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Now time for the story.

Rain drops began to pummel the pavement as I stood over her body.

She was younger than the others, maybe early 20s.

Her legs were twisted at odd angles and her shirt was torn, signifying a struggle.

I'd only just realized her hair had a red accent beneath the blonde when thunder gourd

overhead.

Her eyes were still wide with terror, an expression of fear frozen in time.

I'd been too late.

Again, the concrete began to soak in the arterial spray in its pores from where her throat

had been slit.

A three-foot arch of crimson laid directly in front of her mangled neck.

She'd been pinned to the sidewalk when he cut her.

Our boy was getting brazen and messy.

Sirens began to wail in the distance.

I'd already called the body into the local authorities on a burner phone, as I had

...