Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any communication by words with him. He continued his ditty, in spite of the angry glances of his leader. “You have changed somehow—and you certainly are less friendly. Certain reserves went down on both sides.
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