The serial killer inaccurately called the Black Widow, aka the Dame (or Diva) of Death, waited in silence. It wouldn’t be long before he showed up. She wiped clear oval in the fog on the bathroom’s mirror and used it to check her make-up, thumbing away a smudge of lipstick and wiping it on a towel.
Beside her, the naked man in the tub shuddered and went limp. The satisfied look had fallen from his face, replaced with simple contentment.
One moment she was alone with a corpse, the next moment he stood there, silver pocket watch in hand. He never looked at her. This time she would get his attention. Paralysis gripped her the way that it had every time she’d seen him. She concentrated hard on talking, yelling, screaming. As if she were flexing invisible muscles, she felt the bonds of whatever was holding her, weaken. Yes!
Life rushed into her and he was gone. Again.
She had almost told him this time. It looked like she would have to kill again. Maybe next time she’d tell him that she loved him.