Angelina’s been getting creepy letters. She never knows when the next one will arrive. She always feels like she’s being watched, and she dreads opening the mailbox.
Angelina’s stalker watches the front of her house through a telephoto lens from a van parked up the street. He can’t believe she has a gentleman caller. He clicks off thirty shots of the man’s face and car, seething in a jealous rage.
Angelina’s not worried about the letters anymore. She’s floating in the swimming pool leaking crimson ribbons that swirl like steeping tea.
Angelina’s murderer is standing in the kitchen looking at the mess. He scratches the back of his head with a leather-gloved hand as he debates what to do. Two tiny hairs glance off his collar, floating gently to the floor. But that’s not what gets him caught.
Angelina’s diamond tennis bracelet has a tiny fussy clasp. One leather glove comes off to get it undone. Bracing himself on the counter to get up, he leaves a perfect set of whorls on the granite slab. But that’s not what gets him caught.
Angelina’s Chihuahua with a rhinestone collar and a vicious case of Small Dog Syndrome darts from under the table in a sneak attack. The intruder leaves half a right shoe print in the middle of a scarlet streak in his haste to get away. But that’s not what gets him caught.
Angelina’s favourite restaurant has an open dumpster in the alley out back. It will get emptied on Tuesday, but for now it contains a tight little bundle of blood-spattered khakis. A busboy sneaks out the back door for a smoke and watches a man walk away, maybe a little too fast. But that’s not what gets him caught.
Angelina’s case is closed. The police can’t believe their luck when an anonymous source mails in a manilla envelope with thirty 8x10s of a man in khakis leaving her house.