The killer pressed his shaking finger against the doorbell, licking his lips as he anticipated tonight’s big kill. Shadows moved behind the door’s blurred pane, making his blood rush through him like a flood. This was it, he realized: another brutal murder.
It was a man who answered the door. He was tall, handsome in an obvious kind of way, but the killer couldn’t understand what the fuss was about. There was nothing special about him—no particular feature that made him a good catch. But he supposed that didn’t matter.
After all, he had less than a minute to live.
“Pizza time,” the killer said with the biggest grin he could muster. That cheesy smile would take him a long way, especially when coupled with the uniform he’d so easily acquired. He reached into the delivery bag, feeding his arm deep inside to reach the empty box.
“We didn’t order any pizza,” the man said, hidden behind his door.
We. That was the word he’d been looking for. That was all the proof he needed that Mr. Handsome wasn’t the only one in the house that night. Another flood of excitement coursed through him like fuel hurled into a fire. He fought to control himself.
“Are you sure?” the killer asked. He froze with his hand inside the bag for dramatic effect.
“Yes, I’m sure. Now if you don’t mind, I have—”
“I’m so sorry,” the killer said, removing his hand and clipping the bag shut. “I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just that we get a lot of crank calls. You know, kids ordering to other places as a sort of stupid game. We’ve all been there.”
“Right.” The man nodded, stepping back to close the door.
The killer reached out and stopped it. “Actually…”
“What now?”
“Could I maybe use your bathroom? I have a long night of rounds, and I can’t hold my water too well.”
Mr. Handsome studied him with the too-stern eyes of a school principal. Maybe he was—the killer hadn’t done any research on this man outside of social media, which could only tell so much. All the same, his eyes bulged with the same arrogance as in his pictures.
Finally, he sighed and opened the door. “Fine. But be quick. Second door on the left.”
The killer forced out another smile and hurried inside, dumping his delivery bag on the polished hallway unit. Assaulted by the powerful scent of potpourri, he hurried into the bathroom and locked the door, his adrenaline taking over. He could barely believe he was actually in their home—after all this time watching the man’s wife and feeling like a filthy dog who wasn’t allowed in, it came down to something as easy as stealing a uniform and asking to use the bathroom. It seemed too good to be true.
Catching his breath, he stood over the sink and gawked at himself in the mirror. He looked as ridiculous as he felt, and he quickly grabbed the stupid cap from his head, tearing it off and tossing it to one side. His sweaty hair was matted to his head, but that was okay; he was still recognizable, and that was all he wanted. The look on her face would be priceless, and he couldn’t wait to see it.
The next thing he did was final. He pulled the kitchen knife from his pocket,
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