But it is also a deathtrap.

Once embedded, I clobber self-pity, which is the primary emotion of sorrow. It surrenders reluctantly, but inevitably, just as gunpowder defeats a switchblade.

“That’s all very interesting,” said the couple, “but we don’t think you’re the right marriage counselor for us.”

Sorrow lined Adrian’s face and his goatee quivered as he asked, “Please, dear sister? In the name of love?”

“I’ve been saving your ass since kindergarten,” she hissed. “I never let a single bully clobber you. And after all this time, this is the thanks I get.”

“I set the deathtrap like you asked!” he insisted, waving his gunpowder-tipped fingers as evidence.

“Yes, you idiot, and you fucked up,” she said flatly, advancing on him. “And now, I have to get rid of the trail that leads to me.”

Homicide detective, Brett Connors, had been working the case for a year. Each time he thought he had the killer, he found another woman, murdered in the name of love. Or was that a game, too? The killer had called them whores, and his one true love. So much of it felt like he was playing them.

The press had a field day, speculating on the meaning behind the birdcage ornament, hanging from each victim’s toe. Now, homicide had something new – something they kept from the press. Lying beside the bloodstained bed of the latest victim was a switchblade.

The Gray Titan with the gunpowder-colored handle was sold as “double edge, double action.” The coroner’s office confirmed this blade had seen a lot more than “double action.”

“Getting sloppy, asshole,” Brett murmured. Or had they gotten that close? At times, Brett swore he could feel the disturbed breath of the killer. What would they have found if they arrived five minutes sooner? Why didn’t he just clobber the doorman who stood in his way?

“Don’t go there – not yet,” Brett thought, but, it was hard not to. The latest victim was a kindergarten teacher, for God’s sake. What had she ever done but try to start a kid’s life out right? He could still hear the wails of her mother’s sorrow.

Witnesses saw someone running from the victim’s home. As was so often the case, the descriptions varied so much, you’d think an army of men had fled. He was bald – he had long hair. He had a goatee – he was clean-shaven. What they had in the description department was a whole lot of nothing. Ouija boards and insane asylum patients made more sense.

Somehow, Brett had to figure it out. It had gone on far too long. Far too many women had died. He couldn’t let it continue. He couldn’t destroy another family’s life.