She stood in the shadows as the crowd gathered. Their hushed shock drifted up like a dark cloud from the busy streets as the deformed body of Claude Richardson lay face down on the pavement, a life of wantonness and deceit ending brutally.
The artist was almost too charming to kill.
She’d played the role of his dream woman to get close enough to elegantly dispatch him — with a push out the open window.
She turned from the gruesome, marking him from the list.
She walked past the crowd, climbed the stairs to the train heading southbound on route 66.
Copyright © Glynis Rankin