Chapter 1: The Smiling Corpse The stink hit Nadia first, a thick, cloying sweetness that clung to the back of her throat. It was a smell she knew, a charnel house memory from a decade past. Ten years, they’d said. Ten years since the city had woken to find its children snatched, its women butchered, all bearing the same grotesque grin – a lipless slash that mocked defiance. El Matadero, they called him. The Butcher. Dead, they said too. Buried under a slab of cold, unforgiving stone. Nadia pushed through the throng of onlookers, their faces pale smudges beneath the unforgiving Barcelona sun. The rookie, Garcia, a fresh-faced kid with nervous sweat blooming on his upper lip, bumped into her. “First one?” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the low murmur of the crowd. Nadia didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The scene sprawled before them, a tableau of grotesque artistry. The body, a young woman with hair the color of polished mahogany, was sprawled across the chipped tile of the ...
Writing Our Heart Out

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