She always killed in the rain.
Mercy liked the way the rain came down on the tin roof and washed away her fingerprints with redemptive drops. It was anonymity, raincoats pulled up past her neck and black and gray shapes against the horizon. He was not in black or grey, he was in orange loud and abrasive like sandpaper against her eyes. She followed one hundred steps behind him, counting each one as she followed him around corners and alley ways, like she had been doing for months.
He was a nurse. He was a nurse who knew how to smother a patient without leaving a sign and to forge signatures well enough to pad his bank account with pension checks and inheritance. He helped the sick and dying into an early grave while helping himself to the last pieces of them. Andrew made his way into the pawnshop, predicable as ever.
She watched from the window as he heaped pockets full of pearls and rings and watches on the glass counter, all older than him and worth more in sentimentality than in cash. Her fingers twitched in her pockets and she kept walking.
Tonight was not the night. But soon enough, Mercy would enact justice, swift as a lightning bolt above.
A little bit of fiction tonight! The first bit of Mercy can be found here. Very dark, but that's my kind of fun.