The Ballad of Tiffany Valentine

by smngry

Taking place between 1988 and 1999, this story covers various periods of Tiffany's ten year separation from Chucky. Old characters return as our murderous maiden finds out the astonishing truth about the man she loves. What follows is a decade long, blood soaked tale of love, murder revenge and revelations.

26. Chapter 4-5

Chapter 4.5

November 18th 1996

The contrast in days was nothing short of spectacular. Rain and wind disappearing overnight as morning broke and the sun timidly poked its way from behind a row of dark, looming clouds. Bathing the November morning in a sea of light, almost enough to add a feeling of warmth as the air hung still and silent. The spectrum of colours were vast and unique as leaves settled on the damp grass surrounding the Plymouth. Varying shades of greens, browns and yellows were truly a sight to behold, a seemingly endless kaleidoscope as Tiffany sat behind the wheel of her vehicle and pulled the almost empty packet from the dashboard, lifting the lid and finding her one remaining cigarette sat waiting. Sucking on the filter and extinguishing her lighter, Tiffany's lungs filled with smoke as she leaned forward and exhaled through the open window, watching entranced as the smoke began to dance and twirl through the calm morning air. She hadn't dared return to Gorman's Bar just yet. The thought of running into the police, or even worse Selena Thomas, was too much to comprehend as she spent the night in the Plymouth. Curled into a ball on the rear seat as she listened to the radio. The gentle lullaby of various sixties songs helping to calm the atmosphere after the events that had transpired earlier. Now, as she sat parked up on the outskirts of the city, the fields around her covering the horizon as Chicago loomed ominously in the background, Tiffany knew that it was inevitable. She had to return to the bar. Where else would she stay? One night in the car had been all well and good, but another night would be tantamount to vagrancy. No, she had to go back, even if just to freshen up. After all, of the seven Sarah Pirces listed, four of them could now be found on a slab in the morgue. Only three remained, and Tiffany figured that once she had finished her little quest, seen her vendetta through to completion, there was very little reason to hang round. How long would it take to dispatch the remaining three Sarahs? She had no idea. How did she intend to perform each individual feat? Once again it was a mystery. In the lap of the gods, yet strangely enthralling. The only thing she did know was that last night she had been careless. Maybe she'd become cocky. Overconfident. But last night her plan had almost disappeared down the drain. Fair enough she had to act fast and deal with the police presence, but deep down she had been expecting this situation from day one. Always more a case of 'when' rather than 'if'. Had Sarah Pirce managed to make it to her car last night then who knows what would have happened. It was a thought that brought every hair on Tiffany's neck to a standstill. The feeling of relief, of fear, each nerve still on edge as she tried to put the thought out of her mind, useless as she couldn't help but relive the longest ten minutes of her life. Over and over, vowing to be more careful in future. Get in, get it done and get out as quickly as possible, leaving nothing to chance, Tiffany lifting her cigarette to her lips and taking one final drag as she let her hand wander across the front seat of the Plymouth and to her handbag. Placing a hand inside and retrieving her gun, the small, cold, metal weapon weighing heavy, Tiffany narrowed her eyes and felt the hit of nicotine as she flicked the spent cigarette through the open window, the final plume of smoke quickly following as Tiffany's lungs released the acrid mixture and she examined the gun in detail. She'd been clumsy. No doubt about it. But with three women left, she couldn't take any more unnecessary risks. Maybe, just maybe, if she knew for certain she had the correct woman. 'The' Sarah Pirce. Then just maybe she would take her time. Drag it out a little and make her answer the seemingly endless list of questions. But right now, it was guesswork. Nothing more, nothing less. Hell, for all Tiffany knew Sarah Pirce was unlisted and a group of completely innocent women had been dealt a rather unfortunate hand. But it gave her purpose. And after the events of Mount Carroll, the seemingly innocent Mrs Appleby, it was what she needed. She'd tried going straight, being a good girl, moving on. But it was impossible. All Mrs Appleby had proven was how much Tiffany needed Chucky. How much Chucky needed her. Right now she had found herself in limbo, halfway between heaven and hell, knowing what to do but unable to experience a feeling of fulfilment, probably never able to until she had found a way to resurrect her partner in crime. When would that be? Who knew? Who cared? It would happen though, and as Tiffany sat and pondered her next move she felt a wave of happiness tickle her stomach. She would succeed. But for now, it was merely business as usual. And with that thought ringing in her head, she twisted the key in the ignition and felt the engine of the Plymouth growl into life. The tiger beneath the hood roaring away as Tiffany gave the engine some gas and engaged the clutch, the wheels slowly starting to roll across the grass and towards the open road as Tiffany hung a left and opened up the engine.

Signaling and sweeping right, the Plymouth turned down the street and away from the heaving throng of traffic. Either side of the car, the buildings stood tall and intimidating, the stone fronted properties housing all manner of businesses. Hair salons, convenience stores, electrical goods, a small library, the row of shop fronts stretched on, seemingly infinite as cars lined both sides of the street and people went quietly about their day. The radio crackled as Tiffany cruised the tarmac at a crawl, alert as possible as she desperately sought a parking bay. The host of the radio show had caught Tiffany's attention some moments ago, causing her to twist the dial and increase the volume a little, the topic of conversation shifting from a possible corruption within City Hall and onto a case that had begun to prey on the minds of many a Chicago citizen. The Phone Book Killer. The thought of a nickname had amused Tiffany. Even more so as time went on. The name popping up here and there, more and more as time passed, slowly burning itself into the subconscious of millions of people as Tiffany sat back and enjoyed the unexpected by-product of her carefully formulated plan. The very same thing had only infuriated Chucky all those years ago. The 'Lakeshore Strangler' moniker finally bestowed upon him by the media following the discovery of yet another body, that of Vivian Van Pelt, in the Lakeshore area. It had been the seventh body to be discovered, so it seemed only inevitable that the media lavish an alias upon the person responsible. But as Chucky pointed out soon after, it was only the third to be found in Lakeshore. Looking back with a tingle of happiness, Tiffany remembered how furious he had been. How passionate. Unable to see the funny side, a nickname only cheapening the grasp of terror he had slowly found himself inflicting upon the city. Now, as Tiffany listened to the radio, she found herself in a position she could never have imagined, smirking as the radio host continued and read from the various messages sent in by post. Words such as 'sick and twisted' graced the airwaves, along with 'mentally unstable', 'psychotic' and 'terrifying.' Some people had mailed in regarding the ongoing police investigation, comments such as 'stupid' and 'incompetent' just a couple of the many derogatory insults aimed at Chicago's finest as Tiffany giggled to herself in amusement. As the show continued, the rumours had begun to circulate regarding the events of the previous evening. Another fatality, allegedly another Sarah Pirce, only this time not destined to suffer alone, two Chicago Police officers also taken down in the maelstrom. 'Were these rumours true?' was a questioned posed by the host of Chicago Public Broadcast's late morning show. Tiffany nodded silently, as though answering the voice crackling through the old speakers of the Plymouth. 'What happens after the final Sarah Pirce is targeted?' was another question. Would the reign of terror continue? Would another name, another group of people, be randomly selected? Or maybe the killings of Sarah Pirce hadn't been some unplanned, random act of rage. Perhaps there had been, in the killer's mind, some justification for their actions. Finally popping off the seven women listed in the book before retreating back into the shadows, fading to obscurity and remaining a mystery never to be solved, part of Chicago folklore. Whatever the reason, the police had a job on their hands. Could they be expected to capture the killer? Surely their chances were getting better, the number of Sarah Pirces in the phone book now numbering only three. Tiffany had to laugh at that one. True, they were probably wasting all available resources on protecting the remaining Sarah's, which in turn would make the rest of her job incredibly difficult, but not entirely impossible. After all, so far the police had fallen at each and every hurdle, a fit of laughter beginning to escape Tiffany's lips as the radio continued playing. Without breaking rhythm, the host of the radio show carried on his tirade, a breaking announcement making Tiffany's blood turn immediately to ice, his words spoken with such calmness. A witness had been found. And although helping the police with their enquiries, details of the witness's statement had emerged through cracks in the media. Tiffany slowed, almost to a stop, as her entire world became a blur, the voice on the radio seeming to linger in the air as they described a red car leaving the scene. A dark haired woman in her early thirties racing from the house as the lights of responding patrol cars flashed across the horizon. As of this moment the police were on the lookout for such a vehicle, and also had extra details which had so far remained confidential. Spying an alleyway up ahead Tiffany hit the gas and swung the car to the left, the tyres screeching as she mounted the lowered kerb and navigated down the narrow alley, the buildings either side of the car providing a gap of no more than a foot or so. Seeing the gap widen slightly ahead, Tiffany steered around a resting dumpster and brought the car to a stop, the metal garbage can hopefully providing enough cover as she killed the engine and felt her heart banging in her chest. The person from the window. It had to be the person standing in the window of the neighbouring property, watching on as Sarah Pirce finally lost her battle and lay slumped in the mud. But how had they seen the car? Had they raced to the front of their house and watched as Tiffany bolted across the playground? Had they been able to see the car that clearly? Shaking her head, Tiffany curled her hand into a fist and brought it crashing down on the steering wheel of the car, the horn blaring momentarily, the solid apparatus vibrating slightly as Tiffany felt a jolt of pain ripple down her wrist. Reaching to her handbag, flicking the hand gun to one side and grabbing the pack of cigarettes, she almost screamed as she flipped open the cardboard container and suddenly remembered it to be empty, the convenience store out on the street probably her best option as she opened the door of the car and stepped one leg at a time into the alley, a couple of rats splitting in opposite directions across the wet concrete as Tiffany slammed the door closed and threw the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. A quick glance up and down the alleyway confirmed the coast to be clear as Tiffany strolled on past the cars trunk and around the dumpster, reaching the entrance to the alleyway in less than a minute as a steady flow of pedestrians passed by uninterested. Stepping into the small crowd, merging effortlessly and beginning her approach, Tiffany could see the convenience store up ahead. The Western Union sign hanging precariously from its bracket high above the battered store front as a rack of newspapers fluttered in the breeze, the occasional passer by stopping to admire the front page, maybe take a look inside, before being quickly moved on by the surly shopkeeper, his insistence that the library was a few doors down bringing a brief smile to Tiffany's face as she stifled a laugh and headed inside, the shopkeeper returning her smile as she crossed the threshold and entered the small store. A tiny, poorly manufactured monitor sat blinking behind the counter as the shopkeeper followed Tiffany inside and took a seat beside the till, the images beamed back from the multiple cameras carefully positioned around the store being examined fastidiously as customers called in for various odds and ends. Cigarettes, a magazine, a drink, you name it the small establishment seemed to have it. Scanning the rows of magazines on display, Tiffany felt repulsed, the covers of each one graced by whichever bimbo happened to be flavour of the month. Fifteen minutes of fame being milked for all it was worth before being replaced by the next assembly line celebrity. Sighing, Tiffany turned and approached the counter, the cabinet of tobacco products locked safely behind as she asked for twenty of the shopkeeper's cheapest cigarettes and began to fish around in her handbag, the wad of notes almost making the shopkeeper choke on his own cigarette smoke as Tiffany handed him a twenty dollar bill and told him to keep the change, immediately unwrapping the cellophane from the packet and retrieving a cigarette of her own as she lifted it to her lips and found a lighter thrust beneath her nose.

"Thanks sweet face." Tiffany grinned, flashing a row of pearly white teeth as the shopkeeper smiled his own disgusting grin. Teeth missing left, right and centre as Tiffany leaned in and sucked the smoke to the back of her mouth, the stains marking the shopkeeper's apron not leaving much to the imagination as she pulled the cigarette from her mouth and blew the cloud of smoke in the air. As she turned to leave, Tiffany stopped to examine the front pages of the newspapers gracing the display by the door, one in particular garnering her interest as Tiffany lifted it from the rack and observed the front cover, lifting the cigarette to her lips and taking another lungful of nicotine infused smoke. The headline read 'PHONE BOOK KILLER STRIKES AGAIN!' and was accompanied by an early morning photograph that took in the length and width of Sarah Pirce's street. Tents had been erected on the street itself and part of the sidewalk, shielding the patrol car and the headless corpse within, whilst another was barely visible, the point of the canvas only just rising from beyond the bushes separating the sidewalk from the playground. The article was very brief, no doubt a rushed effort as the tabloid in question attempted to be the very first to break the news, the details minimal and the interviews also very small and textbook. Alongside the main feature there was another article, small but detailed, regarding a body found at the Regency Hotel, the journalist terrifying the casual reader as he proclaimed there to now be yet another murderer on the streets of Chicago, Tiffany affording a silent laugh to herself. Returning the newspaper to the shelf of the rack, feeling the shopkeeper's eyes burning deep into the back of her skull, Tiffany spun on the spot and strolled toward the store entrance, the sunshine outside looking warm and welcoming, the cool November breeze practically anything but as Tiffany lifted her arms and folded them across the chest of her leather jacket. Eyes fixed firmly on the ground, she walked along. Slowly. Lost in thought as she continued to sporadically puff on the cigarette clamped between her fingers, her mind dancing to the tune of reckless abandon and exhilaration, her next move still a mystery, which made this while scenario so engrossing and intoxicating. If she didn't know her next move, then how could the morons at Chicago Police Department even begin to try and predict what she had in store? A smile began to form as Tiffany exhaled a lungful of acrid smoke and felt a warm feeling envelope her body, lifting her head and instantly finding the smile vanquished, the warmth turning into a suffocating, panic stricken chill. Up ahead, parked opposite the alleyway no less, sat a Chicago P.D patrol car, the officer inside throwing the door open and stepping onto the sidewalk. Within a second, paranoia took over and Tiffany found herself calmly turning on the spot and beginning to walk back towards the store, throwing a look back over her shoulder and seeing the officer marching after her. She wasn't sure whether it was nerves, deep down she knew it must be, but she didn't want to risk finding out. There was no way, no logical way at least, that they could know. Unless he had seen the Plymouth and was checking out the car. But if that was the case then why hadn't he marched down the alleyway? Why hadn't he started running the cars plates through the system? But sure as she could be, that officer was headed her way, another glance confirming such as she found the officer making headway through the medley of pedestrians, Tiffany searching for a place to hide as sanctuary appeared from nowhere, the glass doors of a huge stone fronted building opening as she approached, Tiffany reaching out and grabbing the door before quickly sliding into a small vestibule and away from the small crowd of pedestrians. Sinking into the corner and away from sight, she watched on intently as people passed in both directions, the police officer one of them as he marched past completely unaware of Tiffany's presence. A sigh of relief and Tiffany could breathe easy again, feeling her body loosen up as she suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder, jumping and giving a small scream as she spun a half circle and found herself face to face with a little old man, his free hand clutching a small pile of books to his chest, the smile on his face apologetic and gentle as he softly spoke.

"Oh my dear, I do hope I didn't alarm you." His voice had a deep tone. A husky quality.

"Well you fucking did!" Tiffany spat as she closed her eyes and blew the hair from her face in relief.

"I am so sorry." The man calmly continued. "But please there's no need for…"

"I know, I know. I just hate it when people do that." Tiffany said, looking over the old man's shoulder and seeing a large open planned interior. Tables surrounded by people of all ages, shelves chock full of books, a row of computers in the immediate background. "Where am I again?"

"The public library." The man replied with a chuckle. "Did you not intend to be here my dear?"

"No." Tiffany answered. "Not really. I mean... It's complicated."

"No need to explain." The old man smiled once again, his weathered face creasing as he did, the white hair sat either side of his head suddenly catching Tiffany's eye. "But you're here now, so why don't you take a look around. Maybe you could even consider joining?"

"The library?" Tiffany laughed innocently. "I don't think I'd get chance. Books aren't really my thing."

"We have the computers." The old man replied. "Although you don't need to become a member to use them. Or do you? I forget."

"What are the computers for?" Tiffany asked, looking over her host's shoulder and examining them again. "Thought you guys were all about books."

"Well it was against my wishes, believe you me, but it was out of my hands." He replied with a deflated sigh. "Still, they are proving rather popular. Bringing the younger people in at least. If it keeps a child off the street for an hour then so be it."

"But what do people do with them?" Tiffany asked, bemused to say the very least.

"The internet." The old man answered. "Amazing apparently."

"Internet?" Tiffany asked once again. "Never heard of it."

"It'll never catch on, you mark my words." The old man lifted a trembling hand, a solitary digit extended as he spoke, books still clutched to his chest. "They expect it to be the next big thing by all accounts, but I have my doubts."

"Really?" Tiffany asked, skeptical.

"The people that installed it said that come the next twenty years we won't be without it. Apparently everything will be done on the internet. Music, movies, news, computer games, shopping. You name it, we won't even have to leave our seats."

"Sounds kinda impossible if you ask me." Tiffany replied, pulling the packet of cigarettes from her jacket pocket. "So what do people use them for now?"

"Research mainly." The old man answered, lifting his hand and resting on top of the cigarettes, Tiffany lowering the packet as he then pointed politely to the no smoking sign. "We get a lot of students you see. Anything people need to know, the internet has the answers."

"Sounds very fascinating." Tiffany murmured, turning her head and casting a glance through the door of the library, the crowd mulling past, the police officer long gone as she clutched the packet of cigarettes tightly. "Well, duty calls."

"No problem my dear." The old man beamed as Tiffany turned to leave, placing a hand on the glass door of the library and allowing the librarian's words to filter through her brain one final time.

"Did you just say that internet thing has information on it?" She asked, spinning her head back towards the old man.

"Indeed it does." He nodded.

"And I can find out anything?" She asked, lifting her head in disbelief, her eyes never leaving the frail looking old man.

"Almost." He nodded once more, laughter escaping as he spoke.

"How do I join?" Tiffany asked, releasing the door handle and turning to face the old man, a spark igniting in her brain.

The little old man sat Tiffany at a terminal and introduced himself as Steve, the head librarian. With his balding head, flanked either side by thick tufts of snowy white hair, his face had a look of honesty as he smiled and asked Tiffany if she would like a drink. Tea, coffee, hot chocolate, he knew how cold it was out there and it was his mission to get the pretty young girl before him a hot drink to warm her through. Had he known the truth though, Tiffany wondered would Steve be as accommodating. Probably not, so it was better to humour the gentle old man and play along. Before she knew it there was a steaming cup of coffee by her side, the saucer also graced by a couple of biscuits as Steve allowed the system to load up and logged Tiffany in as a guest, showing her the basics before leaving her to it, no doubt to tend to some other helpless soul. Clicking on the browser icon and finding the box on the screen rapidly expand before her eyes, Tiffany found herself faced with a box, the cursor flashing as she stared at the screen with a sense of mystery, her eyes then dropping to the keyboard laid on the desk in front of her. To say she wasn't very gifted with such devices would have been an understatement, her hands lifting from the surface of the desk and hovering over the keys as she began to type slowly, letter by letter, the words 'CHARLES LEE RAY'. Grabbing the mouse and zipping it across the desk she had been amazed at how the device had interacted with the little pointer on screen, moving effortlessly as she allowed the cursor to hover over the 'search' button and clicked. Within seconds the search engine had retrieved the results of Tiffany's search, hundreds of thousands of pages matching with her words, the very first entry catching her eye as she gave the link a click and waited patiently for the page to load. At first glance Tiffany felt a slight anticlimax, the black on white text serving only to dampen her excitement as the page sprung to life. But as she sat and examined the text, she found herself becoming drawn in. The page was indeed about Charles Lee Ray, and had information buried deep within the paragraphs that not even Tiffany knew. She knew the aliases 'Chucky' and 'The Lakeshore Strangler' obviously. After all, who in and around the city of Chicago didn't? Who wasn't aware of the urban legend that had become Chucky? The myth alone had seen her late lover garner something of a reputation. A level of notoriety the likes of Bundy and Manson could only dream of. But what she had never known about was Chucky's ancestry. The Irish-American mother, a bartender and a dancer, despite her allegedly wealthy upbringing. The Austrian immigrant that was Chucky's father, a wife beating alcoholic in and out of prison from an early age, perhaps setting the scene for his son's own future, sowing the seeds early on as it were. As Tiffany scrolled through the page, reading line after line, she couldn't believe her eyes, the emotions surfacing after all these years as she felt a rollercoaster of nostalgia race by and sweep her from her feet as an early mugshot of Charles Lee Ray stared back at her from the screen. A wild eyed fascination as the young criminal stood and allowed the police to do their job, the boyish good looks evident even then as Tiffany clocked the date on Chucky's picture. June fourteenth 1968, which would have put Chucky at roughly around eighteen years old. As she continued scrolling the article went into even more detail, Maria Hemingway of Hackensack, New Jersey listed as being Chucky's alleged first murder victim, disturbing him as he illegally entered her house and proceeded to rob her and her husband. Though never proven in a court of law, Tiffany wondered exactly how much of that story was true. Any of it? If so then why hadn't she known about it? Reading on, she allowed her eyes to gorge on the screen, reading and sipping the coffee, hypnotized. According to the website, Chucky had remained very quiet ever since then, not interesting the police until the winter of 1986. Even then, the police weren't actively seeking Charles Lee Ray. No, the police were merely seeking the person responsible for a body washing up on the bank of the Chicago River, North-west of the Chicago Loop to be exact, a female later identified as one Vivian Van Pelt robbed and strangled before being cast into the freezing cold water. Little had they known, another body appearing just two weeks later. Strangled, bound at the hands and feet and with strange engravings carved into the skin by knife point, the body had been discovered along a similar stretch of the Chicago River the police now realising it to be a very strong possibility that there may be a serial killer on the loose. One by one the bodies built up. Not quickly but spread over a period of time as the police investigation did indeed lead the police to Charles Lee Ray, questioned after the family of one of his victims gave his name and description to the authorities, the late Catherine Hammond the only one of Chucky's victims to actually befriend him, Chucky unaware of the family and considering Catherine a lonely widow, ripe for the picking. Giving a small laugh and closing her eyes, Tiffany could remember the episode well. The police had dropped in on her and Chucky at one of their favourite hangouts, O'Grady's bar, reeling off question after question as they probed Chucky relentlessly. Every answer, every detail, scrutinized meticulously as Chucky kept his calm and simply sat back, Tiffany giving him his alibi for the night of Catherine's murder. Come to think of it, although only a few months before Chucky's death, Tiffany could swear that one of those officers had been Mike Norris. The very same Mike Norris that she now read about as her late boyfriend's demise was described in exceptional detail. The woman in the basement, Sarah Pirce, alerting the police as a game of cat and mouse began across the city, Norris coming across Chucky and hunting him down, shooting him in cold blood and leaving him for dead. The words burned as Tiffany read them, a fire growing in her belly as she reached the end of the article and skipped back a page, choosing the next link and once more casting her eyes across the mountains of text. This page practically skipped anything regarding Charles Lee Ray and instead chose to focus on the tall tales of possessed, killer dolls. The rantings of a mentally disturbed widow and single-mother Karen Barclay, her insistence that her son had become Chucky's next target. It was all in there, from John Bishop to the Barclay's, then from Phil and Joanne Simpson back to Andy Barclay yet again. The page discussed the location of Andy Barclay in great depth, the young man disappearing into the web of foster homes and juvenile facilities as he most likely sought to put his past behind him and move on. Once again, Tiffany skipped back to her search results and continued to investigate link after link, a wealth of information unlocked before her very eyes as she read and read, fascinated by what each page and article has to offer, something new every time, clicking on one page and scrolling down to a sub-section with the heading 'Acquaintances', shocked to come face to face with her own picture, the caption beneath explaining Tiffany Valentine to be one of a select handful of acquaintances of the late Charles Lee Ray, the picture itself being the mugshot, taken following her arrest in the department store back in 1990 after the attempted murder of former roommate Evan Carter. Suddenly remembering the lack of privacy a library had to offer, Tiffany looked up and took in her surroundings, nobody batting an eyelid as they continued with their tasks, the frail figure of Steve suddenly looming large as Tiffany turned and found him returning to the computer. With seconds to get her bearings, Tiffany fumbled with the mouse, hitting the 'back' button and finding the computer had frozen momentarily, the cursor changing to an egg timer as Tiffany's picture hung on the screen. Practically on top of her, his smile warm enough to melt even the feistiest of hearts, Steve approached with yet another drink, Tiffany plunging her finger into the power button of the computer monitor as the screen suddenly found itself plunged into darkness.

"Another coffee" Steve smiled as he placed the cup besides Tiffany, resting it on the desk and taking the empty cup away. "How are you finding it? Any problems?"

"No," Tiffany returned his smile, noticing his eyes fixed on the black screen. "Just having a rest that's all. The screen was a little bright. Hurts my eyes."

"Well we can turn the brightness down." Steve laughed, reaching for the monitors power button.

"No!" Tiffany snapped, her hand shooting to cover the button, a look of confusion appearing on Steve's face. "I mean, I just needed a rest is all. It's fine, honestly."

"Well if you're sure." Steve replied. "You need anything then don't be afraid to shout."

"I won't." Tiffany laughed as Steve turned and began to head back to his counter, a pile of books just waiting to be stamped before being reloaded on to their shelves. "Thanks Steve."

Watching as Steve slowly made his way back to the counter, finally happy that she had what could be classed as privacy Tiffany flicked the monitor back on and watched the screen ignite into life, her picture still staring blankly back at her. Although she hated to admit it, she looked like shit that night, the heavy rain of that cold September evening evident as her hair clung to her face, the mascara staining her cheeks as she stared emotionless into the lens of the camera. She did prefer her hair blonde though. That was a fact, her dark look a desperate measure as she sought to evade the unwanted attention of the police. Leaving nothing to chance as it were. Watching the computer finally catch up with itself, the screen reverting back to the search results, Tiffany continued to investigate page after page, soon enough finding herself treading through the same information time after time, nothing new as she glanced at the clock and noticed two hours had passed by in a blur. Eyes tired, head beginning to get heavy, Tiffany had just about given up on finding anything new when she noticed a page towards the bottom of the screen, the name Sarah Pirce mentioned in the same sentence as Charles Lee Ray, her attention well and truly grabbed. It was an old article, and nothing like the pages Tiffany had looked at so far. Gone were the paragraphs of neat text and crystal clear pictures, and in came pictures, actual photographs, of newspaper clippings and articles from November 1988. Headlines, front pages and articles from tabloids across America reporting the news that Charles Lee Ray, the notorious Lakeshore Strangler, had been identified at last. Gunned down as he attempted to evade arrest. Pictures of Chucky's body laying still in the burned out toy store had been obtained and featured heavily across the wide selection of clippings on display, statements from Chicago Police Department and the store owner himself also woven into the articles as Tiffany read. The story was hardly new to Tiffany. The man christened the Lakeshore Strangler fatally wounded by a trigger happy cop. The seeds planted after a mysterious call tipping the authorities off came from the abode of one Charles Lee Ray, the captive woman in the basement discovered in hysterics as blood poured from a stab wound. Eight months pregnant too. For the majority, this was repetitive, however one of the clippings had something hidden amongst the details that no other article did. Buried deep within a clipping from the Chicago Chronicle Tiffany did a double take, an idea blossoming as she read the last line again. Then again. She couldn't believe it. She couldn't believe that lurking within a newspaper clipping from 1988, out there on the 'internet' of all places, was the information she had been seeking all this time. The line of text reading as follows.

'It was only upon arrival that authorities discovered the severity of the situation as Sarah Pirce, of Hyde Park, Chicago, lay sobbing and bloodied.'

She couldn't believe it. She had an address for Sarah Pirce. 'The' Sarah Pirce to boot. Feeling a rush of optimism, Tiffany stood quickly from her seat and snaked her way between the desks, approaching the counter of the library and greeting Steve with her kindest smile.

"How are you doing?" He asked. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine, don't worry. I haven't broken it." Tiffany laughed as she stood on her tip toes and cast her eyes over the back of the counter. "You don't happen to have a phone book do you?"

"A phone book? " Steve repeated Tiffany's question, thinking aloud as he stooped beneath the counter and began rummaging. "Indeed we do."

Standing and sliding the White Pages across the worn, wooden counter, Tiffany watched intently as he did so, grabbing the book and thanking the old man before returning to her desk and taking a seat, allowing the thick book to fall open across the desk before flipping the pages over and finding the name Sarah Pirce. Eyes flitting from book to screen, then screen to book, Tiffany could hardly contain her excitement as she matched the two together the Hyde Park address from the article corresponding with an entry in the phone book, the name S. Pirce appearing several times, only one of those names however accompanied by the address '5638 S Blackstone Ave, Hyde Park'. Feeling a surge of pleasure, Tiffany could have sung from the rooftops. At last she finally had something solid. Standing up from the desk and returning to the counter Tiffany asked Steve if he had a piece of paper and a pen she may borrow, hurriedly scribbling the address down before slamming the White Pages closed and returning it to Steve. Turning back to the computer, eager to get moving, Tiffany raced back to the desk and began to gather her things. Her handbag, her coat, the untouched packet of cigarettes all snatched in a hurry as Tiffany stopped in her tracks and once again stared at the screen, the various headlines and news clippings from Chucky's murder sitting there, igniting a thousand memories. The Lockport Guardian had given him front page, the image of him laying slumped across the toy store floor flanked by the headline 'Serial Killer Fatally Shot'. Other tabloids had announced the news in a less dramatic manner, the story confined to smaller articles within the newspapers, similar headings such as 'Serial Killer Ray Gunned Down In Chicago Toy Store', 'Killer finally Dead – Victim's Families Praise City Police' and 'Boy Claims Doll Possessed by Killer's Soul' standing out against other stories, the latter obviously from the weeks following as the Barclay's tried every trick in the book to get their story out there. Suddenly, Tiffany had an idea, dropping her things and marching back to the counter her new-found friend, Steve, lifting his weathered face once again as Tiffany gestured over her shoulder and towards the computer.

"You got any way I can print some of this off?" She asked with a determined grin. "This shit would look great in a frame."

Stepping into the street, prints clasped firmly in hand, handbag hung from the shoulder of her leather jacket, Tiffany took a quick look up and down the road, the patrol car from earlier now absent, along with any police presence whatsoever as Tiffany breathed a sigh of relief and lit up a cigarette, cupping her hands around the flame of her lighter as she walked on, dazed and deep in thought. It was still early, and today had already been as productive as she could have hoped. Now, however, came the undesirable task of returning to Gorman's bar and grabbing the rest of her possessions, one last job before moving on, Tiffany lifting the papers in her hand and committing the scribbled words to memory as best she could.

'5638 S Blackstone Ave.'

Boy was somebody in for a surprise…

Turning from the busy road, the queue of traffic growing in length behind him, Captain Reginald Senior let the wheels of the unmarked police car slow to a crawl as he approached the scene ahead, devastation and chaos as the car finally came to a stop and he killed the engine. Lifting the cell phone from his pocket and observing the caller's name, Senior decided against answering, the time not quite right as he returned the phone to his pocket, the fifth missed call in an hour as he opened the door and stepped onto the wet tarmac, surveying the carnage before him. Police officers raced from one side of the street to the other, tents erected in the background to preserve the evidence and keep prying eyes at bay. To his immediate left, sat head bowed on the sidewalk, were two Chicago police officers, one sobbing as a fellow officer sought to comfort his colleague, the moment not lost as Senior stepped forward and dropped to a squatting position.

"Everything okay?" He asked, the two officers lifting their heads.

"I can't…" The female officer spat between rapid intakes of air. "I can't look at it."

"It's bad sir." Her partner quietly exhaled, his arm around her shoulders.

"I know." Senior whispered in response, a slight nod of his head.

"Who would do something like this?" The officer asked, his colleague starting to calm a little.

"That's what we aim to find out." Senior said, standing and looking towards the throng of activity, police officers and forensics teams trying not to interfere with one another as their work began. "You get yourselves home. That's an order."

Nodding in unison, the two officers remained seated, the enormity of the situation overwhelming to say the least as Captain Senior turned on the spot and made his way towards the crime scene, the street packed with patrol cars and ambulances as he snaked between the vehicles, lost amidst a sea of flashing blue light, and toward the police line. One tent erected on the road, partially covering the sidewalk, seemed to be longer than the tent that accompanied it, the peak of which could just be spotted in the background, the top of the apex poking just above row of bushes separating the sidewalk from the children's playground just beyond. Stooping and making his way beneath the police tape, Senior bellowed at the top of his voice, another officer turning from his post and noticing his hulking superior.

"Who's in charge here?" Senior's voice roared above the ambient noise of activity, the responding officer making his way directly towards him.

"I am sir." He replied, his youthful looks astounding Senior as he saluted.

"Okay Ellison," Senior asked, clocking Officer Ellison's badge. "What do we have?"

"Exactly what it says sir," Ellison replied firmly, pointing first to the two tents and then to the rear of the house. "Triple homicide. Two officers out front and the homeowner in the backyard."

"Cause of death?" Senior asked, turning and looking at the house, then turning back to the two tents, the bodies no doubt still hidden within.

"These two?" Ellison pointed once more to the two tents. "Decapitation. The one out back seems to be trauma from several stab wounds and asphyxiation. We'll know more when we get her back to the coroner's office I guess."

"Decapitation?" Senior gasped, a hollowness to his tone as he lifted a hand to his mouth in shock.

"Yes sir." Ellison replied, gesturing with one hand as he motioned for Captain Senior to follow, stepping between the individually labelled items on the ground. Everything that had been discovered so far now lay bearing a letter from A to Z. From the broken porcelain on the porch to the lone butt of a spent cigarette. Reaching the white tent erected by the side of the road, partially resting on the sidewalk, the young officer pulled open a flap of canvas and stepped aside as his superior entered. Although expected, the scene, the smell even, that awaited the Senior instantly made him feel physically sick, the headless corpse sitting in the passenger seat of the patrol car, still and unnatural, as though on display for all to witness, the blade of the axe still resting, buried deep into the steel supports of the headrest. Stepping up besides the door and noticing the name badge, Captain Senior felt a tear slide over his cheek as he fought back a barrage of emotions, the name of Officer Gloria Esposito emblazoned proudly across the left breast of her police uniform.

"Dear god." Senior's voice trembled, the shock knocking him for six.

"The head's in the footwell." Ellison softly spoke from behind, Senior's eyes involuntarily falling and finding Gloria's head. Eyes closed, skin pale, a look of peace, as though resting, Senior choked back the inevitable flood of tears as he blinked to clear his vision and noticed the faint daubing on Gloria's face. Narrowing his eyes and leaning in through the open window of the car, Senior focused and felt a ripple of revulsion as the daubing became clearer, the words 'TOLD YOU SO' marked on Gloria's face in dried blood. Spinning from the car window and unable to hold back, Captain Senior couldn't help himself as he vomited across the tarmac, Officer Ellison watching on uneasily as he gave the Captain time to compose himself.

"Sir…" He asked, Senior lifting a hand in a calming motion.

"I'm fine." He said, bent double, his voice low as he gestured with a thumb. "I take it Officer McCain is just over these bushes?"

"Yes sir." Ellison replied, a silence breaking, hesitation as Ellison continued. "Most of him is."

"I don't need to see any more." Captain Senior said, standing upright and gingerly making his way to the exit of the tent, the younger officer following on as the two men stepped through and into the bright November morning. Standing and taking a strong lungful of air, Senior surveyed the scene once again, the forensics teams placed strategically, cameras flashing, lenses capturing every tiny detail as they continued to build a scenario and establish a chain of events for the oncoming investigation. "The fourth Pirce woman. Where is she?"

"Out back sir." Ellison replied, beginning to march off towards the house, casting a glance over his shoulder as he reached the gate by side of the property. "Better to go this way. Don't want to contaminate the scene."

"Our killer didn't use the gate?" Senior asked.

"Doesn't look like it." Ellison said. "Looks like a struggle took place on the ground floor of the house before spilling into the rear garden. Then our witness saw a dark haired woman, mid thirties, dash straight back through the house and into the street."

"Did our witness see anything else?" Senior probed on.

"Watched as our girl took off through the playground over the road." Ellison answered as he stepped through the gate and stepped aside, the Captain following. "Then it was a bit of a blur apparently. Our team's backup arriving around the same time."

"Backup?" Senior asked puzzled.

"Yes sir. From what I can make out there was an emergency call from this address. Not for long though. Our victim screaming about somebody trying to kill her before the line went dead."

"I see." Senior mused, deep in thought as his mind raced. "Our witness saw nothing else then?"

"Saw our girl enter a red car over the other side of the playground." Ellison replied over his shoulder as the two men reached the garden to the rear of the house, the familiar looking white tent taking pride of place across the spongy, drowned grass. "Of course it was dark, and from a distance, so the colour may be a little off. But apparently it was a big car. A classic."

"Good, good." Senior muttered as they reached the tent, Ellison once again zipping open the canvas and following his superior inside. Compared to the tent out front, the scene that now greeted the two officers seemed relatively calm as they both came to a stop, the body laying face down in the slowly decreasing pool of rain water. Once again, items surrounding the body had been tagged by forensics, including a solitary puncture wound to Sarah's back. Beside the corpse, laying loosely in the mud and grass, was the severed end of a nylon washing line, blood marking the length of cable sporadically. "So what do we know Ellison?"

"Fight inside," Ellison began, pointing left and right. "Spilled out here, then looks like our murderer cuts the washing line and proceeds to strangle our victim to death. Maybe throwing in a knife wound to hurry things along."

"That's the way it looks to me too." Senior nodded, running his eyes over the scene. "Now we just find ourselves faced with the same question."

"Which is sir?"

"Why, Ellison." Senior whispered. "Why Sarah Pirce? What have these women done to deserve this?"

"Nobody knows sir." Ellison replied. "But we're not just dealing with that now."

"Meaning?" Senior asked, bemused.

"We're dealing with a cop killer." Ellison sighed.

"Unfortunately, that seems to be the case." Senior nodded, lifting the cell phone from his pocket, the almost inaudible ringtone continuing as he looked at the name on screen. 'Valerie Esposito'. A call that Captain Senior knew he could no longer choose to ignore. "If you'll excuse me Ellison, I need to take this."

"No problem sir." Ellison saluted and turned on the spot, making his way from the tent and leaving the Captain alone to take his call. Pressing the button and lifting the phone to his ear Captain Senior took a deep breath as he prepared to take the hardest call of his life.

"Valerie…" He answered, closing his eyes as he prepared to deliver the news. "I'm so sorry."

The rapid breathing emanating down the phone line suddenly gave way to horrendous cry as Senior fell silent and allowed the caller time to compose themselves.

All he could hope for right now, was that Officer Wan had made more progress than he.

Sitting behind a desk, perched along the back wall of Chicago Police Department's research department, Officer Harold Wan lifted a weary hand and ran it through his head of thick black hair, the light of the computer screen eventually taking its toll following a solid shift, working through the night, no stone unturned as Harold worked tirelessly to seek the answers he needed. And now, as he sank back in his chair, the spongy seat losing all comfort hours ago as it molded itself around the contours of Harold's body, he turned his attention from the screen and to the handwritten notes to his right hand side, the notebook lying open beside the mouse in Harold's hand as he briefly scanned through the endless lines of frantically scribbled notes before allowing his eyes to flit back to the screen, a smile spreading rapidly across his lips as he exhaled. A sigh of relief. A groan of satisfaction as he looked at the picture staring back at him from the monitor, the young female staring vacantly as she posed for her mugshot, the board in her hands baring all manner of details. But most importantly a name and a date.

Valentine T.

9-20-1990

Lifting both arms and placing his hands behind his head, Harold leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

"Bingo."

The growling engine of the Plymouth came to an abrupt halt as Tiffany entered the parking lot of Gorman's Bar and came to a standstill, killing the engine with one quick twist of the wrist. Lifting her head and peering out from behind the oversized shades perched upon the bridge of her nose, she allowed her eyes to sweep across the gravel and towards the red brick building before her, a silence enveloping the car. The broken window still sat gaping, the remnants of glass strewn across the floor serving as a reminder of the brawl breaking out between the two bikers just days before. The doors of the entrance to the bar still hung precariously from their hinges, no sign of life as Tiffany quietly threw open the heavy door of the Plymouth, grabbed her handbag and stepped into the late morning air, the gravel beneath her feet crunching as she twisted on the spot and headed to the trunk of the car, lifting it open and retrieving the hold all from within. No cars. No bikes. No music. Nothing. The place seemed to be a ghost town as Tiffany closed the trunk and slung the hold all over her shoulder, stepping quickly as she raced across the parking lot and towards the wide open doors of the bar, a gentle breeze following as she reached the doors and came to a stop. Peering around the corner she felt her heart race, the blood pumping through her veins as she observed the bar area and found the scene to be a familiar one. Everything just the way she had left it merely days ago as she set off across town and towards Sarah Pirce number three. It was a true testament to just how much respect people held for Selena, the establishment laying wide open to potential looters as she sat in a jail cell unable to lift a finger. But more than that, it served as a sign of just how much fear Selena had been able to conjure up in such a short time. Nobody daring to take advantage as she and her business sat prone. Ripe for the picking. Heading inside and across the filthy floor of the bar, Tiffany's sneakers barely touched the surface as she quietly reached the top of the staircase and grabbed the banister, swinging her body a full half turn and beginning her descent into the basement, her sanctuary awaiting as she skipped two steps at a time and pretty soon found herself face to face with the door to her room. Only this time, something was different. The lock hanging from it's housing as the door hung slightly open, rocking ever so slightly as Tiffany placed the palm of her hand upon the surface of the door and slowly pushed. Gradually swinging open, Tiffany peered in from behind the door and swept the room from left to right, then back again as she examined every square inch. Nothing seemed to have been moved. At least nothing obvious anyway. The bed was still as she had left it, the broken glass of the tequila bottle still lay scattered in all directions, if anybody had been in here then they had obviously found nothing of value and retreated immediately. Maybe not taking advantage of Selena's predicament, but to hell with the help. The door now hanging fully open, Tiffany stepped in and felt her pulse calm, a breath of relief as she raced across the dusty concrete floor and threw the hold all on the bed, her handbag quickly landing beside it. Turning and crossing the floor, Tiffany threw open her wardrobe and reached inside, grabbing handfuls of clothes and turning back to the bed, ramming them inside the hold all and repeating the procedure until she found the wardrobe bare, what little clothes and shoes she owned now sitting within the bulging bag as Tiffany hurriedly pulled the zip closed, struggling as she did so, the overpacked bag swelling under the pressure from within. Dropping to her knees, Tiffany grunted and groaned, struggling as best she could as she fought against the zipper, suddenly feeling her spine stiffen as a voice growled out behind.

"You got a lot of nerve coming back here!" The thick Hispanic accent cut through the air, Tiffany caught unawares as she momentarily lowered her guard, failing to notice the footsteps coming to a stop in the doorway. Spinning on her knees and completely taken aback she took in the figure blocking her escape, her only exit, Selena's heavily tattooed arms gripping either side of the door frame as her scarred face contorted in anger, her thick lips twisting in a snarl as she spat vitriol in Tiffany's direction.

"Selena…" Tiffany gasped, surprise in her tone as she quickly turned and finally pulled the zipper tightly shut, spinning on her knees once more, returning instantly towards her friend. "They let you out? Great."

"Save it." Selena spat as she lowered her arms and strode confidently into the room, casting a glance along either side of the basement as she slowly approached Tiffany, reaching her in no time at all and dropping to a squatting position before her. "Where's my money Valentine?"

"Money?" Tiffany asked, feigning confusion. "I don't know what you…"

Before the words could leave her lips, Tiffany felt an explosion beside her ear, Selena's open palm connecting with a sickening slap, the ringing sound lingering for a few seconds before slowly dying.

"Don't you fucking lie to me." Selena raised her hand, a solitary index finger extended in Tiffany's face.

"I told you…" Tiffany began. "I don't know…"

Another slap. This time the other side as Tiffany felt her head jerk under the impact, the ringing noise coming on again as her ear ignited in pain.

"I thought you were smarter than this." Selena sighed, placing the palms of her hands upon her thighs and standing up straight, her head swinging from right to left as she did so. "You know? Biting the hand that feeds you? Not a good idea."

Dropping back onto her bum and lifting a hand to her ear, a burning pain beginning to creep over it, Tiffany lifted her eyes and watched on as Selena scanned the basement with determination, eyes sweeping across every square inch as she finally stopped and allowed a smile to grace her lips, target acquired as she spun on the spot and looked over Tiffany's shoulder and towards the bed. The crumpled sheets, the jagged pieces of glass laying across the floor, nothing stopped Selena as she strode towards the bed, Tiffany shuffling to one side as Selena leaned forward, grabbing Tiffany's handbag and lifting it from the stained sheets.

"Well, well." Selena smiled as she turned her head and flashed Tiffany a quick smile, thrusting her hand into the bag and starting to rummage around, immediately withdrawing a handful of crumpled bank notes. "What do we have here?"

"That's not what you think." Tiffany answered quickly. Her plans disappearing before her eyes.

"Bullshit!" Selena growled, throwing the handbag back into the bed sheets, completely oblivious as the handle of Tiffany's handgun fell free, the firearm now partially exposed amongst the bedding as Selena turned back towards Tiffany and dropped to a squatting position once more.

"Honestly." Tiffany said, remaining calm. "There's only a few hundred there."

"That about covers the cash register." Selena answered, her face smug, her tone exuding an arrogance. "Now what about the insult?"

"Well," Tiffany paused, a dryness lacing her words as she considered her reply. "That accent of yours is fucking hilarious."

Before Tiffany could laugh, before she could even breathe, Selena let fly with a grunt and grasped her hair by the roots, standing and lifting her former friend in one fluid, sickening motion as she curled her spare hand into a fist and swung, the bank notes folding with her fingers as the knuckles connected with Tiffany's chin and sent her flying across the basement floor. Dust blew from the concrete as Tiffany landed with a skid, her leather jacket taking the brunt of her fall as she came to a stop beside her bed, the crunch of glass audible as Tiffany rolled onto her back and allowed a long, drawn out groan to escape her lungs. Knowing Selena to waste no time, expecting a follow up attack, Tiffany tried to shake the cobwebs clear, rolling onto her front and pressing herself from the floor, the glass cutting into her palms slightly as she did so, staggering to her knees and reaching across the bed and towards her handbag. The moment passed quickly, Tiffany's hand digging inside as she felt the cold metal of the handgun on her skin, about to grasp hold as the air suddenly raced from her chest. Selena now stood beside her, landing a swift kick to the stomach, the gun escaping Tiffany's grip as she grabbed whatever she could, crying out in pain and plunging her face into the sheets of the bed. Hand locking firmly around the mysterious object she had found in her bag, Tiffany gripped for dear life as Selena grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to her feet, spinning her on the spot, Tiffany seizing her moment and acting fast, the pain taking a few seconds to register as Selena staggered back in shock. The handle of the knife now protruding from her sternum, Selena let her eyes fall on Tiffany before dropping to the handle of the blade now stood proud of her vest. Without saying a word Selena grabbed the handle and pulled, the pain evident, yet no sign of any discomfort as she yanked the weapon free and observed the blade, now dripping with blood.

"You just fucking stab me Valentine?" She laughed, sadistic bemusement in her tone as she examined the blade closer still. "Is this a fucking nail file?"

Surprised by Selena's resolve, Tiffany froze to the spot. Not the effect she had expected as she found herself involuntarily dropping to the floor, now sat with her back to the bed frame, Selena upon her yet again, dispatching the knife across the basement floor before grabbing Tiffany by the jacket and yanking her to her back to her feet, fury etched into every pore, a sickening sound as Selena leaned back and planted her forehead into Tiffany's nose. The world spinning, her head began to dance as Tiffany felt her body fall numb, a weightless feeling as she landed on the bed and felt the sheets billow out either side of her body. She tried to open her eyes, the stars floating in every conceivable direction, and was alarmed at the sight that greeted her, Selena now climbing onto the bed and straddling her, thighs either side of Tiffany's waist, pillow clamped firmly in her hands as she took advantage and leaned forward. Tiffany tried to scream, her cries loud and long, but soon dwindling to nothing more than a muffled whimper as Selena lay the pillow across her face and applied pressure, the warm, stifled feeling making Tiffany's heart race as she began to panic. Arms lashing frantically either side of her body, Tiffany attempted to kick free, wriggle out of it, but it was no good Selena's weight increasing as Tiffany began to feel her chest tighten in terror. Desperation taking over, Tiffany gritted her teeth and tried to stay calm, her spasms beginning to slow as she felt her energy levels steadily fall, lungs steadily succumbing to the lack of oxygen, her arms still sweeping across the sheets of the bed as she gave one final push, one final attempt at salvation, feeling something by her side, buried deep within the sheets of the filthy bed as her instincts took over and she folded her fingers around the cold, metal handle of the gun that had just moments ago resided in her handbag. Air beginning to thin, head feeling lighter with every second, Tiffany lifted the gun quickly and aimed as best she could, squeezing the trigger and firing blindly into the pillow, her world instantly thrown into a deafening silence as the explosion rang out beside her ear. The heat from the gunshot burned Tiffany's cheek, the hole in the pillow, left in the wake of the speeding bullet, now smoking as the silence gradually gave way to a high pitched ringing, the weight upon Tiffany's body suddenly intensifying as Selena fell still, hanging in position for what seemed an eternity before suddenly slumping forward and spreading herself across Tiffany's upper body. Lifeless and still. The struggle now over, the situation calming, Tiffany snapped her head to one side and sucked in a huge lungful of air. Rapid, shallow breaths as she felt her chest strain against the weight of Selena's limp body. Lifting her knees to her chest as best she could, Tiffany gave a long groan as she rocked back, momentum working with her as she then rocked forward and struggled to a sitting position. Thighs spread either side of Tiffany's hips, Selena's corpse fell backwards as Tiffany sat, landing with a sickening thud upon the dusty basement floor, a crumpled heap as Tiffany looked on, adrenaline still pumping as she continued to catch her breath. The bullet had passed straight through the pillow and entered Selena's face at an angle, the entry wound still smouldering beneath her left eye, the exit wound hidden just behind the right ear as a pool of blood slowly began to appear. Sweeping across the floor in a slow, yet constant manner, the ever expanding puddle spread itself perfectly, a circle of crimson growing around Selena's disfigured cranium. Standing and wondering what the hell had just happened, Tiffany suddenly had a thought, her hair standing on end as she felt the goosebumps spring into life up and down her body. The gun shot. It only took one person, one passer by, to have heard. If that were the case then the police could very well be on their way this very second. Panicking, her mind racing, Tiffany struggled to get her bearings. What now? Where to go? How could she be sure not to leave any clues should the police eventually come knocking? Swinging her head from left to right the basement seemed huge, expanding rapidly as all manner of voices screamed at Tiffany from inside her head.

'Run!' One would say.

'Be calm.' Another would mutter.

But as she found herself fighting off each voice, the differing instructions conflicting with one another, Tiffany suddenly found an idea forming somewhere deep inside her brain. Sparks, igniting the dusty wheels of creativity as she examined the rickety old gas boiler with a mischievous grin, memories of the recently incinerated Mrs Appleby helping conjure up a plan as she quickly turned her attention to the pile of odds and ends strewn in the corner of the basement. Rope and duct tape being just two of the items on view as she allowed her eyes to fall briefly on the basement door before turning her attention to the beams running parallel along the ceiling, then finally, back to the body of Selena Thomas now laying on the floor.

If the police did come calling, then it was only fitting that Tiffany left them a surprise.

Sitting behind his desk, Captain Reginald Senior allowed the phone to ring on. The chimes seeming distant somehow as he cradled his head in his hand, fingers rubbing his temples as he sought to ease the pain. If only there was something, anything, he could do. Give her another assignment. Hold her back a year. Extend her training at the academy. But it was a futile thought. What had transpired was irreversible, he knew that. But that didn't alter anything. It didn't stop his brain from playing out a seemingly infinite number of alternate scenarios, each one ending in the survival of Gloria Esposito. Her mother had broken down on the phone, delivering the news a job that Reginald had done time and time again, only this time it had been too much, Gloria's mother buckling instantly as her, and every other parent's, worst fear became a reality, the cries down the phone leaving Reginald speechless, lost for words as she became inconsolable with grief. Now, as he sat in his office, the phone blaring constantly from its cradle, all he could do was stare vacantly into his own lap and think. How had it come to this? What kind of person were they dealing with here? What kind of person could be so hell bent on destruction that these were the lengths they were willing to go to? Closing his eyes, a tear worked its way free and fell from his cheek. The short journey to the fabric of Reginald's trousers seeming to take aeons, the small drop of moisture crashing in slow motion and splashing upon impact. This next hour was going to be a hard one, no doubt about it. A press conference downstairs called in attempt to get what little information the police had into the public, everything in the book to weed out this woman. This vile, sick woman that had the entire city looking over its shoulder as she carried on her game. Relentless, merciless not one iota of compassion for the victims as body after body turned up, the police now dealing with a different beast entirely as the media cranked up the pressure. Exhaling with a deflated sense of being, Senior lifted his head as a knocking sound emanated from the door to his office, the sound reverberating around the room as the door slowly opened and in stepped officer Harold Wan. An apprehensive look on his face Wan looked first at the Captain, and then to the ringing phone, closing the door behind him as he strode quietly up to the desk and stood to attention.

"Sir." Wan greeted his superior, the atmosphere in the office not going unnoticed.

"Officer Wan." Senior replied with a sigh, leaning back in his chair as he smiled softly.

"You want to get that?" Wan asked, his eyes dropping to the phone, ringing on and on.

"Not especially." Senior said, the ringing suddenly ceasing and the room cast into silence as the two men faced each other across the desk. "Couldn't have been too important, could it?"

"I guess not sir." Harold replied, a shrug of the shoulder as he brought his arms to his front, the paperwork and cassettes in his hand catching Captain Senior's attention.

"Let me stop you there Harold." Senior said, grabbing the arms of his luxurious leather seat and beginning to sit forward. "Whatever it is, I don't have time right now. The media are assembling a gallows down in the press room and yours truly looks to be first for the noose."

"We have her sir." Wan interrupted, his tone flat, to the point, Senior stopping dead in his tracks and lifting an astonished face as Wan spread the files and pictures across the desk before him, singling out a single picture for closer examination, the picture being a still from the Regency's CCTV footage..

"Say that again." Senior said, emotionless, almost as if not daring to believe the news.

"I believe this woman to be Tiffany Valentine sir." Wan pointed to the slightly blurred image beneath Senior's nose, pulling another image from one of the files and placing the two pictures side by side, this new image a mugshot dated September 1990, Senior's eyes flitting from one to the other as Wan now opened the file and started to read. "Not much on here at first. Few pick ups for suspected possession of narcotics, soliciting, aggravated assault. Questioned, cautioned but never anything else. File goes pretty quiet until September 1990 when she was apprehended for the attempted murder of her room-mate. The charge was downgraded to self defence and she served her time. Released in June 1993 into an inmate rehabilitation program. Seemed to be going relatively well until roughly a year later she just ups and vanishes one night."

"Nobody knew where she went?" Senior asked inquisitively.

"Her sponsor was incinerated in a house fire." Wan replied, reading on. "The house was vapourised, Valentine disappeared and a warrant was put out for her arrest. Seems we wanted to talk to her regarding the death of her probation officer, Rita Hernandez. Originally ruled an accident after the sponsor confirmed Valentine's innocence. However there appear to be doubts following the discovery of a car near the area."

"A car?" Senior asked, puzzled as WAN continued.

"The car was found at the bottom of a lake, occupied by the body of a Chicago Police officer by the name of Will Hunter. One of Hernandez's colleagues here in the city, worked in Forensics. At first it was assumed Hunter lost control of the car following a blow out, one of the cars tyres indicating as such. It was only when a post mortem was performed that the coroner attributed the cause of death to be severe lacerations to the head and neck."

"He was murdered." Senior nodded, now beginning to build a picture in his head. "How does this connect this Valentine girl to what we have now? Where's link?"

"I'm getting to that sir. See I've been researching." Wan started, his superior listening intently. "Investigating as you requested. I traced the records for Sarah Pirce, looked into the archives, saw what we had."

"Which was?" Senior asked, running his eyes across the assortment of papers and photographs Wan had set out across the desk.

"Not much to be honest." Wan answered honestly. "But there was something. Buried, and we're talking deep. "

"Okay." Senior nodded. "Are we playing a game or something here Wan? Am I supposed to be guessing or are you planning on sharing whatever you found?"

"You ever hear of the Lakeshore Strangler sir?" Wan answered immediately, the air in the room suddenly turning quiet as Senior leaned back in his chair and sucked the air through his teeth.

"It would be hard to forget." Senior replied with an exasperated sigh. "What does that have to do with this? Charles Lee Ray died ten years ago. Mike Norris put him down personally."

"I get that sir, but the Lakeshore Strangler is the only case of the last twenty five years to involve anybody by the name of Sarah Pirce."

"Could it not be a coincidence?" Senior asked.

"Charles Lee Ray's file also happens to be list Tiffany Valentine as a known acquaintance." Wan responded, watching his superiors jaw drop in shock.

"You're joking." Senior asked, half serious as he looked over the plethora of paperwork.

"You remember anything from the night Ray died sir?" Wan continued, his question forcing Senior to recount as best he could.

"Not too much." Senior answered. "Ray had damn near terrorised this city for some time. Next thing we knew there was a hostage situation. Some girl tied up in his basement. She managed to alert us and we took it from there."

"The name of the girl from Ray's basement was Sarah Pirce." Wan started, allowing the words to linger slightly as he laid his tangled tale in front of Senior, stripped bare. "Now it seems to be pretty clear that Ray and Valentine were involved romantically. Add to that her date of birth, which puts her around the same age as our witness's description, not to mention the message we found at the murder scene of Sarah Pirce number three. 'I died in '88'. I figure she dyed her hair black and decided to come back to the city. No doubt feeling she has a score to settle with Pirce. The 'other woman' so to speak."

"You're telling me that this whole thing," Senior gestured with outstretched arms, an anger building inside as he spoke. "This entire case. All these dead girls. It's all because of some petty vendetta? Revenge?"

"I don't think that's her only motive sir." Wan answered. "Valentine obviously has a score to settle, but I think she also holds Pirce responsible for Ray's death."

A pause from both men as a silence filled the room once again.

"Think about it." Wan carried on. "Pirce called the cops. Ray died that same night. Shot by a cop. Valentine's motive is revenge, but not just because she blames Ray's wandering eye on Pirce. It's because Pirce ended up being the cause of his demise. In a roundabout kind of way."

"Jesus." Senior gasped. "Then if that's the case then why all the killings?"

"Sir?" Wan asked, puzzled at the question.

"Why not just go for that one woman? Why all these innocent people?" Senior asked once again.

"My guess?" Wan said. "Valentine doesn't have a clue who she's after. There's no picture. In fact very little in way of details regarding Sarah Pirce full stop. But it looks like she's so determined to avenge Ray that she's prepared to take out all seven women listed in the phone book."

"I don't believe it." Senior sat back and ran his hand over his head. "This is a nightmare."

"It gets worse too." Wan said as he lifted the cassette from the surface of Captain Senior's desk and approached the TV set in the far corner of the office, flicking the power switch as he slid the cassette into the VCR. "Let me show you something."

As he looked on, the screen bursting into life, the grainy black and white image steadily fading into view, Captain Senior took a few seconds to assess the situation, noticing the video to be incredibly similar to the footage obtained from the Regency Hotel the day before. Only this footage wasn't from a hotel lobby or some random corridor overlooking hundreds of guests, coming and going without batting a eyelid, the camera above working constantly, twenty four hours a day. No, this footage, the scene playing out on screen, became suddenly familiar as Senior recognised the layout of the room. The chairs lined in a row, the room practically empty except for a couple of people sat dead centre of the screen. Senior couldn't be positive, but at first glance it looked to be a man and a woman.

"What is this?" He asked.

"This is the waiting area outside the interview rooms." Wan answered, pointing to the screen as he spoke. "Downstairs in this very building."

"I can see that Wan." Senior snapped. "I mean why are you showing me this?"

"Just watch." Wan politely responded, stepping back and allowing the scene to unfold. The man sat beside the woman seemed to stir in his seat, taking a few seconds as he looked left to right and took in the surroundings, standing and turning his head to the desk positioned beneath the camera and speaking, his heavily pixelated mouth moving as he did so. Although the video was devoid of sound, whatever had been said had obviously been met with a negative response, the man running his fingers through his flowing long hair and speaking again, his body language suggesting there to be a certain level of anger present as he leaned forward and lifted a long arm in a pointing gesture. Once again the response seemed unappreciated as the man lifted a heavy boot and planted it into the back of one of the waiting rooms many seats, kicking out and sending it zipping across the floor and into the desk, disappearing to the bottom of the screen. The next thing Senior noticed was two officers approaching from the bottom of the screen, obviously from behind the secure confines of their desk as they approached with night sticks in hand, arms raised in a calming peaceful motion as they appealed for calm. The man suddenly shifted his body, all weight on his standing leg as he lunged forward and aimed a curled, heavy fist in the direction of the officers. Ducking quickly, years of experience standing the two men in good stead, the officers dodged the attack and threw themselves forward, contact made as they forced the man from his feet and backwards, the woman previously going unnoticed now standing and avoiding the conflict as the three men fell to the floor, chairs flying in all directions as the officers attempted to restrain the man. Fight now in full flow, Senior and Wan watched on together, all attention on the fight as the woman stepped to the side and began to approach the camera slowly. Before either men could say a word another influx of officers appeared from the right of the screen, all rushing straight to the altercation and helping to subdue the man, pepper spray now used as a barrage of nightsticks struck the man. Legs, arms, torso, the blows quickly rendered the man incapacitated as the fight seemed to dwindle and the officers began to step back one at a time, the woman now almost disappearing beneath the camera as Wan lifted his finger and jabbed the pause button on the VCR, the frame freezing instantly, juddering slightly as the cassette fought to continue playing.

"Right there." Wan said as he stepped back from the TV set, Senior narrowing his eyes as he observed the shaky image.

"What am I looking at?" He asked, confused.

"Right here." Wan answered, raising his hand and extending his index finger and diverting Senior's attention not to the fight in the middle of the screen but to the woman disappearing beneath the camera, the image remarkably clear towards the bottom of the screen.

"What about her?" Senior asked.

"I think this is Valentine." Wan replied, finger jabbing the screen. "We booked her in as Tiffany Hendricks just a few days ago. Check out the tattoo above the right breast."

"Meaning?"

"It's a common practice for people using fake names to keep their forename." Wan answered. "Saves them from slipping up. Also Valentine has a tattoo above the right breast listed under the 'Distinguishing Features' on her file. Broken heart, accompanied by a name. That name being 'Chucky'. Not to mention she's identical to the woman from the Regency footage."

"Dear god." Senior gasped, eyes sweeping from the TV screen to the still from the Regency footage. "You're right. Why the hell didn't we pick her up there and then?"

"As I said, fake I.D." WAN answered. "She kept the forename Tiffany, but we had her listed as Hendricks. Not Valentine. Plus she was brought in as part of a vice raid on a bar in the city. We had no reason to hold her. She's obviously not stupid. She knows there's a warrant out for her arrest. I got lucky finding this to be honest. The guy on the video is claiming police brutality."

"Didn't we have anything to hold her?" Senior asked, anger in his tone. "Prints? Nothing?"

"For some reason the file has no prints." Wan replied. "I have no idea why. But she wasn't printed on the day anyhow. Her interview was a formality. We were under the impression she only worked at the bar. That she was a nobody."

"I can't believe this." Senior said, leaning forward and cradling his head in his hands, his mind racing. Suddenly, an idea fell upon him, lifting his head and looking straight at Officer Wan. "Where was she picked up again?"

"A bar in the city." Wan answered, lifting the notes from the desk and reading from them. "Gorman's bar?"

"I know it." Senior nodded as he spoke, grabbing the phone from the cradle in the middle of his desk and beginning to dial.

"What's the plan sir?" Wan asked as his superior continued to dial, his eyes never leaving the phone as he answered Wan's question.

"If we're lucky, then she's there now."

"You think she'd be stupid enough to go back to the bar?" Wan asked, a hint of pessimism in his voice.

"She doesn't know we're onto her." Senior finished dialing and returned his attention to Wan. "I'm sending SWAT in there. I want this bitch nailed. Right now. Dead or alive!"

"I see sir." Wan nodded. "But say she's not there. What about the next Sarah Pirce?"

"We cover them in the meantime." Senior replied immediately. "Patrol cars outside their houses. Follow them wherever they go. Leave nothing to chance."

"Understood sir." Wan nodded again.

"Do we have an address for the Sarah Pirce mentioned in Ray's file?" Senior asked.

"We do sir, but there's some bad news with regards to that. We only have a street name. Nothing more."

"I wouldn't call that bad news Wan." Senior smiled. "We can go door-to-door if we have to."

"Sir…" Wan's voice hung in the air as Senior looked at him, phone still glued to his ear as he waited for the relevant department . "That's not the bad news."

"How do you mean?" Senior asked.

"Pirce's address. The street name." Wan paused. "It wasn't in any of our files. It was in the public domain. Internet, archives. Whatever I have on Sarah Pirce, then there's every chance Valentine could find it too."

"Fuck!" Senior spat through gritted teeth. Could today get any worse? "What's the street name?"

"South Blackstone Avenue sir." Wan said. "It's in the Hyde Park area."

"I'll send a car over." Senior sighed, his phone call finally answered as he lifted a hand to Wan in a pausing motion, barking his orders down the line with a fire to his tone. "I need a SWAT team assembling ASAP. I don't care what the protocol is. Page whoever you can and have them here within the hour."

Dropping the phone into its cradle with a slam, standing as he did so, Senior pulled the waist of his trousers up and addressed Wan again.

"You did well Wan." He said, his mind obviously on other things. "But I need you to find out whatever else you can."

"Will do sir." Wan nodded, watching Senior stride across the office, following him to the door. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm rounding up a team." Senior pulled open the door and waved Wan through. "I'm heading over to Gorman's Bar with SWAT. Bit of luck, that bitch is there and we'll find her."

"Very well sir." Wan stepped through the door, stopping in his tracks as Senior grabbed his arm mid stride. Shocked, Wan looked into Senior's face and felt a chill as his superior spoke.

"I want you to understand something Wan." Senior spoke, his voice low, his tone stern, his face lacking any emotion as he continued. "Word gets out about this then I will not be happy."

"Sir?" Wan asked, surprised.

"Either the media or the commissioner finds out we had this bitch in custody, then released her, without charge, to continue killing, then I'm finished. And I'll take who ever I can with me. Am I making myself clear officer Wan?"

"Yes sir." Harold gulped.

"Crystal clear."

The street lights up and down South Blackstone Avenue flickered into life. One by one, a domino effect, as Tiffany watched on from the entrance of the alley, the darkness of the November afternoon reaching such levels as to trigger the power. No doubt, right now, hundreds of thousands of street lights throughout the city of Chicago would be following suit. Bestowing light upon whichever suburb, highway and inch of the city. Right now though, as Tiffany lifted the cigarette from her lips and exhaled a cloud of toxic, nicotine stained smoke, the lights served as something of a hindrance. The light positioned right at the end of the alley illuminating above her and bathing the area in a fluorescent flicker. The approaching rumble of thunder, followed just seconds later by a flash of lightning, signaled the approach of a small storm. The rain on its way, just as predicted by every radio, television and newspaper in Chicago. Luckily enough though, the rain had yet to make an appearance. The street still remained dry under foot, although a dense build up of leaves from the trees staggered up and down the street had left it practically impossible to tread undetected, no scenario left unimagined as Tiffany drove across the city and towards her destination. An approach had been thought out though as the Plymouth powered through the traffic. Weaving between station wagons and coaches, the roads beginning to crowd as people no doubt prepared for Thanksgiving. Now she was sure, positive beyond reasonable doubt, that this Sarah Pirce, the one she had come to meet, was the real deal, she had decided to divert from her quickly and quietly mantra and instead take her time. After all, this wasn't case of taking out some random resident and moving on. No. She could drag this out. Take her time. Make Sarah Pirce pay for what she did, not just to Tiffany, but to Chucky too. Naturally this would have to be done somewhere they stood more or less zero chance of being interrupted. The only question being where? The answer coming in a moment of enlightenment as Tiffany simply gave a smile and pressed the throttle of the Plymouth to the floor. Now, as she stood opposite Sarah Pirce's house, the whole thing seemed to be a bit of a waste of time, the house in darkness. Bereft of life as Tiffany sneaked around the perimeter and investigated as best she could before retreating to her current hiding place, the alleyway opposite. There was no question this was the woman Tiffany was after, the one startling clue coming as Tiffany looked on through Sarah's living room window and lay her eyes upon the canvas sat in the easel. The bright yellow petals of the flower in Sarah's art instantly cast Tiffany's memory back to the winter of 1988. The basement of Chucky's apartment being filled with the same, colorful flowers just days after his death. Now as Tiffany flicked the butt end of her cigarette to the floor and brought a sneaker down, twisting and crushing the burning embers of the tip, she wondered just how long to wait, the question answered immediately as a station wagon gently pulled to a halt outside Sarah Pirce's intimidatingly tall brownstone. The woman standing from the car looked completely ease. Not an ounce of panic to her composure as she stepped into the street and threw the driver's door closed, making her way to the trunk and lifting it open with ease, the stacks of groceries within almost bursting into the street as Sarah began to lift the brown paper bags and make her way up the steps and towards her front door. Enthusiasm almost getting the best of her, Tiffany took a step forward, eyes locked on the open front door, almost to the edge of the sidewalk as her attention became drawn suddenly to the Chicago P.D patrol car screeching to a halt behind the station wagon, the two officers inside killing the engine and proceeding to sit in silence as Sarah reappeared from the front door and offered them a wave as she descended the thick, stone steps of her house. Taking a step back, Tiffany pretended to pull back the cuff of her leather jacket and examine her watch, observing all the time as Sarah leaned in through the patrol car window and engaged in a small joke with the two officers before returning to her own vehicle and the groceries. An idea already in place, Tiffany now turned ninety degrees to her left and slowly started to stroll along the street, her car waiting up ahead as she took her time and approached nonchalantly. She'd figured something like this may happen. The police never failed when it came to their predictability. Unfortunately for them Tiffany had had the common sense to park near a payphone, one offering ample view down the length of South Blackstone Avenue, and knew exactly what to do next, reaching the door of the payphone and pulling it open. Stepping in and closing the door behind her, Tiffany grabbed the White Pages and flicked through, finding the address of a completely different Sarah Pirce and lifting the phone from its cradle. Then, dialing 911, she simply stood and waited as the line crackled into life.

"Operator, which emergency service do you require?" the voice asked, loaded with static.

"Police!" Tiffany spat, raising her voice slightly, infusing it with a hint of desperation and more than a sprinkling of terror.

The line fell silent, although only for a split second, another voice now answering as she addressed the caller clearly and calmly.

"Police." The voice started. "What appears to be your emergency?"

"It's the killer!" Tiffany screamed, the line crackling as she did so. "The fucking phone book killer! She's here! 789 Majesty Towers. Please, come quickly!"

Before the woman could answer Tiffany brought the phone crashing down, and turned to open the door, stepping from the payphone and into the cold chill of the street. Looking down towards Sarah Pirce's open station wagon, she could see the patrol car still parked up, not a care in the world as Tiffany now began to count in her head.

'10…

9…

8…

7…

6…

5…

4…"

Suddenly the patrol cars lights stuttered into life, the siren too as South Blackstone Avenue became swamped in a flashing sea of blue. Tyres screeching, rubber burning and a cloud of smoke billowing into the air the car practically turned on the spot and headed down the street, straightening up and careering through the traffic ahead, cars, bikes and SUVs parting as the patrol car snaked along the street and hung a left disappearing out of view.

"Quicker than I expected." Tiffany said as she observed the lone figure of Sarah Pirce looking completely stunned by the side of her car, groceries in hand as she simply gave a shake of her head and wandered up the steps and into the house, front door wide open, Tiffany grinning to herself as she realised just how easy this may be.

"Thanks boys."

The speed of it all took Sarah completely by surprise. No sooner had she asked her entourage if they required a drink, maybe something to eat or use the bathroom than they had disappeared, rubber burning into the tarmac as Sarah hopped halfway down the steps of her house and found the blue and white patrol cars wheels spinning, the lights almost blinding as the screech of the tyres echoed back from the apartment blocks across the street. No explanation, nothing as the car tore into the traffic and flicked on its siren, an ear piercing warning to all that lay ahead, whatever had happened obviously deemed enough of an emergency for her personal security guards to abandon their current post as Sarah now stood by her open trunk and simply gave a shrug of the shoulders, grabbing another bag of groceries and climbing the steep stone steps once more. The interior of the house welcomed her with open arms. The wide open hallway housing umbrellas, coats and all sizes of shoes, the small, antique looking wheelchair sitting beside the stairlift serving as a constant reminder just how lucky Sarah was. Despite all the bad luck. Now, as she walked with a bounce in her step, reaching the kitchen at the end of the hall, she placed the groceries on the kitchen table and approached the kitchen counter. Grabbing a tumbler and turning the cold tap of the sink, she placed the tumbler under the refreshing water and allowed the glass to fill. This was probably the first drink she'd had time for all day. What with two school runs, a grocery shop, then the dreaded phone call from Chicago Police Department, she hadn't stopped all day. She'd seen the news. Of course she had. Heard every radio broadcast, seen every news report and read every article, the newspaper landing on her mat every morning without fail. Nothing had been mentioned to the girls though. Why would it? All they would do is worry. No, as far as they were concerned everything was just as normal, and until the time came, then that would be how it remained. As for the news reports, Sarah couldn't put her finger on recent events. No matter how much the police had asked, no matter how much they had more or less insisted that she must know something, have some clue as to the motive behind these recent murders, the more she struggled to conjure an explanation herself. The only thing she could imagine, the only person that could be capable of these heinous acts had died years ago, and despite a media frenzy surrounding events Sarah found quite impossible, she had found herself reassured that those were nothing more than ghost stories. Fairy tales conjured up by an overactive imagination and a healthy dose of motherly enthusiasm. Lost in thought, mind wandering, Sarah suddenly jumped as the front door slammed closed, the wind outside most likely to blame, but the impact and the noise reverberating down the hall causing the glass to fall from Sarah's hand and shatter upon impact, the sink now housing the fragments of broken glass as Sarah turned and wandered towards the kitchen door. Looking down the length of the hall, Sarah could suddenly see that the front door had indeed been forced shut, the wind probably the correct culprit, but Sarah's mind still not settling as her heartbeat began to rise. Something wasn't quite right. Slowly beginning to make her way back along the hall, the sound of her heels on the beautifully laquered hardwood floor making more noise than acceptable, Sarah slipped her shoes from her feet and continued, the open doors to the parlour and dining room coming up on her left and right respectively. Lifting a hand in the darkness of the hallway, the light diminishing quickly as the sun set in the sky, Sarah then called out, praying and hoping for an answer.

"Barb?" She gently called, no reply forthcoming. "Nica?"

No answer as she passed the dining room door and glanced into the parlour, unable to react as the shadow briefly appeared from behind, a sudden flash of movement as Sarah felt the impact on the back of her head, falling to the floor instantly and landing in a crumpled heap. Head pounding, eyes heavy, Sarah could only look on helplessly as a haze engulfed her vision, her attacker stepping through the dining room door. Although unable to identify her assailant, the darkness taking hold, Sarah heard a voice. Distant, ever decreasing in volume as she finally succumbed and her eyes slowly closed.

"Miss Pirce." The voice said, deepening as Sarah began to slip into a deep sleep. "Pleased to finally meet you."

And with that, Sarah Pirce's world suddenly fell dark.