Rogers no longer had compassion. It had been taken away from him, along with

many other things. She, on the other hand, apparently never had any compassion

at all.

 

This was the person who had created him. Perhaps in her own image. He lacked the

capacity to dig any deeper into the psychology of it.

 

He went back to his room, lay on the bed, and closed his eyes.

 

But he didn’t sleep.

 

His mind went back thirty years and then stopped on five women.

 

He hadn’t chosen them at random. They had something in common.

 

Me.

 

It had taken a lot of work on his part, but he had gathered the necessary

information and then done what he had set out to do. It was all he had thought

about for the longest time.

 

And right before they died, they knew exactly how I felt about what they had

done to me.