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He approached the sidewalk in front of the two-story house. The crickets had stopped singing. Not a dog barked. Nobody but nobody was out on the streets at this time of night. At this time of night, the street was his.

Not a body stirred.

Or bodies, he snickered. Nobody will figure this one out, or pin it on me.

A quick check across each shoulder, then he slipped up the concrete steps, crossed over the wooden porch, and lifted the kit out of his pocket. The lock would only take a minute. Easy-peasy. The door cracked open, and he slipped inside. Now all he had to do was finish the job.

He mounted the stairs.One... step... at... a... time... He paused to admire his handsome black leather gloves. He clenched and unclenched his hands. His hands felt good. The leather made him strong.

Practice, practice--it makes you perfect, he snickered.

He hesitated in the upstairs hallway-two open doors and one closed. He chose the door on the right. One step inside. Silence. His foot sank into the rug. Another step. Another. He squinted at the sleeping face. People looked so different in the dark like this.His hands flexed, eager to do their job.

This was the woman--not Miss Ruffled-shorts.

But she'd be next.