Shirts and jeans litter the asphalt, the empty fabric limbs askew as if they're attempting to escape. Blood smears Sarah's lips as she struggles against the chest of a dirty looking man with a beard. Terror. Terror is the only word my mind can seize on and it forgets what it means. I forget how to think - to move.
This was a crime of passion, but unlike most crimes of passion, it had been meticulously and diabolically well-planned.
The French Art of Revenge
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This was a crime of passion, but unlike most crimes of passion, it had been meticulously and diabolically well-planned.
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