Chapter One - Melissa

I never understood why people say things like, “She died doing what she loved.” I died doing what I loved, and it didn’t make my death any less tragic. I guess if it makes them feel better, they can go ahead and spout that contrived line from an uninspired obituary. However, despite the unfortunate situation of being dead, I’d much prefer they’d dig a bit deeper, try a bit harder. You do only die once, after all.

“Such a shame. So young. But hey, she died doing what she loved!”

Nope. Still awful, still terrible, still dead.

My Nikes pounded rhythmically on the leaf-covered path, each step creating a satisfying crunch. I didn’t listen to music when I ran in the woods on those early mornings. Instead, I preferred the measured sound of my even breaths and the steady increase of my heartbeat as my footfalls connected with the winding trail.

The forest was most alive on fall mornings. The crisp air bent the tree’s branches, making their leaves quiver and the speckled light dance on the trail. These sights, sounds, and smells, all so rich and overwhelming, faded the faster I ran until it was just my body and me.

On these mornings, running in the woods, I experienced pure, unadulterated bliss. The stress of my business, the worries of never finding the right man to marry and dying alone, and my regrets of past decisions all melted away. Turns out one fear was worth fearing. The dying alone part. But I wasn’t alone, not in the literal sense. She was there.

Morning after morning, I woke up, put on my leggings and tank top, slipped into my running shoes, and lost myself in the forest.

I always knew the risks, all women runners do, especially here in DC. Years ago, the infamous Chandra Levy case consumed every media outlet. You couldn’t watch TV or read the newspaper without hearing about it. The rumors of her affair with a senator made the story so tantalizing, that the entire nation tuned in. Eventually, a man already serving time for attacking two female joggers in Rock Creek Park was convicted of Levy’s murder. Her remains decomposed for almost a year before they found her body on a trail not more than ten miles from the one that I was running on that morning. Even with the statistics and constant coverage of attacks on women doing exactly what I was doing every morning, I never felt afraid in those woods. I should have. Maybe I’d still be alive.

She seemed so normal, so safe, at first. Just a woman, around mid-forties, in need of help. That is until I drew close. Her eyes were the last thing I remembered. Irises as green as winding ivy surrounded by dark, full lashes. I looked into those eyes and thought They’re so beautiful. I’d never seen eyes that color before. But they weren’t human eyes. Human eyes have compassion. These eyes held no love, they had no soul.

When you’re dying, time doesn’t work the way it normally does. Those green eyes became a green sea with white-capped waves fierce enough to swallow a massive ship whole. As the angry water pulled me deeper and the green water turned black, I couldn’t help but wonder how many people those beautiful eyes had fooled. How many people those pupils had burrowed beneath—people who looked back without fear, too mesmerized by their beauty. They saw no storm and instead gazed into sea glass and emeralds.

The problem was, you had to look, really look.

The burning in my lungs cooled, and I became sure no one had looked hard enough.

For the ones who had—the others like me—it was too late.

She stole our voices, and we couldn’t warn anyone.

Chapter Two - Eloise

The news anchor laughs at something her co-anchor says. She then turns to the camera and covers her big white teeth with a red frown. “A body found on a popular hiking trail in Great Falls Park has been identified as prominent local business owner, thirty-six-year-old Melissa Goodwin. Tom is reporting live from Great Falls, Virginia. Tom, what can you tell us?” She shuffles her papers, revealing chipped nail polish on the middle finger of her left hand. One should be more prepared when they are reporting on such a paramount discovery.

The camera cuts to Tom. He grips his microphone; his thin lips plunge in an exaggerated frown. He’s trying his best to look solemn, but I don’t miss that twinkle in his eyes. It’s an excitement brought on by murder as long as that murder isn’t yours or someone you love. He, like his viewers, yearns to know more. He’s placed himself strategically in front of the plethora of fussing police, the angle perfect so we gawkers can witness the activity behind him from the comfort—and perceived safety—of our living rooms. The bright yellow tape screams ‘a terrible crime has been committed’ with its bold black lettering announcing Police Line Do Not Cross.

Another woman killed. That makes six in the last twelve months; a serial killer is amongst us. How appalling, how alarming. I clutch my pearls and gasp at the TV while hiding my smirk.

“Robert!” I cry to my husband. He grunts his acknowledgement. “Robert, do you hear this, love? Another woman murdered. And found so close.” I tsk, tsk, tsk. My head shake, shake, shakes.

I am Eloise Williams. PTO president, stay-at-home mom, HOA treasurer, respected local philanthropist who sits on the boards of many distinguished charities, doting wife, and serial killer. And tonight, they have found another one of My Darlings.

I abhor that name, though—serial killer. I am an artist creating masterpieces. Pure, poetic magic. When My Darlings’ souls leave their bodies, their eyes ignite with fear, then glaze over with a milky film. A delicate puff of air escapes their lips. To observe this moment is to be connected to them in a way very few people have experienced. I become them while my veins pulsate from the power of it all.

Cancer, fatal car accident, murder. People gorge themselves on the misery of others while assuring themselves these things happen to other people and that it’s nothing they need to fret over. But it can happen to them. Terrible, life-destroying things can happen to anyone. Every second of every day, we are potentially breathing our last breath. Would people live their lives differently if they were more conscious of this fact?

Bryony, my daughter, is tap, tap, scrolling on her phone. I refrain from huffing in annoyance. Robert’s gaze is on the TV, but he’s tuning it out, looking through it, thinking of his latest case most likely. My husband is a prestigious attorney. His field is corporate law, so of no use to me should I ever find myself in need of criminal defense. Not that I would. I’m very good at what I do. They’ll never catch me. Robert works for a large company. He does a lot of mergers, a lot of acquisitions, a lot of business things requiring him to be on the road, out of town and out of my hair. In addition to his constant absence, he earns a generous salary with annual bonuses. When I decided I was ready to marry, this was the most important quality I sought in a mate. I love money as much as I love My Darlings. With my looks, talent, and body, I could have had any man I wanted. Beautiful men require too much work. Their egos are too large, always in need of stroking and complimenting. What I required was someone average-looking but wealthy, interested but distant, someone like Robert. He is the perfect companion. While an ugly husband was perfectly fine with me, I realized after-the-fact that ugly children wouldn’t do. Thankfully, Bryony takes after me in looks. She is stunning, perfect. I’m obsessed with her. My gaze travels to her, and I study my perfect specimen. My doll. My pet. My favorite possession. She senses me looking, and her eyes leave her phone and look up. I smile my sweetest smile, the one I’ve ritualistically practiced every night in the mirror. I’m sure I’ve mastered it; Bryony and Robert could lick their lips and taste honey if they really concentrated.

“You look lovely tonight, Bryony. Is that sweater new? That shade truly is your color.”

“Thanks, Mom. It’s the one you bought.”

I don’t need her to tell me this. She never did thank me for it, though. “Ah, yes. I must have forgotten. Did you see?” I ask, ensuring I don’t sound too eager. The perfect fusion of concern and shock. “They found another dead woman.”

“Mhm,” she replies, eyes back on her phone, not even looking. I resist the urge to cluck my tongue. Melissa was some of my finest work and the two people who are supposed to be my biggest supporters sit there ignoring the big reveal. Well, I may have a headache the next time either of them requires my presence to celebrate a victory or accomplishment of theirs.

“Eloise,” Robert says. “Would you mind grabbing me another beer?”

I would mind. But, instead, I say, “Of course, dear.” I take the empty beer from his outstretched hand and narrow my eyes at the wet circle imprinted on the side table next to his chair. When I come back with a fresh beer, I make it a point to wipe the wet mess with a paper towel, slide a coaster over the empty spot, and place the beer on top of it. It’s insufferable he insists on drinking his beer straight from the bottle but then to ruin my snakewood end table in the process? Really.

My house, like me, is beautiful. Enviable. I prefer it that way, for friends and strangers to covet my possessions and life. Most of the homes in Northern Virginia are cookie-cutter versions of their neighbors, McMansions, they call them. Highly unacceptable. I demand different, special. We purchased our land on the outskirts of DC—where my husband commutes to daily—and custom-built our home. My design aesthetic ranges from modern to classic, with a hint of southern charm derived from my Mississippi roots. A handcrafted, wrought-iron gate opens to a brick driveway lined with red maples. In the fall, when their leaves turn, a river of blood leads to my home.

Every room features carefully selected materials and details, from the imported, Italian white marble flooring in the two-story entryway to the contrasting African Blackwood floors throughout the rest of the home. I spent over a year visiting foreign lands and inspecting the finest furnishings and art available. I painstakingly curated each item and each architectural nuance. My home is so exquisite several local and national magazines have featured it.

The news anchors have moved on to other less appalling features: the weekend’s upcoming farmers’ market and craft fair, the weather report, and a local scam targeting the elderly. My moment has passed with little fanfare. I turn off the television and announce that I’m going to bed. Robert heaves himself from his chair, muttering something about work, and plods off to his study.

My tongue traces my teeth, counting—molars, canines, incisors—this keeps my inside thoughts from oozing through my lips.

Bryony—eyes and fingers still glued to her phone—stands and departs without so much as a goodnight.

I tidy the room, put everything back in proper order, and glide up the winding staircase to our bedroom. Even with no audience, I ensure every move I make is as elegant as a ballerina’s. Robert and I have separate walk-in closets, another feature I insisted on. I take two steps into mine and inhale the musky notes of vanilla, sandalwood, and mandarin orange, a bespoke detail courtesy of a master perfumer in Paris. Robert always insists on scrunching his nose and complaining of the smell being too strong. According to several studies, sociopaths have shown to have an impaired sense of smell. However, in this case, I’m sure it’s simply his lack of taste, and he’d be better off staying out of my things anyway.

I step out of my nude Jimmy Choo kitten heels before unzipping my A-line, short-sleeved, belted, black Prada dress and placing it in the concealed hamper. Melanie, our house manager, will empty the hamper on Wednesday for laundering. I slide open a drawer and select a pajama set. Once dressed, I release the pin holding my hair in its chignon and let my long, silky, black waves cascade down my back. Not a single gray in sight. Lorna, my hair stylist, always compliments me on this fact when she sees me every Tuesday for my weekly appointment. I step up to my vanity and walk through my nightly skincare routine. Wash, skin serum, moisturizer, eye cream, lash serum, lip mask. I’m a big proponent of leveraging science where nature has disappointed. A good skincare regimen makes a world of difference in the amount of Botox units one needs every six weeks. With my skin glowing and the light reflecting in my lips, I begin: smile, frown, smile but sympathetic, laugh, smile again. With a curt nod, I internally compliment myself on how well I’ve done.

After fluffing the down-filled pillow on my bed and sitting with my back supported, I grab my readers and book from the nightstand. I read a single chapter, then slide between Egyptian Giza sheets. Their soft, luxurious embrace doesn’t distract me from the itch, the one which accompanies the announcement a Darling has been found.

The excitement is over.

It’s time to find the next.