Could he be waiting for her in the garage after all? Of course. But she’d bet against it. He seemed sincere on the phone just now, confiding how he’s single and how his father mistreated him and all.

Not that Sadie gives a shit.

Lots of kids have been abused by their parents. But none of them killed Carol.

Only him.

She pauses. Only he?

She crosses her back yard to the deck, sees one of her slippers on the ground, realizes she just casually walked home from Carol’s in her underwear, in a single slipper, like Cinderella. She picks it up and wonders if anyone saw her, and if so, will they call Rick and ask if she’s off her meds again? She sighs, climbs the four steps to the deck; enters the house far calmer than she left it minutes ago—despite having spoken to the man who promised to kill her tonight. Or tomorrow night, assuming she completes her task.

Sadie checks her watch. On the surface, nine hours seems a generous amount of time to kill a total stranger. But there are a number of potential time-sucks. Chief among them, Rick and the police will be arriving any minute. It’s either leave before they get here, or spend countless hours answering questions. But if she leaves, will they think the killer abducted her? Will they put out an alert? Contact the media? Set up roadblocks? Track her phone and credit cards?

She wonders anew why Rick hasn’t called her back. And while she’s on the subject, why haven’t police or emergency personnel responded? Does it really take this long for 911 to dispatch a police car to the scene of a potential murder? It’s not like Alexandria’s a hick town in the middle of nowhere. It’s a major city, just six miles south of D.C. And her house is within walking distance of Old Town, where boutiques, restaurants and antique stores generate more customers than Free Chicken Day at KFC. What she’s thinking, someone should have been here by now.

She tries Rick again but gets no answer. A shame, really, since Rick would almost certainly be interested to know Carol’s been stabbed to death. He’s been fucking her for two months, after all.

Not that Sadie’s supposed to know. That part’s supposed to be a big secret. Even Kenny—Carol’s husband—didn’t know till Sadie told him a few weeks ago.

Kenny didn’t take it well.

His face turned red, then purple, then contorted into an expression that looked like a clay ashtray molded by a second-grader.

Poor Kenny.

He screamed, “I’ll kill them both!” but now someone’s beaten him to it. Or at least beaten him to Carol.

Sadie enters her closet, dresses quickly as possible. Pees, brushes her teeth, checks her hair in the mirror.

She’s twenty-four, great hair, nice face, decent body. Rick’s friends call her Sexy Sadie—after the Beatles song—and rate her a solid eight on the ten-scale, which means she’s pretty enough to turn heads and stimulate bone growth in oversexed males, but not so pretty they’d put up with her mental issues.

She wonders who told the killer about her ASD. It means he knows how she responds to specific tasks, and how she reacts to sensory aspects of her environment. It strikes her the killer could use this information to manipulate her behavior, and she’d be powerless to resist.

Though Carol’s murder shocked and frightened Sadie, she won’t mourn the loss of her friend. Won’t miss her. Won’t associate feelings of grief, guilt, or even concern for Carol’s loved ones. Sadly, Carol’s death won’t amount to a blip on Sadie’s radar now that her life has ended.

She’d love to have normal emotions. Can’t imagine how it would feel to be jealous, hurt, or in love. Rick—in moments of anger—calls her a robot, and says she has less empathy than a used Tampon. She doesn’t take it personally. In fact, she takes nothing personally.

She checks her phone. Still no word from Rick or the police.

In the kitchen now, she pauses.