The road was dark and near empty, a snaky strip of black cutting through Trawford, a quiet middle-class district in Luton Bay. It was just a few minutes past nine, and the wind carried the fading bite of the end of winter ; cold enough to sting but not enough to snow.
She stood beside the idling hatchback, hood up, hazard lights flashing in rhythmic orange pulses. She kept her jacket drawn tight, warm air escaping through her nose in steady streams. So far, everything was going according to plan, every detail carefully in place. The car bonnet was popped open, a small bottle of coolant standing by the tyre, and she wore her damsel-in-distress look perfectly.
It had taken her a week to come up with the plan, watching, waiting, learning Cass' routines. He always drove this road after late shifts. He liked to take the back way to avoid traffic, something she'd confirmed by following him twice already. Sadly, tonight would be his last drive home. She let out a quiet chuckle. She was a genius.
Her right hand brushed the side pocket of the jacket where the syringe lay, fully loaded with her killer cocktail. She'd rehearsed the motion in her mind—the pull, the thrust, all in one fluid motion.
Headlights appeared in the distance, twin beams carving through the night. Her pulse picked up as she tugged at her dress to expose more of her cleavage. She stepped away from the car, into the beam, letting herself look smaller, and vulnerable. She raised one hand in a small, hesitant wave.
The car slowed as it approached, then came to a full stop a few feet away. She could see him squint through the windscreen.
Milton Cass.
She let her voice shake just enough. "Hi! Sorry. I think something's wrong with my car."
She knew he couldn't have heard her, so she waited as he got out, his breath coiling in the chill. He was still in his uniform trousers, parka unzipped, collar turned up against the wind.
His face relaxed when he saw her — a woman alone on a lonely road. A beautiful woman at that. Just the way he loved them. Who knows, it might be one of those nights he got lucky with them girls.
" Is everything okay, love?" Cass asked.
From the lust in his voice, she knew he deserved what was going to happen to him soon.
"It just… it started smoking a few minutes back. I was scared it'd catch fire or something." She nodded, hugging her coat briefly.
He pulled a slim flashlight from his pocket and peered under the hood, his face set in quiet determination.
"Doesn't look too bad. Probably overheated a bit. You try topping up the coolant?"
She bit her lip and shook her head. "I don't even know how. I'm hopeless with this stuff."
"You're lucky I came along then," Barnes chuckled.
He leaned over the engine, explaining what he was looking at as he fiddled with the radiator cap. His voice was calm, kind even.
Her fingers brushed the syringe again, a deliberate stroke. This was the moment.
She swallowed hard, stepping closer.
"Thank you for stopping," she said softly, her voice carrying just enough tremble to make him glance at her.
"No worries," he said, smiling briefly before turning back to the car.
Then she moved.
Stepping closer behind the slightly hunched Cass, She drew the syringe out and, in one swift motion, drove it hard into the side of his neck.
The police officer jerked, startled, but the strychnine had already taken hold. His muscles seized violently, every nerve on fire, his back arching as though pulled by invisible wires. His mouth opened in a soundless scream, eyes wide with terror. As he staggered back, nearing collapse, She guided him around the car to the passenger seat. She laid him carefully inside, shutting the door. His eyes were wide, darting, panicked.
She bent her head, meeting his gaze through the glass. "I want you to know who did this," she said, her voice low, almost tender. "My name is Helen Ipswitch. Remember it while you can."
She took a small marker from her pocket and wrote in slow, deliberate strokes on the car window, her famous death signature: HELEN. The letters glistened white in the headlights, stark and unmistakable.
When she was done, she straightened and watched as Cass' breathing slowed, then stopped. Good.
Two down, who's next?
She heard a furious flapping of wings at a distance above and took it as a cue to tidy up.
She wiped the needle clean, pocketed it, and closed the bonnet of the car. She picked up the coolant bottle and threw it back inside her boot. For a moment she stood there, staring at the glowing letters on the window. Something shot through her entire body like liquid through a pipe, something cold, quiet— a grim satisfaction, as though ticking a box beside the most important item on a long bucket list.
Finally, She got into her car, turned off the hazards, and drove away into the night, leaving Milton Cass and his glass-marked tomb behind.