dear deceased mommy a bit of a fetish object. In truth, Blythe had wanted to hurt people for a long time. The onset of puberty had merely expanded her desire to killing and intertwining it with her sexuality. It all had been inevitable. None of it was her fault, that's what

Dr. Lector had told her and she knew it was true. So many of her peers trusted in foolish emotions instead of logic. The universe was a chaotic place, people tried to give it order with archaic morality but with all the knowledge mankind had accumulated it should be clear.

Morality is a lie. A construct made to create a sense of social order. Sociopaths like her were everywhere, and their needs and desires were no more or less real than the little regular people that filled their lives with sex and pop culture and food. Sex was violence, pop culture was sex, and food tasted like ashes unless one worked for it. That was Blythe's truth.

Working at that pet shop, her fashion designs...they gave her a sense of pleasure sure. But they weren't what she lived for. What she lived for was her art. And the moment she stabs that pretty nameless 20 something-year-old girl she had been stalking the past couple of weeks, with a box cutter right in the carotid artery...that's what made her hot and gave her meaning and satisfaction. Blythe didn't judge anyone else for what they did to get their kicks, so why should they judge her?

Blythe disposed of the body carefully. Neither her friends, Father or anybody knew the difference, except that she seemed in a better mood. When she told Lector through code, he was so proud of her. The genius psychologist was more her father then her father had ever been. Blythe had her father's genes but she had Lector's spirit and was inheriting Lector's mind. Finally, after years of confusion, Blythe was proud of herself too.

That night a mother went to bed minus one child, and she wouldn't know it for weeks.