Chapter 5: The Price of Salvation
Ariana was dead, and he stood there quietly, watching.
Plastic covered the entire floor, its edges taped securely to the baseboards, forming a shallow basin. A large bucket sat directly beneath the body, catching what remained of her. Thick blood plinked into it slowly, a metronome of silence.
He shifted slightly, echoing off the basement walls. A soft sigh left his lips. He was wearing only boxer briefs, socks, and surgical gloves now. The socks were necessary, as he hated the feel of plastic under his bare feet.
He glanced down at the blood-flecked tips of his toes and sighed again. Another pair of socks and boxer briefs he’d have to toss. The bleach wouldn’t be enough. It never was. He had said goodbye to more cotton than he could count. But it was worth it.
Ariana’s body hung from the ceiling like an awful ornament, her head slumped forward, shoulders slack. Her hair stuck to her face and neck, damp with sweat and blood. There was no grace in death, despite what poets insisted. Still, there was beauty.
He stared at her eyes—still wide, still glossy, the pupils fixed and dilated just as he knew they would be. That moment—the very instant when the body stopped fighting and the soul slipped free—was what he waited for. The peace afterward was almost meditative.
He let his eyes linger on her body. He wasn’t aroused, not in the way most people would understand. This was about cleansing. Correction. Righteousness. He felt lighter now, like he had just finished something meaningful. Like someone who had done what no one else dared to do.
The world liked to pretend adultery was just a mistake. A phase. An accident that could be forgiven. But he knew better. People like Ariana didn’t stumble into infidelity, they dove into it with their eyes open, convinced they could have everything and never face consequences.
But not on his watch.
He checked the clock. Ten minutes more. That was all he gave himself. Ten minutes to bask in the stillness, to let the glow of his work settle into his bones. Any more and he’d risk getting sloppy. The need to kill again would whisper at the edges of his thoughts.
Could he do it again tomorrow? Yes. Would he? No. Not yet. He knew he had to space it out.
So he pushed the thought back before it clouded his discipline. The craving to do it again so soon—it always came, like an itch under his skin. But rules were rules.
Just like his father had taught him.
Seven kills a year. That was the sacred limit. No more. No less. Seven sinners. Seven reminders that living a decent life meant something—should mean something. Seven cleansing acts. And he wasn’t here to chase numbers; he was here for a purpose.
His time was up. The moment the minute hand struck one, the trance faded and routine took over. He stretched his neck and moved toward the gurney. Lowering her took some care—the weight of the body, the slickness of blood. But he handled it like he always did, methodically and detachedly.
He stripped off the gloves and dropped them into the bucket along with his socks and boxer briefs. All of it would go into the fire. Everything touched by the night had to vanish. Every fiber.
Ariana’s limp body lay on the gurney like a discarded suit. No more sins left in her now.
He wheeled her to the crematorium chamber, once used to burn waste and now repurposed for something far more meaningful. He opened the hatch, felt the familiar blast of heat on his face, and slid her inside. The gloves, briefs, and socks followed.
Ashes to ashes.
He checked his watch. 12:55 AM. Still on schedule. He liked it, as it gave him a sense of control, of being above the vomit of a world that had lost its moral spine.
Over the years, he had refined this part—the aftercare. The cleanup process. The silent, sacred rites that followed a soul’s redemption.
Then, the same question always hovered on the edge of his thoughts. Was Ariana a victim?
He looked toward the flames now rising in the furnace and answered himself silently: No. She was redeemed. Purified. Released from the weight of her sin.
By morning, the body would be bone. By dawn, those bones would be dust.
And then it would be like she never existed at all.
His work would be done.
But as he scrubbed down the room, rolling up the blood-slicked plastic like an old carpet, he thought of the news. Murmurs of a serial killer on the loose. Local stations were already calling him a monster. The police were tightening their watch again. He could feel it—every time the headlines turned frenzied and the public braced themselves.
It was time for another break. He always took one when the panic swelled. He reminded himself of that. Lay low and let the world catch its breath.
But the cremains would stay with him. Once the fire did its work and the bones cooled, he would grind them down and place the fine, pale dust into an urn. Not just any urn—one nestled inside a ceramic pot, buried beneath the roots of a thriving English yew in his indoor garden. It was quiet there. Peaceful. Each tree, each pot, a souvenir of redemption. A reminder of what he’d accomplished.
People collected stamps. He collected silence. Soon, Ariana would join them. She’d become part of the roots, the soil, the stillness. A part of something pure again.
Then, like always, he would shower, dress, drive home, and crack open a can of his favorite beer—cold, cheap, familiar.
All in a day’s work.
Feeling unexpectedly eager for that reward, he slid the gurney closer and shoved the last remnants of Ariana’s body into the crematory retort. A rush of heat hit his face, and he watched as the flames climbed over her like they knew her.
His lips twitched into a faint smile. Not from pleasure but from peace.
Ariana was finally absolved. Her sins burned away. And in some strange, sacred sense of order, he had made his father proud again.
And he’d return when the noise died down—when people stopped looking over their shoulders.
And he'd deal with him—the man he’d been watching for months now. A case that required patience. A suspected predator working at a shelter downtown. He had seen enough warning signs to know what kind of monster the man might be. But he wasn’t a fool. Suspicions weren’t enough. He needed proof. The kind of proof that could never be mistaken. Only then could he act. Only then would he decide what kind of justice the man deserved. The kind the world had never dared deliver.
So yes, the break would come. A brief pause while the police and public stirred in their fear and outrage, waving signs and demanding answers.
He could wait. He always did.
And when the noise died down and the world forgot to keep its guard up—
He’d be ready.