Sarah's sneakers squeaked on the polished hallway floor as the last bell faded. She caught Mr. Cole at his classroom door, backpack straps twisted in her fists.
"Please, Mr. Cole. I missed the handout for tomorrow. If I could just swing by your place real quick?"
Ethan Cole's smile was gentle, practiced. "Of course, Sarah. Can't have you falling behind."
The ride was silent except for the soft click of the turn signal. His house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, curtains drawn tight against the late-afternoon sun. Inside smelled of lemon cleaner and something coppery underneath.
His phone vibrated the moment the door shut. "One minute," he murmured, stepping into the kitchen.
Sarah drifted, restless. Her gaze snagged on the kitchen trash bin—lid cracked, a single dark droplet sliding down the plastic rim. She nudged it open with her toe.
A hand.
Pale. Severed at the wrist. Still glistening.
The scream ripped out of her like a living thing.
Ethan appeared in the doorway, phone pressed to his ear. His eyes flicked to the bin, then to her.
Shit. The thought was clinical. I swore I emptied that this morning.
"I want to go," Sarah choked, lunging for the front door.
His hand clamped her ponytail, jerking her backward. The first punch snapped her head sideways; the second folded her into darkness.
When Sarah's eyes fluttered open, the world was sideways. Duct tape sealed her mouth; zip-ties bit into her wrists. A masked figure crouched over her—black ski mask, holes cut for eyes that glinted with familiar calm.
"Mr. Cole?" The name came out muffled, frantic.
He laughed, low and delighted. "Took you long enough."
A scalpel flashed between gloved fingers. He pressed the flat of the blade to her thigh, tracing the seam of her jeans like he was choosing fabric. Then he sliced.
Sarah's scream vibrated against the cloth gag, useless. Blood welled hot and immediate. Ethan dragged her into his lap, humming under his breath—an old lullaby their class had sung last spring.
The scalpel danced again, parting skin along her stomach in a deliberate, smiling curve. He worked slowly, savoring the way her body jerked with every shallow cut, the way her eyes begged for a mercy he'd never learned to give.
His phone buzzed on the counter. He wiped the blade on her shirt, answered without looking.
"You can come now," he said, voice as mild as ever. "Bring the saw."