PROLOGUE
They always said she was quiet. The kind of quiet that made teachers smile and neighbours nod approvingly, relieved to see a “good girl” for once. She learned early that silence was a costume—one that fit perfectly across her face. Behind it, her mind stayed busy, collecting people like unfinished puzzles. She studied them, piece by piece, until she learned exactly where they would break.
She remembers her first discovery: pain doesn’t always leave bruises. Sometimes it’s just a word spoken at the right moment, a truth twisted slightly out of shape. Sometimes it’s the pleasure of watching a person realise they trusted the wrong smile. She learned that cruelty was not something you acted—cruelty was something you were.
Tonight, she sits alone in her room, carefully placing old photographs on the floor. Dead faces, blank eyes. Some missing. Some forgotten by everyone except her. She traces a finger across the glossy surface, almost lovingly. Every picture is a memory, a chapter in the story only she knows.
People think monsters hide in the dark. They don’t.
She does her best work in the light—where everyone can see her and no one ever suspects a thing.
And tomorrow, when they find the next body, someone will whisper the same words they always do: “Who could have done something like this?”
She smiles. If they only knew.