The thick clotted blood dripped from my hand. No. It's not right. I poured the crimson blood into a bucket of crystal water and watched color slowly seep into the water. Again I checked the consistency of the blood. This time it flowed seamlessly from my hand. Perfect. It's now or never. I once again dipped my hand into the diluted blood. Slowing again, I lifted my hand to the snow white walls and gently pressed the tips of my fore and middle finger and began to write.
Mirror Mirror
on the wall
who's the strongest
of them all
There. Done at last. I have nine minutes to leave. My message should be read by 3:41. The victim's daughter gets home at 3:32, it will take her thirty-two seconds to mourn and then realise she must call the police. After that, with the current weather and traffic patterns, it is probable that the police will arrive within 6 minutes and 42 seconds. Nine minutes. That's all I need to wipe my prints, gather my tools, exit, return home, and prepare for the observation of the police.
YOU ARE READING
The Killers
ActionIf you don't like blood, don't read this book. A story about two killers who communicate through their murder, however there is a twist.
