She was the most delicate girl in town. But looks could be deceptive. Ruth knew he was somewhere in the house. Unfamiliar surroundings would make it difficult for easy location of prey, but that wouldn't delay the inevitable. She was as confident as she could be that no help would come. The old place was too isolated; one of its charms. Ironically, it was what had attracted her to the place. The appeal of sole occupation. Nothing to disturb her work.
Fortunately, she'd made it to the Kitchen and its drawers of sharp, clean, very clean knives. Ms. (note the "Muz" not "miss") L'esse had always appreciated methodical cleanliness.
Improvised weapon in hand the odds of avoiding a bad end were dramatically reduced. No time to ponder. A blink of an eye, and he was in front of her, breathless from the effort of running, hate filling his face. She'd already hurt him. He was showing it.
"You wimper like a little girl."
The sound faltered, replaced with an unvoiced "Why?" Her eyebrows raised in attempted empathy. "Why?" she said.
The poetry of stabbing out the rhythm of her reply, four quick stabs to his neck and chest, would replay sweetly in her mind's eye as she consciencuously removed evidence of her own presence.