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He lifts a shoulder as he skims through the pages as if that’s where the story is. “A couple of years ago, a woman was stabbed to death, in broad daylight, twenty times. Do you know what being stabbed twenty times means, Miss Thorne? It means she must’ve felt the pain from the first stab the most, in her kidney. It must’ve been sharp and hurt a lot, and it was probably more painful than when she gave birth. She screamed, alerting everyone on the street to what was happening. The second stab was even worse. It went through her stomach. So did the third and the fourth. She collapsed afterward. Crawling, bleeding, her mouth gurgling with the metallic taste, and begging for help. Someone. Anyone. They didn’t come. But the fifth stab came. This one went into her heart. She died then. She was bleeding out on the pavement, her empty eyes staring at the God she believed in, but he let her die like a dog. But it didn’t end there. Her corpse was stabbed again and again—in the chest, the genitals