She was, Carver thought, the kind of girl whose whole life was defined by her prettiness. It trailed after her like the tail of a comet. She smelled faintly of strawberry blossoms, delicate, pink and white, like her skin. Her laugh, too, lingered in the room afterwards, soft and lovely, like the gentle tinkling of bells. It didn’t seem fair that someone like her had been endowed with so much—but then, Carver knew life wasn’t fair. He was about to even the score. He knew where she went, when she went there, and who she went with. Most important, he knew when she would be alone. Carver was patient—oh, so patient. It was one of his most useful virtues. Crouched in the darkened hallway of the tenement building, Carver glanced at his wristwatch. Eleven-twenty-five. She would arrive any minute. Rehearsal ended at eleven, and she would have stopped by the deli to pick up something on the way home—a salad, yogurt, or something equally healthy. Like all actresses, she was vain, always watching her figure.
