The American Legion hall buzzed with victory celebration, cigarette smoke mixing with the sweet scent of punch and the lingering aroma of women's Victory Red lipstick. Glenn Miller's "In the Mood" crackled from the phonograph as couples swayed beneath red, white, and blue bunting that had seen better days but still carried the weight of triumph.

  Valerie Brunner stood against the far wall, nursing her second cup of punch and marveling at the sheer normalcy of it all. The noise, the laughter, the casual way people touched each other—it was like watching a play she'd only read about in books. Her mother's dark navy dress fit her perfectly, though she avoided looking at her reflection in the punch bowl's silver surface. She'd pinned her black hair back in a style copied from a magazine photograph, though she wasn't entirely sure she'd gotten it right.

  "You look like you're seeing civilization for the first time."

  The voice belonged to a tall Marine in dress blues, his cap tucked under one arm. Thomas Hartwell had the kind of clean-cut handsomeness that belonged on recruitment posters, with brown hair Brylcreemed to perfection and eyes that held traces of something distant—the look men brought back from overseas.

  Valerie's breath caught. He was speaking to her. Actually speaking to her, not through her or around her or with the careful politeness reserved for necessary interactions. "I suppose I am, in a way."

  Thomas laughed, a genuine sound that cut through the noise. "That's honest. Most girls would pretend they go to dances every weekend." He extended his hand. "Thomas Hartwell, recently returned from the Pacific."

  "Valerie Brunner." She shook his hand, marveling at the warmth of human contact that wasn't clinical or purposeful. "I don't... I don't get out often."

  "The mysterious type, huh? I like that." His smile was easy, practiced on a dozen USO girls, but it felt like sunshine to someone who'd spent years in shadows. "What do you do when you're not gracing victory dances with your presence?"

  "I live outside town. Study, mostly. Biology and... related sciences." She paused, testing the waters. "My family has always been interested in the mechanics of life."

  "Sounds fascinating. And lonely."

  The observation hit closer to home than he could know. "Perhaps."

  "Well, we can't have that." He gestured toward the dance floor. "Care to dance? I promise I won't analyze your technique."

  The offer sent electricity through her entire body. To dance—to move with another person, to be held, to participate in this most basic human ritual. "I should warn you, I've never actually danced with anyone before."

  "That makes two of us who are winging it tonight." Thomas led her onto the floor as Tommy Dorsey's "I'll Never Smile Again" began to play. His hand settled at her waist with careful propriety, and Valerie felt dizzy with the reality of it—another person choosing to touch her, to be close to her, to include her in this moment.

  "So what kind of biology keeps you busy?" he asked as they swayed together.

  "Life processes, mostly. Development. Growth. The way things... change from one form to another." She looked up at him, studying his face for signs of unease. Finding none, she continued. "My grandfather was quite brilliant in his time. A doctor, of sorts."

  "Family tradition then?"

  "Something like that." She was quiet for a moment, absorbing the sensation of moving in rhythm with another person. "What about you? What did you do before the war?"

  "Helped run my family's farm. Nothing as intellectual as your studies, but honest work." His grip tightened slightly as he guided her through a turn. "I'm hoping to expand it when I get settled. Maybe start a family eventually."

  The word 'family' sent a warmth through her chest that had nothing to do with the crowded room. A family. The most normal thing in the world, and something she'd never dared imagine for herself.

  "That sounds wonderful," she said, and meant it with an intensity that surprised her.

  "You're different from other girls," Thomas said, studying her face. "There's something almost... timeless about you. Classic."

  If only he knew how literally true that was. "Most people find me strange."

  "I don't." His voice was gentle, sincere. "I think you're beautiful."

  The compliment hit her like a physical blow. Beautiful. Her. Not the resemblance, not the craftsmanship, not the successful replication—just her, as she was, in this moment.

  As the song ended, Thomas didn't step away immediately. "Would you like to get some air? Maybe see a bit of the real world outside this stuffy hall?"

  Outside, the September evening carried the first hint of autumn chill, and Thomas immediately shrugged out of his jacket to drape it around her shoulders. The gesture was so natural, so protective, that Valerie felt tears threaten.

  "Thank you," she whispered, pulling the jacket closer. It smelled like aftershave and something indefinably masculine, and she wanted to memorize the scent.

  "So tell me about this grandfather of yours," Thomas said as they walked to his borrowed Buick. "Sounds like he was quite the scholar."

  "He was... innovative. Perhaps too much so." Valerie chose her words carefully. "He believed in pushing the boundaries of what was possible. Sometimes that made him unpopular with more conventional minds."

  "The best minds usually are controversial. Look at Darwin, or Galileo." Thomas opened the car door for her—another small courtesy that felt monumental. "I bet you inherited his brilliance."

  The praise made her chest tight with unfamiliar emotion. "I've had good teachers. And plenty of time to study."

  "Sounds lonely though. Big house, just you and your books?"

  "Very lonely," she admitted, the truth slipping out before she could stop it.

  Thomas paused, his hand on the car door. "Well, maybe that doesn't have to be permanent. Good people shouldn't be alone."

  When he kissed her, it was gentle at first, then deeper as she responded with surprising hunger. She tasted cigarettes and punch and something she couldn't name but wanted more of. Valerie's first kiss, and it was like a promise of everything she'd never dared to hope for.

  "Would you like to see what normal family life looks like?" he asked suddenly. "My family's farm isn't far. My parents are visiting my aunt in Springfield, but I could show you around. It's not much, but it's... real. Honest."

  The offer was everything she'd never known she wanted. To see how regular people lived, to walk through rooms where families gathered and shared meals and argued and laughed and existed together. To glimpse the life she'd read about but never experienced.

  "I would love that," she said, and the simple truth of it nearly overwhelmed her.

  As they drove through the dark countryside, Valerie's hand rested on his arm, her mind spinning with possibilities she'd never dared entertain. Here was someone who saw her as simply Valerie—not a project, not a reminder, not a burden to be hidden away. Someone who spoke of family and futures and the kind of normal life she'd only imagined.

  When the farmhouse came into view, warm light spilling from its windows, Valerie felt something crack open in her chest. This was what a home looked like when it was lived in by people who belonged together. Not a laboratory disguised as a residence, not a monument to guilt and scientific ambition, but a place where love had grown naturally over time.

  "Welcome to the Hartwell family farm," Thomas said, helping her from the car. "It's not much, but it's been in my family for three generations."

  Three generations of normal people living normal lives, building something together. Valerie stood in the driveway, overwhelmed by the ordinariness of it all—the chicken coop, the vegetable garden, the porch swing where she could imagine Thomas's parents sitting in the evenings.

  This was what she wanted. This life, this normalcy, this belonging. And for the first time in her existence, it felt possible.

  "It's perfect," she breathed, and meant it completely.

  As Thomas led her toward the house, Valerie was already imagining herself as part of this picture—helping with morning chores, sharing meals at the kitchen table, falling asleep next to someone who chose to love her not because of what she represented, but because of who she was.

  For the first time since her consciousness began, Valerie Brunner allowed herself to hope.

  ********

  The front door opened with a homey creak that spoke of generations of daily use. Thomas reached around Valerie to flip the light switch, and warm yellow light flooded a living room that looked like it had grown organically over decades rather than being arranged by design.

  "Ma always says the place looks lived-in," Thomas said, hanging his cap on a hook by the door. "That's her polite way of saying we're not the tidiest family."

  Valerie stepped carefully into the space, her eyes cataloging every detail with scientific precision turned reverent. A wedding photograph on the mantelpiece showed a younger version of what must be Thomas's parents, the woman's dress indicating a ceremony sometime in the early twenties. Children's handprints in clay decorated the windowsill—Thomas's siblings, she assumed, now grown and moved away. A quilt draped over the sofa bore the careful stitching of loving hands, probably Thomas's mother working through long winter evenings.

  "It's wonderful," she breathed, running her fingers along the back of a worn armchair that bore the impression of someone's favorite spot. "It feels... inhabited. Cherished."

  "That's one way to put it." Thomas moved to the kitchen, his voice carrying easily through the open doorway. "Ma would have your head if she knew I brought a girl over without offering proper refreshment. Coffee? Or there might be some of Dad's whiskey if you're feeling adventurous."

  "Coffee would be lovely." Valerie continued her exploration, pausing at a bookshelf filled with an eclectic mix—farm journals, a few novels, what appeared to be a complete set of encyclopedias from 1938, and a well-worn Bible. Normal books, read by normal people living normal lives.

  She could hear Thomas moving around the kitchen—the familiar sounds of domesticity that she'd only observed from a distance. The coffee pot being filled, cabinets opening and closing, the comfortable routine of someone at home in their space.

  "My mother would like you," he called from the kitchen. "She's always saying I should find a girl with some depth to her."

  The casual mention of his mother liking her sent warmth flooding through Valerie's chest. To be liked by Thomas's mother—to be welcomed into this family circle, to become part of their story. She could picture herself helping with Sunday dinners, listening to family stories, contributing to the comfortable chaos of belonging somewhere.

  "What's she like?" Valerie asked, settling carefully onto the sofa as if afraid she might disturb something sacred.

  Thomas appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame while they waited for the coffee to brew. "Stubborn as a mule and twice as smart. She runs this place, really—Dad just follows orders and pretends he's in charge." His smile was fond, the kind that came from years of loving exasperation. "She'd probably put you to work in her victory garden within five minutes of meeting you."

  "I'd like that." The honesty surprised even her. "I've never had anyone to work alongside."

  "What about your family? You mentioned your grandfather..."

  "My parents died when I was young. My grandfather raised me, but he was... focused on his work. There wasn't much time for gardening or domestic pursuits." Valerie chose her words carefully, omitting the fact that her 'childhood' had been spent learning to navigate a world built for someone else's memories. "He taught me everything he could about science, but not much about living."

  Thomas crossed the room and sat beside her on the sofa, close enough that she could smell his aftershave mixing with the lingering scents of home—wood polish, old fabric, something baking from earlier in the day. "That's a shame. Family should be about more than just lessons."

  "What was it like, growing up here?" she asked, desperate to understand this foreign concept of family warmth.

  "Loud, mostly." Thomas chuckled, stretching his arm along the back of the sofa behind her. "Three boys and all the neighborhood kids treating our place like their second home. Ma feeding everyone who walked through the door, Dad teaching us to fix everything that broke—which was constantly, with that many kids around."

  "It sounds perfect."

  "It was pretty good." His voice grew thoughter. "The war made me appreciate it more. You don't realize how rare that kind of stability is until you've seen places where families get torn apart."

  The coffee pot's whistle interrupted them, and Thomas went to fetch their cups. When he returned, he sat closer than before, his thigh almost touching hers. Valerie accepted the coffee gratefully, using the warmth of the cup to steady her suddenly trembling hands.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "You're nervous," Thomas observed gently.

  "I don't have much experience with... social situations."

  "Is that what this is? A social situation?"

  Valerie met his eyes, seeing something there that made her pulse quicken. "I'm not sure what this is."

  "Neither am I, exactly." Thomas set down his coffee cup and turned to face her fully. "But I know I've never met anyone like you, Valerie. There's something about you that's... I don't know.”

  Instead of answering, she set down her own cup and allowed herself to really look at him—the strong line of his jaw, the way his hair had come slightly undone from its careful styling, the warmth in his eyes that she'd never seen directed at her before.

  "May I kiss you again?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  She nodded, not trusting her voice. When his lips met hers this time, it was different from the gentle exploration outside the dance hall. This kiss spoke of intent, of possibility, of the kind of connection she'd read about but never believed could be hers.

  His hands framed her face as they kissed, and Valerie felt something inside her chest crack open completely.

  "Valerie," Thomas murmured against her lips, and the sound of her name in his voice was like a prayer.

  "Yes?"

  "Would you... would you like to stay tonight? I know it's forward of me to ask, but..."

  "Yes." The word escaped before she could consider the implications, driven by a need she barely understood. "Yes, I would like that very much."

  Thomas pulled back to study her face, searching for hesitation or doubt. Finding none, he stood and offered her his hand. "Are you certain?"

  She took his hand, marveling at how perfectly it fit with hers. "I've never been more certain of anything."

  As he led her up the narrow staircase, Valerie's mind raced with the significance of the moment. His bedroom—the most private space in this family home, the place where he slept and dreamed and planned his future. To be invited in was to be trusted with his most intimate self.

  The room was simple but comfortable, dominated by a double bed covered with what appeared to be another of his mother's quilts. Photographs on the dresser showed Thomas at various ages, often with his arms around other young men in uniform—friends who might not have made it home.

  "My mother made that quilt when I graduated high school," Thomas said, following her gaze. "Said every man needs something beautiful to come home to."

  Beautiful. Like he'd called her at the dance. Like she'd never believed she could be.

  Thomas moved closer, his hands settling gently on her waist. "Last chance to change your mind."

  Instead of answering, Valerie reached up to begin unbuttoning his uniform jacket, her fingers steady despite the magnitude of what she was choosing. This wasn't just physical desire—this was claiming a place in the world, accepting an invitation to exist as more than just a shadow of someone else's life.

  "I don't want to change my mind," she whispered against his throat as his jacket fell to the floor. "I want this. I want you."

  And for the first time in her existence, Valerie Brunner allowed herself to believe that she deserved to be wanted in return.

  Thomas's hands settled on her waist as she reached up to unbutton his uniform jacket, her fingers trembling with the magnitude of what she was choosing. When the jacket fell to the floor, she looked up at him with something approaching reverence.

  "I've never..." she whispered, her voice catching. "I've never done this before."

  *******

  Valerie lay in the aftermath, her head on Thomas's chest, listening to his heartbeat slow from urgent to steady. The quilt his mother had made wrapped around them both, and she felt, for the first time in her existence, like she belonged somewhere. The room smelled of intimacy and possibility, and she traced lazy patterns on his skin while her mind spun with plans for their future.

  "That was..." she began, then stopped, not having words for what had just passed between them.

  "Yeah," Thomas agreed, his arm tightening around her briefly. "It was."

  She tilted her head to look at him, studying the relaxed lines of his face in the lamplight. "Thomas?"

  "Mmm?"

  "When you spoke of wanting to start a family... did you mean that?"

  He was quiet for a long moment, and she felt him tense slightly beneath her. "Well, sure. Eventually. When the time is right."

  "I've never had a real family," she said softly, pressing closer to him. "What we just shared... I can see it now. A life here, with you. Children running through these rooms like you did. Sunday dinners, holidays..." She paused, then added with vulnerable honesty, "I never thought I could have normal things like that."

  Thomas's breathing changed, became more measured. "Valerie..."

  "I know it's soon to be talking like this, but I feel like I've known you my whole life. Like I was waiting for you." She lifted herself on one elbow to look at him properly. "Is that foolish?"

  The expression on his face made her stomach clench with sudden unease. It wasn't the warm affection she'd seen all evening—it was something careful, almost pitying.

  "Listen, sweetheart," he said gently, his hand moving to stroke her hair. "Tonight was wonderful. Really wonderful. But we should probably talk about expectations."

  The word 'expectations' fell into the warm space between them like a stone into still water. "What do you mean?"

  Thomas sat up, reaching for his cigarettes on the nightstand. The casual movement put distance between them that felt suddenly vast. "I mean we're both adults here. We both know what this was."

  "What this was?" Valerie pulled the quilt up to cover herself, suddenly feeling exposed in more ways than physical.

  "A good time. A celebration." He lit his cigarette, not quite meeting her eyes. "The war's over, we're both young and alive. Sometimes that's enough reason."

  The room seemed to tilt around her. "I don't understand."

  Thomas took a long drag, exhaling slowly. "Look, you're a swell girl. Beautiful, intelligent, different from the usual crowd. But I'll be heading back to Springfield in a few days to see my girl. We've been writing for three years—she waited for me through the whole war."

  "Your girl?" The words came out barely above a whisper.

  "My fiancée, actually. Betty Carmichael. We've been planning to marry since before I shipped out." He said it matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. "I probably should have mentioned it earlier, but... well, what happens at victory dances doesn't always need to complicate things back home."

  Valerie stared at him, her mind struggling to process what she was hearing. "You're engaged?"

  "Have been for two years. She's a good girl—the marrying kind, you know? Wholesome. The type who'll make a good mother and keep a proper house." Thomas finally looked at her, and there was genuine fondness in his expression. "Not that there's anything wrong with girls like you. You're exciting, mysterious. But a man needs different things for different parts of his life."

  The casual dismissal hit her like a physical blow. Different things for different parts of his life. She was the exciting part, the temporary diversion. Betty Carmichael was the real part, the part that mattered.

  "I see." Valerie's voice was steady, clinical. She slipped from the bed, gathering her scattered clothing mechanically. "I misunderstood the nature of our... encounter."

  "Now don't be like that." Thomas stubbed out his cigarette. "We had fun, didn't we? No harm done. You're not the type to get all weepy about these things."

  She paused in buttoning her dress. "What type am I, exactly?"

  "Independent. Modern. The kind of woman who understands that sometimes people just need to connect without it meaning forever." He was trying to be kind, she realized. In his mind, he was letting her down easy. "You'll find someone who appreciates that about you."

  "Yes," she said quietly, smoothing down her skirt. "I believe I will."

  "That's the spirit. No hard feelings?"

  Valerie looked at him—this man who had shown her a glimpse of normal life, who had made her believe she could be wanted for herself, who had just relegated her to the category of temporary entertainment. He was smiling at her with the same easy charm he'd shown at the dance, completely unaware that he had just shattered something fundamental inside her.

  "None at all," she said. "Though I should probably step outside for a moment. Get some air."

  "Sure thing. I'll probably grab a quick shower while you do." Thomas stretched, completely comfortable in his nakedness and his casual cruelty. "Take your time."

  Valerie walked downstairs in her stockings, her shoes forgotten somewhere in his bedroom. The living room looked different now—not warm and welcoming, but foreign. These weren't her family's photographs, her family's memories, her place to belong. She had been playing house in someone else's life.

  She let herself out the front door, her feet finding the path to the barn as if drawn by instinct. The night air was cold against her skin, but she barely felt it. Inside her chest, something was crystalizing—not heartbreak, not despair, but something harder and more dangerous.

  The barn door creaked as she pushed it open. Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the boards, illuminating the tools of farm life—shovels, rope, a grindstone, and there, hanging from a nail on the support beam, the axe Thomas's father used for splitting firewood.

  Valerie lifted it from its hook, testing its weight. Well-maintained, sharp, efficient. A tool designed for one purpose: to split things apart.

  She thought about Betty Carmichael, the good girl waiting faithfully in Springfield. The wholesome one, the marrying kind. The one who mattered enough to build a future with.

  She thought about Thomas upstairs, probably humming while he washed away the evidence of their encounter, preparing to return to his real life with his real love.

  She thought about her own reflection in the punch bowl earlier tonight, and how she'd avoided looking because she already knew what she'd see—her mother's face looking back, a reminder that she was nothing more than a reproduction, a pale echo of someone else's existence.

  But tonight, for a few precious hours, she had been Valerie. She had been wanted, chosen, valued. She had glimpsed what it might feel like to be the marrying kind, the real kind, the kind that mattered.

  And Thomas Hartwell had taken that away from her as casually as he might discard yesterday's newspaper.

  The axe felt good in her hands. Solid. Purposeful. A tool for solving problems.

  As she walked back toward the house, Valerie's mind was already working with the clinical precision that would later serve her so well. Thomas would be in the shower now—vulnerable, trapped, unable to hear her approach over the sound of running water. The bathroom door wouldn't be locked; farm families didn't lock doors inside their own homes.

  She paused at the bottom of the stairs, listening to the water running above. For a moment, she considered alternatives. She could simply leave, disappear into the night, nurse her wounds in private like any other discarded woman.

  But the memory of his casual dismissal burned in her chest. "Different things for different parts of his life." "No hard feelings." "The kind of woman who understands."

  She understood, all right. She understood that Thomas Hartwell saw her as less than human, less than worthy of truth or consideration. A temporary diversion to be used and dismissed.

  Valerie Brunner began climbing the stairs, the axe heavy and sure in her grip. The water was still running when Valerie reached the top of the stairs. Steam seeped from beneath the bathroom door, and she could hear Thomas humming—something cheerful and off-key that made her jaw clench. He was humming. Washing away their encounter like dirt from his hands, preparing to return to his real life with his real love.

  She tested the door handle. Unlocked, just as she'd known it would be. Farm families didn't lock doors in their own homes.

  The hinges gave a soft creak as she pushed it open, but the sound was lost beneath the spray of water and Thomas's tuneless melody. The small bathroom was thick with steam, the mirror fogged completely. Through the translucent shower curtain, she could see his silhouette—relaxed, vulnerable, utterly unaware.

  Valerie stepped inside, closing the door behind her with deliberate quiet. The axe felt heavier now, substantial in her grip. She adjusted her hold, remembering her grandfather's lessons about precision, about the importance of clean cuts.

  "Hey, is that you?" Thomas called from behind the curtain, his voice echoing off the tile. "Thought you were getting some air."

  "I was," Valerie said, her voice steady. "I found what I was looking for."

  Something in her tone must have registered because the humming stopped. The water continued its steady drumming, but she could sense his sudden alertness.

  "Valerie? You okay out there?"

  Instead of answering, she gripped the axe handle with both hands and yanked the shower curtain aside.

  Thomas stood frozen under the spray, water streaming down his naked body, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of her—still in her wrinkled dress, her hair wild, gripping a woodsman's axe like an avenging angel.

  "What the hell—"

  The first swing caught him across the ribs before he could finish the sentence. The axe bit deep, and Thomas screamed—a raw, animal sound that mixed with the splash of water and the wet crack of ribs breaking. Blood sprayed across the white tile walls, stark as paint against the porcelain.

  He stumbled backward, hitting the shower wall, his hands pressed against the gaping wound. "Jesus Christ, Valerie, what are you—"

  "Girls like me," she said, raising the axe again. "Different things for different parts of your life."

  The second swing took him in the shoulder as he tried to raise his arms defensively. The blade severed muscle and tendon, and his left arm dropped uselessly to his side. More blood, painting the shower floor red, swirling down the drain in pink spirals.

  Thomas was sobbing now, sliding down the tile wall, his good hand scrabbling for purchase. "Please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

  "You meant every word." Valerie's voice was clinical, detached. "You meant that I was temporary. That I was the kind of woman who understands. That Betty Carmichael is the marrying kind and I'm just the fucking kind."

  The third swing was aimed at his head, but he managed to duck, and the axe blade buried itself in the wall above him with a satisfying thunk. Plaster and tile rained down.

  "Verdammt," she barked, yanking the axe free of the wall. Thomas tried taking advantage of the small window of opportunity to escape. "Bleiben."

  "No hard feelings, remember?" she said, adjusting her grip as she stepped over him again. "Isn't that what you said?"

  Thomas tried to crawl away, but there was nowhere to go in the small space. His blood made the floor slippery, and he kept losing his footing. The water continued to pour down, washing the blood in streams across the tile.

  "I have a fiancée," he gasped, as if this were news to her. "She's waiting for me. Please, she's waiting—"

  "Then you should have thought of her before you decided to celebrate your homecoming between my legs."

  The fourth swing caught him in the back as he tried to crawl toward the door. She felt the axe bite through spine, heard the wet crack of vertebrae separating. Thomas went limp from the waist down, his legs useless, though his arms still moved frantically.

  "Please," he whispered, his voice weak now, losing blood fast. "Please, I don't want to die."

  Valerie knelt beside him in the spreading pool of red water, the axe resting across her knees. Up close, she could see the life leaving his eyes, could hear his breathing becoming shallow and irregular. She set the axe aside as she sat him up straight against the wall, a difficult task for her small slender frame, he was large and dead weight but with persistence she triumphed. His dying moments spent feeling his body being positioned like a mannequin so that she could get her last final strike.

  "Beruhige dich. Neither did I," she said softly. "But you killed me anyway, didn't you? You killed the part of me that believed I could be chosen, could be wanted, could be real." She touched his face almost gently, her fingers coming away red. "The difference is, your death will be quicker."

  The final swing was precise, clinical. A clean cut across the throat that opened his carotid like a blooming flower. Blood sprayed in a high arc, painting the ceiling, and then Thomas Hartwell was still.

  Valerie sat back on her heels, breathing hard. The shower continued to run, washing the blood in rivers toward the drain. Steam rose around her like incense, and she felt something settle in her chest—not satisfaction exactly, but completion. A problem solved. A lesson learned.

  She stood slowly, studying her handiwork. The bathroom looked like an abattoir, red streaking every surface. Thomas lay crumpled in the corner of the shower, his body twisted at impossible angles, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

  "Girls like me," she murmured in English, then finished in German: "Ihr habt keine Ahnung." She hefted the axe again. "You have no idea what girls like me are capable of."

  She would need to clean up, of course. Dispose of the body. Make it look like he'd simply disappeared—gone AWOL, perhaps, or decided to start fresh somewhere new. People would assume he'd abandoned his responsibilities, his fiancée, his family farm.

  They would never know that Thomas Hartwell had died the moment he decided that Valerie Brunner was something to be used and discarded.

  As she turned off the water and began planning her next steps, Valerie felt a strange sense of clarity. This was who she was meant to be. Not the pale echo of her mother, not the shameful secret locked away in a mansion, not the temporary diversion for men who would never choose her.

  She was something else entirely. Something that solved problems with precision and permanence.

  She looked down at the body now, his naked bloody body. She could see herself now, dragging him down the stairs to throw him to the pigs and letting them dispose of him, trying to clean the trail of blood that would leave, cleaning the bathroom, laundering the shower curtains, the hole in the wall that would need fixing, returning the axe to its place. So many things to fix to make it seem Thomas has simply disappeared. She just simply couldn't possibly do all that alone.

  So that wasn't the story for tonight. No one had seen her come with him, no one had reason to trace her to him when he'd chatted to so many women at the dance.

  One more axe swing and Thomas’s penis fell to the floor, bloody and limp, she picked it up and put it in the sink before pushing his body up against the wall and prying his mouth open and shoving the bloody member in, would be quite the sight for his parents when they found it.

  Then she turned to the mirror quickly diverting her gaze away from it as she searched through the cabinets and shelves until she found what must have been his mother's lipstick. With her eyes still closed she lifted it up and did her best to write “Liar” on the mirror. Then she left. Left her shoes in his room to be found, so that it would be known a woman had been with him that night.

  He wouldn't be here last victim. Not even close.