Twister was playing in the background. That’s what Annie would remember. That stupid, terrible, suckfest of a movie.
Her boyfriend, Dan, sat next to her on the couch laughing at Helen Hunt. He didn’t notice the change in her.
But she did.
She felt it deep within her, like she felt when Dan kissed on the neck. When she closed her eyes, let all her thoughts go and just went with the moment. But it wasn’t exactly the same. It was . . . darker.
The feeling wasn’t foreign to her. Annie’d had it before, but hadn’t been able to figure out what it meant. But now, with the sharp steak knife from dinner in front of her, she knew. Everything came into focus, like when you adjusted a camera. She now knew what she wanted to do.
Reaching out, suddenly the steak knife was in her hand. It couldn’t be stopped now. Dan didn’t even know it was coming. He didn’t scream when the knife sank into his throat.
Annie was pretty sure she did, however. Her blood ran warm, and she kept stabbing, feeling his own run across her fingers.
It was pure ecstacy. It was beautiful. It was art.
She wondered if this was how Ted Bundy felt.
Annie could do anything at this moment.
Here she was at her most primal, watching her boyfriend gurgle and choke and die.
It was orgasmic.
And she knew one thing.
This wouldn’t be the last.