(PovJade)

She watched as she let out a sigh before wrinkling her nose, like she always does when she doesn't like what she's reading. Of course, the difference between other mornings and today is that today she is reading about me.

She takes the last sip of her coffee and puts the newspaper down carefully. From where I'm standing, I can barely see the large letters strewn across the cover: "Serial Killer Strikes Again."

I let out a frustrated groan at the lack of creativity in the title. If you're going to write about me, you better put some effort into it.

Having lost sight of her, I look through my binoculars into her kitchen, find her putting the dirty dishes in her dishwasher. Having turned it on she walks out of the room into the hallway.

Even though I've seen her do this many times I still get irritated when she walks out of my sight, anxious for her to come back with her shoes in her hand like she does every morning before she leaves for work. When she comes back, I sigh from the sense of satisfaction that it gives me just to see her living her little life always smiling.

My mind wanders to the way that smile is going to be wiped from her beautiful face by the grotesque scene she's going to encounter today, a scene that will no doubt haunt her even in her sleep, and it almost makes me feel guilty…almost.


(Pov Tori)

Horror is the only word that can be used to describe the scene in front of me.

Absolute and utter horror.

I don't want to be misunderstood, it's not like I've never seen a fucking crime scene before. Just never anything like this, never one made especially for me.

A shiver runs down my spine as I look in the mirror in front of me at the letter in my hand. They both carried a message. The letter was on my desk at work, none of my colleagues know how it got there.

"Dear Princess, I have learned much about you this past year. One of those things is that you like puzzles, so I'll give you one.

Do you think you can put all the pieces back together?"

Good luck, you're going to need it.

West

The letter came in a thick, blood-spattered envelope, along with a lock of dark hair dyed purple and the return address, instead of a stamp there was a mark of black lipstick.

I immediately wanted to go to the address but my boss made me wait until we had the DNA test results from the lock of hair. During the wait we learned that the address belonged to a retired police officer and his family. We also found some very useful fingerprints on the letter and the envelope, but there was no match in the database. Which meant that whoever was sending this letter hadn't contacted the police yet.

When we finally got the results of the DNA test, it turned out to be the hair of a prostitute who was found with her throat slashed open in an alley next to a crack den. This poor girl was the eighth victim that had been hunted by a serial killer who had haunted L.A in the last few months. Due to the cruelty and sadism of her crimes, the press dubbed this beast as: "The Butcher of L.A.".

From the way of acting and the lacerations of the victims we could discover that the weapon of the crimes was a very sharp pair of scissors, something a little unusual for a serial killer, normally psychopaths prefer something sharper like a knife or a razor to cut the throats of his victims, but our artist preferred to kill his victims with scissors.

So the fingerprint we found could be the first clue to revealing who this maniac was. And he was given voluntarily, basically presented to us on a silver platter. This was a sign, a message from our killer.

And that is the same message that I am seeing right now, in the middle of the living room of the house whose address was written on the envelope, a room that has been turned into a crime scene of such proportions that it seems to belong to a Horror movie devised by Stephen King, in the middle of the wall there is a macabre message written in blood:

"Good luck putting them together Princess"

There it was again, different words, same message:

"I have the control"