Her black high-heeled boots tapped along the floor. The slow, even steps of her dainty size six feet did not sound like they belonged to the woman who owned them. The young woman's steps were always loud, like her vivacious personality. The long black dress she was wearing hung to the floor and swayed as she walked. Her black hair was tied up in a bun and secured with a black satin ribbon that matched the one that was woven through her corset.
She clutched a twelve-inch knife in her left hand; the blade reflected the moonlight that shone through the large window in the bedroom. She stopped at the mirror on the vanity in the bedroom to check her hair and makeup; a sinister smile graced her blood red lips. She continued down the hallway, her footsteps lighter than those of a ballerina.
Dr. Vance was in the study; he had fallen asleep in the red wingback chair by the window. He twitched slightly in his sleep, turning his head away from the door. It was almost as if his subconscious was aware of the woman who had just slipped into the room. She walked up and stood behind his chair. The rolled up her sleeves and sunk the blade into the man's chest.
He did not even have the time to awake before his life was gone. His love, Emmaline Rose, his dear Emma, had just killed him. She took the knife and went outside to bury it, before leaving the doctor's house, never to come back to that address again.