Annalise stared at the limp body. She was on her knees, straddling the man’s stomach where he lay on the floor.
“I hate you, Rowan Gant,” she growled, her voice thick with anger.
He had started twitching uncontrollably after the first blow. Following the second, all movement stopped, and she felt his chest lower slowly as the air sighed from his lungs. She raised her arm over her head again, feeling the cold derision knotting into a ball at the pit of her stomach.
“I HATE YOU,” she repeated, as she swung the tenderizing mallet down hard for the third and final time.
She heard a mushy thump and the splintering of bone.
Blood was now soaking through the black fabric of the hood wherever the pulpy remnants of his face came into contact with it. The sticky wetness made the cloth glisten in the harsh, overhead light of the small room. She sat back and allowed herself to smile as she watched it spread.
There was no impending reward behind this kill. No tickle, no itch, no physical gratification. She didn’t love this man as she did the others. He was a tool for her to use. He was nothing more than an object. And now, the object had fulfilled a purpose.
Annalise pulled herself up to her feet and stepped over to the bed. She could still feel the anger coursing through her body as she reached into her bag then withdrew the brand new twelve-inch butcher’s saw. She tore off the paperboard sleeve and carefully removed the blade guard before turning back to the body on the floor.
One cross wouldn’t be enough, and there was still much to do.
Thursday, December 8
2:46 P.M.
St. Louis, Missouri