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Weekly Contest #362
John Hartley had spent the last fourteen years staring at a concrete wall, with not much more than a view of a Maine ocean-side cliff and a sink, which he used to down his toothpaste. The view was nice, though. Compliments of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had told them some pretty juicy and gruesome details about what he had done starting twenty-one years prior. Oh, how he craved to be sneaking into a home on a weeknight while a family devoured a delicious meal. He was, after all, a serial killer. One who preyed on young families w...
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