Twist

Jack Scranton couldn't understand why any woman would have so many photographs of herself scattered throughout her home, but he didn't really have time to worry about whatever form of narcissism the dead woman had been into.

He hadn't meant to kill her, but he hadn't expected her to be home. He'd been so careful about timing her movements and he knew she never returned home before nine on Thursdays. That's why he'd been so startled, when he opened her bedroom door and saw her standing there in her robe and slippers. She'd screamed, so he'd backhanded her and sent her flying backward against the sharp corner of a dresser. Her head had hit it with a sickening thud and then bent at an unnatural angle as she'd slid to the floor.

He'd never killed anyone before, never even come close, and his hands shook unceasingly as he rooted through her dresser drawers. He kept glancing furtively over at the body, not knowing what to expect, and hurried through the bedroom as quickly as possible. He opened the bottom drawer on each dresser, then worked his way up. Only amateurs started at the top, having to close each drawer before opening the next. He found a jewelry box and dumped its contents into the leather satchel he carried with him. Before leaving the bedroom, he glanced at the body, wondering if he should pull the diamond from her finger. But the thought of touching the body made his stomach churn like a washing machine and he gave up the idea.

He knew he should abandon this job, but it had been months since his last successful score and his cash reserve had almost disappeared. He'd spent weeks casing this woman's house after Al Witherspoon-- an insurance agent who took ten percent of every successful score he turned Jack onto-- had given him the details.