Somewhere in the City; Late Wednesday night, Early Thursday morning...
Victor sat on the floor of his work room, studiously rubbing at a scuff on the toe of his shiny black Prada loafers that just wasn't going to go away. They were ruined. Forever.
He glared at the lifeless body that was slumped over his work table with renewed anger. The silly bitch! Didn't she know how to dance? How hard was it to learn a simple waltz? He knew she'd been taught. She was an heiress to one of the biggest oil dynasties in the country, but she was just sloppy. Stupid. Perfectly incapable of being a real lady. Killing her slowly had really been a service, hadn't it? The world was full of worthless women. What was the loss of one more?
He stood to grab his bone saw, intent on cutting this silly piece of nothing into little bits when an idea struck him. It was so much work, so much blood... Why not do something a little different with Miss Emmaline here?
Suddenly, he was struck with an idea. He knew just what he had to do, just as his mother had always told him he would. He took his time preparing the body, even calling his dear Samantha in to help with the make up a few times and when she was all dressed and ready, he flipped her over and tugged her dress up far enough to reveal her thigh where he grabbed a surgical scalpel and carved the words The punishment always fits the crime. That way those that found Emmaline would understand that it was still him. He was still working to make women into real ladies. Really, he should be thanked.
He drove out of town, though not out of the city limits to an old farm. The farmer was old, lived alone, and had more land than he could take care of on his own. There was nothing of worth there any more, just some woods that he occasionally allowed to be hunted when a certain animal was in season and a few hogs, and a few apple trees that when they came into bloom, brought the farmer to the market to sell the apples. They were delicious fruits, a sign that the man worked hard at maintaining his things, which Victor could appreciate. This farm was perfect for what he had in mind.
He went to a tree that stood alone, a lovely young oak that he'd admired on the few times he'd gone passing through. His driver got out of the car without a word, young James who had been with him since he was just a little boy, so loyal that Victor would've considered him like his own had he not come from such obvious peasant stock. He did the manual labor in times like these, and without question he did as Victor said and dragged Emmaline's body to the trees by the ropes Victor had tied to her neck, wrists and ankles, then tied each rope to the main rope that ran from her neck. The big rope was tossed over one sturdy branch and then tugged until Emmaline was poised in the air, her arms and legs bent at different angles thanks to the ropes, like a morbid but beautiful puppet. James worked until the rope was securely anchored into the ground and got back into the car while Victor stood, admiring.
The farmer would find this. He'd call the police and then... The world would know. They would know her anguish, her humiliation, that she deserved.
The punishment always fit the crime. Whistling a little to himself, he climbed back in the car and they were off. They passed no one. No one saw them come or go. It was so goddamn easy sometimes that Victor briefly considered taking up a new hobby...