CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
His living room was mostly dark, illuminated only by the thin shafts of morning sun that managed to creep through the blinds. He sat in an old ragged armchair and looked to the old roll-top desk against the far corner of the room. The cover was rolled up, revealing the items he had kept from each sacrifice.
There was a pocketbook with a wallet inside. Within the wallet, there was a driver’s license belonging to Hailey Lizbrook. There was also a skirt that had belonged to the woman he had hung up in the field; a chunk of strawberry blonde hair with black dye at the tips from the woman he had placed behind the abandoned house.
There was still room for reminders he would bring back from the rest of his sacrifices—reminders of each woman he took for the sake of the work the
