The man opened the top drawer and took out a pair of thin white gloves. He carefully pulled them on then picked up a pair of scissors. It was a tedious business but it had to be done. He read over the words before he began to cut letters from the pages of the newspaper.

Soon enough The Beacon looked like something from a kindergarten craft class. He’d had it sent from the other side of the country so, even if they were able to trace the origins of this particular edition, there was nothing to lead them to him.

He hummed quietly to himself as he cut out the letters with military precision. There was a strange meditative quality to the whole thing. He arranged the letters on the blank page and unwound the glue stick. Then he carefully pasted each letter until the page was full. This time the words were fiercer, the threat more forceful. They had to be – there was a lot at stake.

A child so sweet and young and fair,

her spirit free, without a care.

Hugh and Cecelia must not know,

nor anyone else, or my wrath will grow.

I imagine you’d like to know what I seek.

Hold tight, old dear, you’ll know next week!

A smug smile settled on his lips as he surveyed his work. He hadn’t written poetry in years but it had always been something he’d excelled at. He threw the newspaper in the hearth, then struck a match and watched the pages burn.

He walked back to the desk and folded the letter carefully before placing it in an envelope. But he didn’t seal it yet. He flicked open the locks on his briefcase and pulled three photographs from the rear compartment. He added them to the envelope and sealed it with his first mistake.