Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. ‘Perhaps she don’t understand English,’ suggested Roding. Detention would mean coming home late, which spelled distraction and trouble on the night of a kill. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. They said no more for a moment, and each was now acutely aware of the other. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”.
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