It’s sixty—eight degrees inside the car. The core—heated air smells of pine freshener and coffee. Outside, a winter sky the color of lead blends with the gray snow—slush roads, morphing the landscape into a blurry daguerreotype day. The radio is set to AM. An announcer squawks about a history—making 57—yard Hail Mary. The game took place last Sunday. The show is a replay, its urgency offensively fake, a mystery already solved, shelved, and forgotten.

The killer stabs the radio button and cruises past the woman’s house for the second time in an hour. It isn’t difficult to blend in, even in a rural area. Silver sedans are a dime a dozen, especially borrowed older models with a rouge of rust rimming the wheel housing.

The woman is removing snow from her sidewalk. A quick pass reveals her wide—mouthed shovel digging deep into the drifts and coming up loaded. Her shoulders are strong, her concentration absolute. She tosses the snow to the side, and her mutt tries to catch it before it lands. They’ve been at it for at least ten minutes, and the dog is now more snow than animal.

Shovel. Toss. Catch.

Shovel. Toss. Catch.

The killer isn’t worried about the dog. Animals are easy to subdue, if a person is quick. The woman wouldn’t put up much of a fight, either, despite a toned upper body. Fear is always an effective paralyzing agent.

Although her ski cap is tucked low, the killer knows that underneath she’s a brunette, just like the rest. She likes travelling and has visited Italy twice. She loves a good debate, Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey is her guilty pleasure, and she tends toward the sarcastic side, though she doesn’t mean anything by it.

Also, she lives alone.

The last point, the killer uncovered by walking past her house and twice, rifling through her mail while she was at work. The rest was revealed in her online dating profile.

“Quiet,” the killer snaps. “I know she shouldn’t have put all that out there. A woman who advertises shouldn’t be surprised when a buyer shows up, right?”

The only response is the hum of the heater. The 12—inch plastic doll strapped in the passenger seat has nothing to add. She sits in her perfect Jackie O dress suit, her immaculate brown hair pulled back into a bun. Her face poses a frustrating half—smile, always.

The killer turns the radio back on.