"Miss Amanda Brewer was found this morning in her Mornington home, her neck swollen, as if strangled, and a stab wound in her lower abdomen."
'That's easy,' David thinks dryly. 'A slight powder, some make-up to dress down the stab wound. Syringe the neck; get rid of any remaining liquid, then foundation to dull the color and bruising. Dress her up in her Sunday best, into the coffin she goes. Twenty-thousand dollar minimum plus a mere 'thou down payment. Wham-bam thank-you ma'am.'
He stops, and turns off the television, not daring to repeat his prior thoughts. Had he really become that… deadened? Had he gotten to the point where every dead body was simply an opportunity, something to simply rape for cash?
He muses. It's not sudden, that's for sure. A memory from long ago flashes back, making him –
'Hey, David!' his dad calls out jovially, his face the picture of delight. He leans over the corpse, looking his seven-year-old son in the eye. 'You wanna see something cool?'
– sick to his stomach. It had been a perverted, grotesque experience… yet somehow enjoyable. The memory becomes much more vivid, more intricate, and he can feel the bile rising up his throat.
David cries, for Amanda Brewer is dead.