Lester lay in his bed, flat on his back, staring blankly at the water-stained ceiling. His thoughts, however, were far from this small room. Just about thirty-four miles from there, in fact.
His hands gripped the sheet and began to pull, as his mind imagined that it wasn’t his sheet he grasped, but his next victim’s dress. Maybe she would be a dancer. He hated dancers. Lester smiled to himself. Perhaps the next one would put up a fight. He hadn’t had a good fighter in a long time.
He drifted off to sleep, the sheets tangled and twisted around sweaty fingers.