My feet ached, but it was well worth it. There was blood on one of my insteps, the left one, and when I walked around the floor I tracked her blood around with me. The room, nothing more than an abattoir, had fit the bill perfectly. There was the pen I'd led her to. I said nothing more than, "You'll like it. It's the spookiest little spot." And she had crawled inside without the least hesitation. And as soon as she did so, the smile left my face, and the grimace reappeared, and I thought, "This is for all those times. This is for you, for us, for what might have been before you started screwing that guy. This is all the body you've been given, and this is the last of it." Crime of passion, they'd say, but I don't remember feeling particularly passionate about it. I was never out of control. I simply dropped the gate, limped up to the roof, started the engine, and at that point it was out of my hands. I heard her screaming below me. I saw her fingers poke up through the bars in the seconds before the blades got her. And I watched the blood spill up from the floor. I'm thinking, "This is the first time you've asked me for anything."