It's the middle of November and I'm trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don't just bury themselves.

Dead bodies, also to my great disappointment, aren't all that much lighter than living ones, especially when you're dragging them through snow.

I wouldn’t have been so dumb as to kill in a time like this. The first step to murdering, of course, is checking the weather. Cloudy days are the best.

But my amateur boyfriend forgot that. Or, perhaps, more likely, he didn't care. Amateur isn’t quite the right word to describe him. Careless or reckless would be more apt (to be used interchangeably).

So here I am now, cleaning up his mess because a) I don’t want my boyfriend to get caught and b) I don’t want the police sniffing around my house and catching me.

About halfway into the woods, I drop the body. It rolls out of my arms and falls into the blanket of soft snow. The tarp shifts away from her face.

I've seen enough dead bodies that the sight doesn't bother me in the slightest. I stoop down and lean in even closer. I didn’t ask my boyfriend, Jonah, any questions. I never do. He never asks me. Our murders are our own business. But now, for the first time, my mind wonders.

With fingers much too gentle to belong to a killer, I pull the tarp even farther away from her face.

She is pretty, even dead. She reminds me a bit of Snow White, but perhaps that is just because she is lying in the snow. Her hair is raven black and silky straight. She’s deathly pale (pun intended), but l can tell it isn't just from the lack of blood flow. Her skin was just as fair when she was alive.

I can't see her eyes, but curiosity gets the better of me. I open one of her eyes with my gloved hand. lcy blue, so light they match the snow surrounding her.

Something about her is oddly familiar. The gentle slope of her nose, the shape of her lips, and the sharpness of her cheekbones. I am about to dismiss the feeling when my eyes catch onto something else. A silver glint from her neck.

I push the tarp down frantically, clumsily grabbing the charm on her necklace. It is a locket. Fumbling with gloved fingers, I try to pry open the latch. I don't even know why I care, but there is no stopping me anymore.

Finally, with a click, it snaps open. A tiny picture lies inside the silver frame. I squint, but then my eyes widen almost comically. Is that…Jonah?

I pick up the picture, after much difficulty, holding it close to my face to be sure. Deep-set, dark eyes. Pasty skin and hauntingly gauntish features. A mop of greasy black hair gelled back.

That wicked smirk I know all too well.

I check the rest of her body and find a wad of cash in her pocket. I wonder if Jonah gave it to her. If so, why didn't he take it back?

I shrug and stuff the money in my pocket. Finders keepers. I consider taking the necklace out of spite (toward Jonah, not the girl) but decide against it.

I fish a phone out of my pocket. I go to call Jonah before I realize I grabbed his burner instead of mine when I left the house. Thank goodness. That way, there is no way I can call and confront him.

He is the reckless one, not me. I need to think.

I go to take a picture of her locket as evidence but freeze when I catch sight of my face in the camera. I’ve spent many hours looking at myself in the mirror, scrutinizing every inch of myself. But for some reason, it only just now clicks.

Light blue eyes. Pale skin. High cheekbones. Straight black hair.

My phone slips from my hands, falling onto the tarp. I don’t flinch. I want to throw up, because now can't unsee it. This girl could be my sister. Hell, she could be my twin.

Slowly, I grab the phone again. Even though I want to sit and question everything I’ve ever known, I force myself to unlock it. To go to his camera roll.

I find so many photos. Even more messages. Going back years.

Something eats at my heart—a sort of hunger that consumes me. Even stronger and fiercer than the feeling I get from the thrill of a kill.

Jonah probably didn’t think I would find the body, much less take the time to look at it. To find the necklace. To put two and two together.

A plan forms in my head. Again, I have always been the thinker. As far as I can remember, I never touched her without gloves. Nothing is connecting me to this. And this phone…it’s Jonah’s burner. My number isn’t on it. I check; no photos. No evidence I exist.

And if they do somehow find out about me, about my part in all of this, I’ll be long gone. Even if they catch me, I won’t care. At least they will have caught Jonah, too. The risk is worth the reward.

I drop the phone into the snow beside her body, then grab the gun from beneath my puffy coat, where it was strapped to my body. It’s licensed to Jonah, not me. I smirk and fire a whole round into the air, tossing the gun to the ground as well. I turn and run back home, following the track I already made.

By the time I reach home, sirens are blaring. With the threat of a serial killer and the number of deaths in town, gunshots do not go unnoticed.

Jonah isn’t home. Good. Because there’s a good chance that if I see his face, I’ll kill him. And that’s too kind of an ending for him.

I take off my boots and toss them in his room. They’re a gender-neutral style. Size 9 1/2 in men’s. Jonah is a size 10. It’s close enough to be believable.

I grab all of my things, which isn’t much in the slightest. I’ve been hiding at Jonah’s house with my meager possessions for the past two years, but I’ve always been organized.

In less than five minutes, I’m pulling out of the garage in my beat-up buggy. I never drive it anymore, but it’s too risky to take his truck. All of my clothes are in the back. All evidence of me is gone.

As I drive out of town, past the You Are Now Leaving Westbrook sign, I can still hear sirens blaring in the background.

There’s a certain, wonderful perfectness in the irony of it all.