Adjust my tie, straighten my collar, and give myself a look in the mirror.
My charcoal tux hangs perfectly, offset by a matte-black shirt and blood-red tie. Atop my head a tie-matching top hat, playing card tucked into brim. That hat cost a mint, the card (three of clubs) was taken as a souvenir the first time I wore the suit.
Tilt the brim rakishly. Perfect.
Satisfied, I fold my ivory-handled straight razor, slip it into my pocket, and stroll into the night, whistling.
They say serial killers look like everyone else. For six weeks I’ve been proving them wrong…