Prologue: Hi, my name is Rose.

Rose took step after step. It was strange, alien even, to be back in this neighborhood. It felt like a lifetime ago. But it was really just a week. Maybe even less.

She turned onto the long driveway up to her family’s manor. It was a long, long driveway. Further than a lot of people realized. She walked the entire length, a torn backpack half-hanging on to one of her shoulders.

The exhaustion was real, and she was filthy. The dark smudges and smears were on her hands, but the flecks of brown and black dried blood were everywhere. With a swipe, she tried to clean some of it off her face, but the evidence of murder took more than that to go away. A lot more.

Her house was large, white, and clearly expensive. But more importantly, they owned the land surrounding it for a good quarter mile. Nowhere for the police to stake out and watch them without a very good warrant. If there was one thing her family was good at, it was avoiding valid warrants. Sure, they routinely took in people covered in blood. But that was always circumstantial at best. Nothing said that those people were covered in a dead man’s blood.

So Rose was safe to stumble home like this, covered in blood, after being missing for six days.

She opened the door. It was unlocked—no point in protecting yourself from something that couldn’t hurt you in the end. That had been proven a lie.

Her mother was the first to find her and immediately pulled her into a hug before calling to her father, who came from deeper in the house.

A bandage covered his cheek where a knife had carved a path. Rose wondered what happened to the poor sap that did that. She hoped it was something extremely unpleasant. Maybe even some torture.

A cold shiver ran down her spine at the thought. Half of her mouth fought to grin, the other half kept its composure.  This was still an alien feeling. But it was in her blood to want to hurt people. To torture. To see blood. Oh, the blood. Another cold shiver.

Her mother released her to look her up and down as her father observed from the doorway.

“It’s not mine,” Rose reassured them, as the blood stains were pretty obvious. The half of her that enjoyed the twisted things she’d done grinned. “Don’t worry,” she said.

Her father frowned. “Who?” he asked.

Rose shrugged. “‘Got in our way,” she explained.

Her mother looked behind her. “Where’s Sam?” she asked. “She was with you, right?”

The grin fell away, replaced with one of those cold expressions of nothingness.

Her father nodded grimly. “I had a feeling.”

It was strange. He hadn’t been close with his mother, but Rose still expected some emotion from him.

Instead they had a quiet understanding in their grief. Her mother was a bit more open about it, looking genuinely sad. Even if Sam had terrified her. And then it seemed to click in her mind why Rose was so stoic now.

“You’ve had your first kill,” her father concluded.

She nodded. Again that chill reared inside of her, ever present. “And my second and third,” she agreed.

He nodded. “The intensity will pass,” he said. He leaned his back against the wall. “Your brother’s still not home.”

It was Rose’s turn to frown.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” her mother hurried to say.

Her father shook his head. “They found my dad’s body. But no sign of him.”

It was at that moment that his phone rang and he left to answer it.

Rose gave her mother a familial nod and headed upstairs. She stripped down, took a shower, seeing all of the brownish water run down the drain.

Her sides clenched, she shuddered, even laughed. She felt completely insane in the best possible way.

I should’ve done this years ago, she thought. Because it felt good. She couldn’t control the trembling from the absurd amount of hormones in her system. It made more sense now why her family had a murdering problem. It was more than convenience and pleasure. It was a full-blown addiction, one she couldn’t help but want to feed. 

The water turned clear and she went for soap, washed herself thoroughly, and

 got out, dripping clean water onto the floor. She toweled off with one of those starkly white towels. And finally looked in the mirror.

She was a different person than a week ago. Maybe that was the trauma. Maybe it was just the fact she was older. 

When she got back downstairs, her parents were at the dining table, leaning over to discuss plans.

“I’m gonna go find him,” Rose announced. She picked up her backpack again.

“Wait, Rose,” her mother called out and came up next to her. “Get some rest, eat some food and we’ll talk about this later, okay?” 

Rose shook her head. Her father slipped off into the kitchen for a brief moment before coming back.

She turned to keep going for the door but her father grabbed the backpack on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks.

Her glare fell on a blank expression as he unzipped her bag and started to push a familiar black bundle of cloth into it as well as a few rolls of cash.

“Your grandmother’s tools of the trade,” he explained without being asked. “And some cash. Make sure you eat at least one meal a day.” He zippered the bag back up. “I know you won’t feel hungry, but it’s important.”

Her mother only had a worried expression but let her go as she walked out the door.

Once she was gone her mother turned to her father, frustrated beyond belief.

“Trust me,” he told her without looking away from his daughter. “She’s going to be unmanageable for a while. Give her some time. It’s just a phase.”

“How can you say that your daughter going out there to murder people is ‘just a phase,’” she grumbled.

“Because I went through it, too. So did my parents. It’s not something we can change.”

The mother stared at the now empty space where her daughter had been. “Will she be okay?” she asked.

“I’d be more concerned for anybody who dares cross her in that mood.”