Prologue
Somewhere between San Francisco and Albuquerque, a lone woman steps onto the battered Briscola coach that will take her to where her life will be different. As she steps onto the bus, the first passenger she passes gives her a shy smile. His smile says Hello, but his eyes say, Please don’t sit next to me. The unspoken message doesn’t bother her, she’s comfortable with travelling alone, she has much to consider.
She is neither troubled by his look, or that which she is leaving behind. In many respects, the only regret that she carries is that she didn’t act sooner, but she’s a patient woman, pleased with what she’s done. There are others on the bus who, in their way, harbour similar sentiments.
A calm settles over her when she sits, rummaging through her bag, taking from it the photos that she carries with her wherever she goes. She spends time looking at each of the images, those that she loves, lamenting that which she has lost by leaving things for too long. Still, she thinks. It’s done now.
Restoring the photos to her bag, she burrows further, equipping herself for the journey, a woman content, believing herself to be ready for whatever comes next.
To look at her, you wouldn’t know that lying in the basement of the house she left that morning is a man whose head is twisted at an impossible angle, wearing a rictus smile that suggests he might have enjoyed his final moments. The woman doesn’t look like your average murderer, but then, does anyone really know what a typical murderer looks like? I am better placed than most to provide an opinion, and what I can tell you, is that they don’t all look the same. No one on the coach is likely to suspect her, nor would most of them know, that she’s not the only killer travelling to Albuquerque.
