Chapter 5
Breaking news. That afternoon, the local news on Channel 7 shook my core. One of my victims had been unfortunately discovered. The pretty boy newscaster with blue eyes and onyx-colored hair, no older than twenty-three, named Clive Pinehurst shared the horrific story with his viewers. Sadly, I had known the details of the murder better than what he had shared and explained to his audience.
Lane Hitt was a beautiful man: long brown hair, baby smile, wishing-well green eyes. We met under Coleman Bridge, walking along Hart River. He enjoyed his stick of m*******a, spending a few minutes away from his band. And I, on similar evenings, pursued a hunt.
He told me, “My band Hitt is playing at Jester, a local gay bar. Do you know it?”
I nodded in the dark blue and melancholy night. “I
