Page 1 of The Colour of Revenge
Prologue
Iamamurderer.
I know what you're thinking: Who did you kill?
That's the thing—I don't know. Not all of them, anyway. After fifty, you lose track.
And before you get any ideas, no—I'm not a serial killer. I prefer the termartist.
Blood is my paint; the scene is my canvas, and my hands are the brush. Yes, hands. I like to get a little messy.
But don't mistake me for a bad guy.
I know you’re wondering how someone like me could have redeemable qualities.
Well, I don't kill just anyone. I'm notthatsick. I do what no one else is skilled enough to do—get rid of the dregs of society. The rapists, the paedophiles, the cheaters who destroy families, the abusers who leave scars no one else can see.
And yeah, I enjoy it. The thrill. The power. The art of it all.
Does that make me a monster?
Maybe.
But at least I'm useful.
What have you done to make the world a better place?
1
Pink Perfection
Hypothetical Question: Would you rather be a famous serial killer or a completely unknown one?
Nate
PeterWinslowisafat, balding man in his late forties. He's disgusting.
"Don't judge a book by its cover!"Blah. Blah. Blah.
In this case, the cover fits.
Winslow moves with surprising stealth, with far more grace than a man of his bulk should possess. My eyes track his hunched form as he slips into the crumbling shell of an abandoned building. Shattered windows cling to their frames like broken teeth, and the walls are thick with grime and neglect. The faint stench of damp rot wafts from the darkness inside.
Yes, we're in Crawley. That alone should tell you everything you need to know about his character.
"What did he do?" you ask?
Whatdidn'the do?
Fraud, extortion, trafficking—he's done it all. But his worst crime? The one that sealed his fate?
Peter Winslow is a serial rapist.Specialisingin young girls. And I mean young.
Not that he's particular—he'd fuck anything that moves. Maybe even things thatdon't, if you catch my drift. The point is, he's the lowest of the low. And he has to die.
There's no reform for people like him. No rehabilitation. No second chances. They don't deserve to rot in a cell at the taxpayers' expense.
So here I am, shadowing him from his pristine, picture-perfect manor—complete with a clueless wife and three kids—to this decrepit building that screams future crime scene. And trust me, it will be.
