“Catherine Nichols”–that’s what he’d learned her name was from filtering through discarded junkmail–would be his seventh. She wasn’t a 10, wasn’t a 5. She was somewhere in between–a moderate girl with moderate looks. Even in the lacy lingere she liked to model for herself before bed, she wasn’t a particularly remarkable specimen. But there was something about her. In fact, there was just one thing, to be precise: her fingernails. Her manicure, to be even more precise.
It was a matter of contrast really. The contrast of her pale skin, fair hair, and light blue eyes set against the 10 blood red points of focus at her fingertips was one so screeching it was almost audible. And there they were: cherry red every day of the week. Jacob had noted the manicurist on Mass Ave. who did Cath’s nails as a real candidate for a far-East Asian specimen–her perfectly almond eyes and the angular jaw would make for a lovely display, but her punky spiked hair was cropped too short to work with. No, he needed Cath’s long wheat-stalk tresses for his model–and those Red Rocket nails of hers.
Getting her schedule downpat wasn’t an issue–all he needed do was follow her nonchalantly around town. The South End of Boston was such a linear area anyway, he could have followed her from a block away and still found her anywhere she was going. Mondays there was the latin dance class at the gym on Newbury, Tuesdays was yoga on Concord, Wednesdays was nothing, Thursdays, yoga again, and Fridays–well, admittedly Fridays were a mixed bag, but he always enjoyed the thrill of the chase. And for what he had in mind, the rewards were well worth every ounce of his patient–er, patience.