Prologue

Philip Pascal sat on the edge of the thin mattress. Carefully, he arranged the fragments of the old torn photograph into their proper place so the image reappeared. He twisted he head at an angle and looked at little Marky's face. A smile formed on his lips.

He stood up and put the sharp shard of metal between his thumb and his finger before he put his foot on the metal toilet. Closing his eyes and focused on the image in the photo. The smile was still on his lips.

His hand moved to his thigh and he gasped as he plunged the blade through the skin, to open up one of the scabby wounds again. He gasped as the pain flooded him but he kept the smile. The pain was good.

Blood dripped into the toilet pan, but he saw only that photo and the image of little Marky. He felt lightheaded and happy knowing his last victim would die tomorrow. Tomorrow. The suffering and pain he had inflicted would all end then.