I stood beside the corpse of the latest victim. The morgue was cold but peaceful, gloomy but strangely tranquil. And I just stood there, staring at the little white body under her little white sheet. Her skin was so pale, so perfect: long arms and long legs and a long back beneath thin, pointed breasts and a taut, empty stomach.

I knew I was inspecting her like meat. I hated myself for it.

Harry had closed her eyes. He wasn’t usually so sentimental and yet there was something about this girl, something particularly haunting that demanded closure even from professionals.

I lifted her wrist, brushed my thumb over the tattoo that decorated her vein. Eyes wandered to the inside of her elbow; the star scattering of needle scars that sat there, ancient pin pricks suddenly so dark on her translucent skin. I let the arm drop with a dull slap.

Sixteen years old. I sighed. There was something about this girl, something that reminded me of who I used to be, and what I owed it to her to become again.

A killer.