The fresh blood traces a dozen rivers’ paths across my hands.
I like its sweetness; its tang of iron and brine; I like the feeling of it trailing down my skin, hot with the life it thinks it still holds within its saccharine viscosity.
This time, though, it is different. This time it is special. I have rewritten the line that defines too far. I want to laugh, bathe in the glory of my daring, in all that I have conquered with this one, fatal act.
But I mustn’t tarry. I have a lot of work to do before the blood congeals and cools.  Charily, I rise and cross the room to where I had left the oil lamp to glow dimly beneath the maid’s staircase. The shadows dance as I lift it higher, revolving in a nightmarish parody of a child’s carousel as my eyes dart across the walls and the floor. It’s extensive, a larger canvas than I have ever played with before.
My fingers brush against the wall, feel the surface crumble at my touch. Lifting my hand to my nose, I smell the malodorous stench of aged plaster, then attempt to wipe the powder away. It clings, though, fusing into a cloying, gritty paste with the blood, and I slather it frustratedly on the wall.
I turn back to the room at large, taking in the unadorned cellar, clean angles cut as if specifically for this moment. Red drag marks lead away from the body, pooling thickly in cracks and hollows in the limestone. A thick horsehair brush lies crooked where I’d spat it out next to the crumpled, bloody heap.
The sight of the corpse makes me smile. It is an achievement, beyond the dull amusements the others had served, purely to rouse the thrilling mirth of the chase. Tonight, I will cast the last link in the chain, create my final masterpiece. Too long have the stories ended without us getting the chance to make our final mark, to leave at our own behest; far better to leave early a winner than to stay long enough to become the loser.
I drop heavily to my knees beside the body. Deftly, I ease a hand beneath the taut sinews of its neck, and use the other to force the chin back, leaving exposed the raw red smile drawn across its throat. At the pressure, it gapes into a derisive grin, a stream of heavy ichor seeping out. I lay hold of the paintbrush and tenderly brush it back. Smirking, I sweep the brush across my palm, finding the blood thin and still tepid: I have at least three more hours yet.
The blood clumps with the plaster and I snarl in frustration; it takes a while to fall into a familiar rhythm: painting stroke after stroke, wall after wall, until the red envelops the entire room; making delicate incisions with my dive knife when the flow peters out, from wrist to clavicle, from ankle to hip; my heels clicking briskly as I stride back and forth and back and forth across the dark limestone.
Jesper does not even know that I own these heels. As far as he is concerned, I am still a picture of pure, unadulterated innocence, prancing around in a frilly white frock and a garland of flowers.
Then again, he is not concerned with much.
Jesper, regrettably, is my father. We have been estranged for so long that I have begun to refer to him by his first name, and he by my last. I think he is more comfortable imagining me as a faceless entity, another mindless cog in the rotting, defective machine that is his life.
It started when my mother died. After that, he grew disinterested in life and absorbed in his work. Whole days would go by when neither of us would even acknowledge each other’s presence.
“Hey. Sanderson! You the one left the front door unlocked?” One of the rare, stilted conversations that we had shared this morning.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” He squinted at me suspiciously, then grunted and turned his back on me for the rest of the day.
But I do not need his attention anymore. I am no longer that petty little girl, and besides, I have the Detective Inspector. He gives me attention; enough attention to border on obsession. I have seen him up late at night, lights on and curtains drawn, a dark silhouette hunched over a labyrinthine murder board. He thinks he is in my psyche, and I his. A connection deeper than any a daughter could ever find with her father anyway.
The Detective calls me the Painted Lady, an anonymous pair of bloody heel prints in a bloody room, killing her way through Edinburgh. I like the moniker, and its allusion that my creations compare to the bright red beauty of the butterfly. It brings me a satisfaction after every killing, watching all those people pour their lives into the search for mine.
I feel a touch of regret that I have to end it like this. It’s a shame, that it had to be him. But there is a certain singular beauty in it, is there not? Something poetic? In having the end take us all the way back to the beginning, in finishing this together?
When I am finished, I lift my brush and my oil lamp, and sweep the room with my gaze. It’s exquisite. Smiling, I turn on my heels and head back up the maid’s rickety staircase towards the old oak door, behind which lies the dawn.
I stop halfway up. I hesitate for a moment, then pinch the oil lamp into blackness and drop it on the floor with the paintbrush.
Then, just before I am enveloped by the shadows’ dark curtains, I turn one last time and kiss goodbye to Detective Inspector Jesper Sanderson.